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The term refers to rock that has not moved. Love was born in the center of Wyoming in i913, and grew up on an isolated ranch, where he was educated mainly by his mother. To be sure, experience had come to him beyond the borders-a Yale Ph.D., explorations for oil in the southern Appalachians and the midcontinent-but his career had been accomplished almost wholly in his home terrain. For several decades now, he had been regarded by colleagues as one of the two or three most influential field geologists in the Survey, and, in recent time, inevitably, as “the grand old man of Rocky Mountain geology.” The grand old man had a full thatch of white hair, and crow’s feet around pale-blue eyes. He wore old gray boots with broken laces, brown canvas trousers, and a jacket made of horsehide. Between his hips was a brass belt buckle of the sort that suggests a conveyor. Ambiguously, it was scrolled with the word “LOVE.” On his head was a two-gallon Stetson, with a braidedhorsehair band. He wore trifocals. There was stratigraphy even in his glasses. A remarkably broad geologist, he had worked on everything from geochemistry to structural geology, environmental geology to Pleistocene geology, stratigraphy to areal geology and mapping-and he had published extensively in all these fields. In the Bronco, he seemed confined-a restlessness that derived from a lifetime of travel on foot or horseback. He was taking me across Wyoming, at my request, looking at the rock in roadcuts of the interstate, which in seasons that ┬ákantoor huren per uur groningen followed would serve as portals for long digressions elsewhere in Wyoming in pursuit of the geologies the roadcuts represented. Once, in the Bighorn Basin, as we were rolling out our sleeping bags, I asked him what portion of the nights of his life he had spent out under the stars, and he answered, “One-third.” A few minutes later, half asleep, he added a correction: “Let’s say onequarter. I want to be careful not to exaggerate.” He rolled over and was gone for the night. I passed out more slowly, while my brain tumbled heavily with calculation. Love was about seventy, and this, I figured, was something like kantoor huren per uur amsterdam his six-thousandth night on the ground. Well, not precisely on the ground. One must be careful not to exaggerate. He’d had the same old U.S.G.S. air mattress for forty years. When it was quite new, it sprang a leak. He poured evaporated milk in through the valve and stopped the leak.