Life at base camp is a hoot. The apple moon rises while the swallows are sorrowing in the orchards. Stan says hi. His noodle stew is vertiginous. Mangoes grow wild here and you can barely put a foot down without stepping on a rind or two. Still I’m somewhat blue. I miss you. What kind of life is this—taking core samples, harrowing the drifts, sifting silt for godknowswhat? Will we ever find what we are looking for? I feel like a fool. Captain Pout says we must keep our spirits up. I dream often of Tulsa, my home, where the bread bakes itself and the knives melt like poisoned soldiers. Wait on me, Mawmaw. See you at The Big Show!