A year or so later, in a random conversation with this same eclectic petrologue, I asked if he thought we might find a Talk of the Town piece for The New Yorker in a roadcut near the city. We could look at the blast-exposed face of the rock, read its history, and tell it in the first-person plural. While we were still planning this short trip, I asked him if there would not be an even better story in a journey north from roadcut to roadcut-for example, up the Northway’s stunning route through the Adirondacks. “Not on this continent,” said Deffeyes. “If you want to zakelijke energie do that sort of thing on this continent, go west-go across the structure.” In one moment, bounding and rash, my thoughts raced to San Francisco with roadcuts lining the route like billboards, each with its own message. “Why not go all the way?” I said to him. Two weeks later, we were looking for silver in Nevada. Deffeyes has stood beside this project for twenty flattering years, always seeming to assume that my comprehension and capabilities are twice their actual size, never showing the slightest sign of stress, or even awareness, when he is talking six to eight metres above my head. As widely read as if he were a professor of comparative literature, he intuitively understood the goal I had set up: to present his science and its practitioners in a form and manner that was meant to arrest the attention of other people while achieving acceptability in the geologic community. I was rnuve even to think of such a thing, and a nervous wreck for months on end, but I learned a lot in twenty years. Deffeyes searched his mind and the geologic literature, and suggested-for the Appalachians, the Rocky Mountains, and California-geologists I might travel with. He called them, interested them in what I was trying to do, and zakelijke energie vergelijken asked if they would help. Since I travelled with all of them in that first year, they in turn became twenty-year counsellors as well as companions.