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The Tunguska Event was a massive explosion that happened over a remote area of Siberia in Russia on the morning of June 30, 1908. What caused it? A space rock. Not one of the cool, “landed on Earth and gave us alien metal” kind—this one never even touched the ground. It exploded in the air like a very rude guest.
Here’s the scientific guesswork:
A small asteroid or comet—roughly 50–60 meters wide, the size of a 15-story building—came blazing into Earth’s atmosphere at about 27,000 km/h (that’s 17,000 mph for people who hate metric). As it plowed through the sky, the heat and pressure became too much, and about 5 to 10 kilometers above the ground, it exploded in midair with an estimated force of 10–15 megatons of TNT.
To compare:
- That’s 1,000 times more powerful than the Hiroshima bomb.
- It flattened about 2,000 square kilometers of forest—roughly the size of a large city or an influencer’s ego.
The blast knocked down around 80 million trees, and people hundreds of miles away felt the shockwave. Windows shattered. Horses probably had existential crises. In fact, in London, people reported glowing skies at night for days afterward—possibly due to high-altitude ice particles reflecting sunlight.
And no, they never found a crater. Why? Because, again, the thing exploded before impact. The Earth got singed, but not stabbed.
Scientists didn’t even get out there to study the site until 1927, because, you know, Siberia is inconvenient and Russia was having a bit of a century. When they did arrive, they found all the trees pointing outward in a radial pattern, like the world’s most dramatic lawn flattening.
The takeaway?
Space is scary. Earth is basically a target. And we’re all just lucky that particular cosmic bowling ball chose to airburst in a part of the world with more trees than people.
So the glowing night skies seen after the Tunguska event (and even as far away as Europe and Asia) were likely caused by something called “noctilucent clouds.” That’s Latin for “night-shiny clouds,” because scientists are bad at naming things and apparently wanted to sound fancy while describing space glitter.
Here’s what probably happened:
- The explosion injected a ton of fine dust, water vapor, and aerosols high into the atmosphere—all the way into the mesosphere, which is around 80 km up (that’s five times higher than where commercial planes fly, in case your geography is as bad as your attention span).
- Up there, it’s extremely cold. We’re talking freezer-burned Saturn cold.
- So the water vapor froze into tiny ice crystals, which clung to the dust particles from the explosion.
- These high-altitude ice particles reflected sunlight long after the Sun had set below the horizon, creating weirdly bright night skies that freaked everyone out. People were reportedly reading newspapers at midnight without any lights, which is probably the last time in history people were excited to read newspapers.
These clouds don’t always need a space kaboom to show up—they can also happen naturally, usually near the poles in the summer—but the Tunguska event threw enough crud up there to intensify and spread them way beyond normal.
What if the Tunguska object hadn’t exploded midair, but instead hit the ground like a good little asteroid?
Prepare for a lovely mix of craters, vaporized forest, and significantly less Siberia.
☄️ Ground Impact vs. Airburst:
The Tunguska airburst dumped about 10–15 megatons of energy into the atmosphere at a height of ~5–10 km, which flattened 2,000 square kilometers of trees. It was devastating, but weirdly merciful—because airbursts spread the energy out over a wide area, reducing the local destructive pressure.
If the same object—say, 50–60 meters across—had actually impacted the surface, here’s what changes:
🔥 What Would’ve Happened:
1.
A Massive Crater (finally)
You’d get a crater up to a kilometer wide, maybe around 50–100 meters deep, depending on impact angle and ground type. Think Barringer Crater in Arizona, but more dramatic and in Russian.
People love craters. Scientists would’ve had a field day. Instead, they had to wander around flattened forests for 19 years before they even found the spot. Very inconvenient for science.
2.
More Localized Destruction, More Intense
The explosion would be concentrated into the ground, not diffused across the sky. The pressure wave would have been deadlier in a smaller radius, and everything directly under it would’ve been vaporized instantly. Trees? Gone. Soil? Cooked. Any animals? Crispy Siberian nuggets.
3.
Shockwaves Through the Ground
Seismic activity would’ve been higher. Maybe small quakes felt far away. There’d be ground fractures, thermal radiation, and maybe even melted rock around the crater. Basically: someone would have to name a new kind of glass after it.
4.
Longer-Term Environmental Effects
You might see more fires, long-term atmospheric dust, and even climate effects if the impact had kicked up enough material. Like a mini nuclear winter—but just in Siberia, so the rest of the world would’ve probably shrugged and moved on.
5.
Casualties?
Still low, believe it or not. The area was so remote that almost nobody lived there. A few reindeer herders might’ve had a very bad morning, but the body count probably wouldn’t change much.
If it had hit a city, though? That’s a different apocalypse. Think an entire metropolitan area erased in a second, no Avengers in sight.
a🏞️ The Scene Now (aka “Welcome to the Middle of Nowhere, Population: Mosquitoes”)
You’d find yourself standing in remote Siberian taiga—a sprawling, quiet forest made up mostly of larch, birch, pine, and regrets. The trees have regrown since 1908, but the forest still has a weird vibe, like it remembers something horrible but doesn’t want to talk about it.
There’s no crater, because again, the object exploded in midair like a coward. But there are still signs if you know where to look (and if you have a guide, GPS, several permits, and a strong will to survive hordes of blood-sucking insects).
🪵 The Legacy Trees
Some fallen trees still lie in place from the original blast, now rotted and mossy, like nature’s attempt at a crime scene chalk outline. They radiate outward from the blast’s epicenter in a spoke-like pattern, which would be cool if you weren’t also being eaten alive by mosquitoes the size of golf balls.
And because this is Siberia, every 20 minutes you’ll be reminded that humans aren’t supposed to be there. It’s remote, it’s rugged, and there are no roads—just muddy tracks, bear droppings, and your slowly deteriorating morale.
🧪 The Kulik Expedition Memorial
You might stumble upon a small monument dedicated to Leonid Kulik, the scientist who finally dragged a team out there in 1927. There’s a little plaque, a busted old cabin, and the feeling that if you dropped your phone here, you’d never see civilization again.
Also, good luck finding a snack. This is not exactly a “buy a magnet for your fridge” kind of tourist spot.
🐻 Wildlife
Oh yes. Bears. Wolves. Insects that don’t care about your DEET. Maybe a few scientists from Novosibirsk who lost the will to leave.
The wildlife is as untouched as the trauma of the trees.
🧭 So, What Would You
Actually
See?
- A regrown forest, but oddly uniform in places—trees still shorter and younger than the surrounding area.
- Remnants of the flattened zone, preserved like a haunted forest fossil.
- Memorial signs, small research posts, and if you’re extremely lucky (or unlucky), some crater-like permafrost holes people really want to be the original impact site, even though they aren’t.
- The oppressive silence of a place that was once deafeningly loud.
🚶 Should You Go?
Sure, if you’re:
- A die-hard fan of cosmic devastation.
- In possession of multiple vaccinations.
- Mentally prepared for days of trekking through bogs.
- Emotionally ready to visit a place where space tried to kill Earth, but just ended up inconveniencing some trees.
Honestly? It’s a forest with a story. But it’s the story that makes it spectacular—not the visuals. The blast scars have mostly healed. But for those who know the tale, the place still hums with that eerie energy of what could’ve been.