We tramp into the woods behind our sturdy leader who plods along, shouldering her big heavy scope. There’s a couple from Vermont. He a broad-bellied corpulent with backpack and matching sneaks trimmed with neon green, she a tiny, no-nonsense, pale-faced thing with floppy hat over snow-white mannish hair.
And another couple–he trim, chatty and bearded and she large-boned and fix-eyed with a pioneer woman look to her.
Then the petite, young, shiny-toothed, raven-haired, dark-eyed girl bright with life. Her name was Rose, but she looked more like a Maria or Lydia to me. Something Spanish.
Then there’s me, the excitable one, pointing shamelessly at an elusive warbler or vireo, when excited finger-pointing is definitely bad birding etiquette. Scares them away, you see. I forget myself sometimes.