Written by Michael Di Maio, EPS PhD Student 
When you think of “creative fields,” geology probably isn’t the first thing that comes to mind.
More broadly, many people don’t put science and creativity in the same bucket.
If you’re reading RedBeds, you probably do. But out in the world, geology still carries a bit of a reputation problem. It’s seen as boring, at least after the novelty of museum specimens or the “wait, you’re a geologist?!” moment wears off. Maybe that’s especially true on the East Coast.
But what if geology is actually one of the most creative disciplines out there?
Inventor and architect Jacque Fresco defined creativity as taking known elements and putting them together in unique ways. By that definition, geology is creativity at scale. It pulls from chemistry, physics, materials science, fluid dynamics, even astronomy and engineering.
During my time as a Rutgers EPS student, I’ve been lucky to build a wide set of those elements: methods, tools, ways of thinking, and ways of asking questions. Over the last two years, I’ve had the chance to put those pieces to work in exploration geology in Wyoming’s Medicine Bow National Forest.
And this is where things get interesting.
On paper, a lot of field geology, especially on public land, has already been done. Areas have been mapped on foot, by helicopter, by plane, and by satellite. Major mineral deposits have often already been identified.
But the demand for metals isn’t going anywhere. Which means discoveries still matter.
So where do they come from?
This is where creativity steps in. Exploration geologists have to pull ideas from everywhere: academic papers, old reports, lectures watched during COVID, hallway conversations, and conference talks, and apply them in new ways to places that seem already understood.
Easier said than done.
During my first field season in southern Wyoming, my head was spinning. I focused on collecting water samples to figure out where groundwater might be interacting with sulfide mineralization, the kinds of processes that can point to metal deposits. More importantly, it gave me time to start making sense of the complex geology of the Cheyenne Belt.
Year two was different. Now I had context. I could prioritize areas. Patterns started to emerge.
But the real turning point came when I had to rely on creativity.
The area I was working in wasn’t unexplored. A USGS geophysical team had studied it. There was a 1960s master’s thesis. There were regional maps. Most of the puzzle seemed filled in, except for a few loose threads: an unusual mineral, some uncertain rock types, and a couple of unanswered questions.
That’s where my Rutgers training came back into the picture.
Geophysics pointed me toward magnetic and gravity anomalies. Mineralogy and geochemistry helped identify subtle chemical signals. My sedimentology, stratigraphy, and Major Events classes helped connect small-scale observations to big picture processes. And conversations with faculty helped me ask better questions, the kind that actually move research forward.
In the end, figuring out what happened about 1.8 billion years ago, and whether it led to a viable ore deposit, isn’t straightforward. It probably never will be.
But that’s exactly the point.
Geology isn’t just about what we already know. It’s about how creatively we can connect what we know, across classrooms, fieldwork, and conversations, to uncover something new.