Date: 2/19/26 4:59 am From: Don Morrow <donaldcmorrow...> Subject: [NFLbirds] February at SMNWR
A pair of Barred Owls called as I passed the Double Bridges at St. Marks
NWR, but after that, there was only silence. It was the dark of the moon
and the night was cold, clear, and still. At first light catbirds began
calling and the dawn revealed wraiths and streamers of ground fog floating
low over the surrounding marsh. The morning flight consisted of just two
Wood Ducks and a Wilson’s Snipe. A slow start to the monthly duck survey.
Although snow still covers Canada and most of the northeastern US, I had
expected the refuge’s ducks to begin staging northward. Duck numbers
usually show a big drop in mid-February, but so far most of the ducks are
staying. I recorded 1,235 ducks, mostly Green-winged Teal and fifteen other
species. This is over twice the number of ducks that I expected. Northern
Pintail and Hooded Merganser numbers have decreased sharply, but were
offset by a big jump in Blue-winged Teal. Most blue-wings winter south of
us and I have seen a bump in their February numbers in previous years as
they begin to migrate.
In February winter holds on while Spring begins to creep in slowly. Life at
the refuge is always in a state of flux as different species of plants and
animals play out their annual cycles, simultaneously interacting with each
other and with the forces of weather and climate. Each year follows the
same pattern, but at the same time is always different. This has been one
of the best shorebird winters in the last ten years. Over four thousand
wintering shorebirds gather on the interior ponds at high tide and their
numbers won’t begin to drop until the Dunlin start north in March. Avocets
have been sparse this winter, but Marbled Godwits are at record high
numbers.
Leafout is still a month away and most of the tree branches along the East
River are bare, but the tardily deciduous oaks; water, laurel and live, are
just now dropping their old leaves. Many of those leaves turn yellow and
brighten the woods before they cascade down in a cycle repeated each
February.
The ongoing drought and a stretch of unusually cold weather have resulted
in fewer insects. It is the hunger time for the refuge’s birds, but they
are resilient. Chickadees are feeding on the newly emerged elm buds. Hermit
Thrushes compete with robins, grackles, bears and blackbirds for the
remaining cabbage palm berries. Desperate Yellow-rumped Warblers are
hawking for no-see-ums.
The pace of life is about to accelerate as wintering birds leave, resident
birds nest, and summer birds arrive. Over the next few months ten million
migrant birds will transit the refuge. Come down to St. Marks, bring
popcorn, and watch the show.
Date: 2/6/26 3:48 am From: 'BARBARA BUFORD' via NFLbirds <nflbirds...> Subject: Re: [NFLbirds] Owl Talk
Thanks Don, Barbara
> On Feb 5, 2026, at 9:20 AM, '<ctsnow8618...>' via NFLbirds <nflbirds...> wrote:
>
> Love it!
>
>
> Sent from the all new AOL app for iOS <https://aolapp.onelink.me/eG2g?pid=NativePlacement&c=US_Acquisition_YMktg_320_EmailSignature_AttributionDL&af_sub1=Acquisition&af_sub2=US_YMktg&af_sub3=&af_sub4=100002473&af_sub5=SentFromNewAOLApp__Interstitial_&af_ios_store_cpp=ce85ce34-ad0f-4811-a92b-a172743b064e&af_android_url=https%3A%2F%2Fplay.google.com%2Fstore%2Fapps%2Fdetails%3Fid%3Dcom.aol.mobile.aolapp%26listing%3Demail_signature_attribution> >
> On Wednesday, February 4, 2026, 2:24 PM, Don Morrow <donaldcmorrow...> wrote:
>
> I got down to St. Marks NWR early and walked along Lighthouse Road at the Double Bridges under a bright half-moon. The East River crosses under the road here. Barred Owls nest in the hammock along the river and I was hoping to hear one. Just after first light, when day birds began to call, I realized that I would be disappointed.
>
> I can do a reasonable Barred Owl call and when I was younger, I often used it to attract owls. Hooting up owls can be done to survey them or be used as an environmental education tool, but owl calling is a minor form of owl harassment. You’re not really talking to the owl. What you are doing is challenging them by apparently being another owl in their territory. This causes an owl to stop feeding while it investigates the intruder. As I have gotten older, I have become content to walk in the dark and let the owls pick their moment.
>
> One night, though, I did have a conversation with an owl. It was forty-five years ago, during my second year of graduate school. Memory can morph over time, sharpening and elaborating some details, blurring, and eliminating others. As best I can remember, this is how it happened.
>
> I lived on Old Chesterfield Road on the outskirts of Winchester, New Hampshire, a small town down near the Massachusetts border. A few hundred yards beyond our house, the pavement ended and the road continued into a thirteen- thousand-acre undeveloped state park. I would sometimes stay up late writing papers and drinking coffee. Wide awake at two or three in the morning, I would go walking in the park until sunrise.
>
> Snowfall had been light that year and there was only about a half foot of new snow on the ground as I set out down the road in the moonless dark. New Hampshire winters are very cold – sub-freezing to sub-zero, but I was dressed for it with heavy boots, wool pants and sweater, a down vest under a heavy parka, a wool hat, mittens, and scarf.
>
> I had no plan that night, nor on any other. Starlight reflecting off the snow had turned the landscape black-and-white. As my eyes quickly adjusted to the night, it was easy to see my way. The park had a welter of twisting, unmarked dirt roads, and trails. I followed Old Chesterfield Road as it shifted from snow-covered pavement to snow-covered dirt, Then, based solely on whim, I turned onto a connecting trail and wandered out into the night.
>
> When my path led me into thick evergreens the surrounding forest edge was black and I walked down a white pathway roofed with stars. When I passed through leafless deciduous forest, the night opened up and the trunks of the maples and oaks stood in ranks of black silhouettes against the lighter snow.
>
> Some nights the wind howled through the trees, sending snow down on me from the branches above. That night was still and quiet. No sounds intruded from the surrounding rural countryside. I walked making random decisions when I came to intersections until I found myself on the edge of a pond. It was not big –maybe an acre across. Its frozen surface was a white expanse of snow-covered ice. The sky above was black and spotted with stars. As I stood there quietly, listening to the silence, a Barred Owl called from the far side of the pond with its standard eight-part call. Who-cooks-for-you, who-cooks-for-y'all.
>
> That night there was no need to hoot up the owl, it was there and had already announced its presence. But, when it called again, on impulse I pulled the scarf covering my face down, inhaled a lungful of freezing air and hooted my Barred Owl call out into the night. I waited a few seconds and then the owl responded. I was enthralled and began to duet with the owl. The owl would call; I would call back and then the owl would answer me. After a few minutes I began to wonder if we were really talking or was the owl simply calling rhythmically and I just happened to call in the gaps between its calls?
>
> Barred Owls have a number of calls. The eight-part Who-cooks-for-you, who cooks for y’all is the most common, but they sometimes do a variant five-part call, sort of Who, who, who, whoo wah. The pattern is reminiscent of a Great Horned Owl call, but louder and more exuberant. I switched to the variant Barred Owl call and from the far side of the pond, the owl switched its call to match mine.
>
> We continued hooting to each other for a few minutes until the owl switched back to the eight-part call, which I matched. We continued duetting and I was beginning to wonder if the owl had just been humoring me. Then it switched back to the five-part call. I matched it and we continued hooting to each other across the frozen pond. Sometimes I switched the cadence of the call and sometimes the owl switched, but regardless, the other changed to match the new cadence.
>
> We continued until my face and lips were frozen and I was chilled from standing in the snow. I stopped hooting. The unseen owl continued, switching between the five-part and eight-part calls. Then it fell silent.
>
> I had duetted with Barred Owls before and have done so since, but this was different, more intimate. The owl and I had had a conversation. I was aware that there was an intelligence on the other side of the pond and hoped that the owl felt the same way. I’m still not entirely sure what we were talking about. Sort of, “Can you do this?” but it was enough.
>
> The sky was beginning to lighten in the East. It was time to head home. I had a general sense of where I was and I always managed to find my way. I adjusted the scarf to cover my face and began the long walk back home through the snow.
>
>
> --
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Date: 2/5/26 6:20 am From: '<ctsnow8618...>' via NFLbirds <nflbirds...> Subject: Re: [NFLbirds] Owl Talk
Love it!
Sent from the all new AOL app for iOS
On Wednesday, February 4, 2026, 2:24 PM, Don Morrow <donaldcmorrow...> wrote:
I got down to St. Marks NWR early and walked alongLighthouse Road at the Double Bridges under a bright half-moon. The East Rivercrosses under the road here. Barred Owls nest in the hammock along the riverand I was hoping to hear one. Just after first light, when day birds began tocall, I realized that I would be disappointed.
I can do a reasonable Barred Owl call and when I was younger,I often used it to attract owls. Hooting up owls can be done to survey them or beused as an environmental education tool, but owl calling is a minor form of owlharassment. You’re not really talking to the owl. What you are doing ischallenging them by apparently being another owl in their territory. Thiscauses an owl to stop feeding while it investigates the intruder. As I havegotten older, I have become content to walk in the dark and let the owls picktheir moment.
One night, though, I did have a conversation with an owl. Itwas forty-five years ago, during my second year of graduate school. Memory canmorph over time, sharpening and elaborating some details, blurring, andeliminating others. As best I can remember, this is how it happened.
I lived on Old Chesterfield Road on the outskirts ofWinchester, New Hampshire, a small town down near the Massachusetts border. Afew hundred yards beyond our house, the pavement ended and the road continuedinto a thirteen- thousand-acre undeveloped state park. I would sometimes stayup late writing papers and drinking coffee. Wide awake at two or three in themorning, I would go walking in the park until sunrise.
Snowfall had been light that year and there was only about ahalf foot of new snow on the ground as I set out down the road in the moonlessdark. New Hampshire winters are very cold – sub-freezing to sub-zero, but I wasdressed for it with heavy boots, wool pants and sweater, a down vest under aheavy parka, a wool hat, mittens, and scarf.
I had no plan that night, nor on any other. Starlightreflecting off the snow had turned the landscape black-and-white. As my eyesquickly adjusted to the night, it was easy to see my way. The park had a welterof twisting, unmarked dirt roads, and trails. I followed Old Chesterfield Roadas it shifted from snow-covered pavement to snow-covered dirt, Then, basedsolely on whim, I turned onto a connecting trail and wandered out into thenight.
When my path led me into thick evergreens the surroundingforest edge was black and I walked down a white pathway roofed with stars. WhenI passed through leafless deciduous forest, the night opened up and the trunksof the maples and oaks stood in ranks of black silhouettes against the lighter snow.
Some nights the wind howled through the trees, sending snowdown on me from the branches above. That night was still and quiet. No soundsintruded from the surrounding rural countryside. I walked making randomdecisions when I came to intersections until I found myself on the edge of apond. It was not big –maybe an acre across. Its frozen surface was a whiteexpanse of snow-covered ice. The sky above was black and spotted with stars. AsI stood there quietly, listening to the silence, a Barred Owl called from thefar side of the pond with its standard eight-part call. Who-cooks-for-you, who-cooks-for-y'all.
That night there was no need to hoot up the owl, it wasthere and had already announced its presence. But, when it called again, onimpulse I pulled the scarf covering my face down, inhaled a lungful of freezingair and hooted my Barred Owl call out into the night. I waited a few secondsand then the owl responded. I was enthralled and began to duet with the owl.The owl would call; I would call back and then the owl would answer me. After a few minutes I began to wonder if wewere really talking or was the owl simply calling rhythmically and I justhappened to call in the gaps between its calls?
Barred Owls have a number of calls. The eight-part Who-cooks-for-you,who cooks for y’all is the most common, but they sometimes do a variant five-partcall, sort of Who, who, who, whoo wah. The pattern is reminiscent of a Great HornedOwl call, but louder and more exuberant. I switched to the variant Barred Owlcall and from the far side of the pond, the owl switched its call to match mine.
We continued hooting to each other for a few minutes untilthe owl switched back to the eight-part call, which I matched. We continued duettingand I was beginning to wonder if the owl had just been humoring me. Then itswitched back to the five-part call. I matched it and we continued hooting toeach other across the frozen pond. Sometimes I switched the cadence of the calland sometimes the owl switched, but regardless, the other changed to match thenew cadence.
We continued until my face and lips were frozen and I waschilled from standing in the snow. I stopped hooting. The unseen owl continued,switching between the five-part and eight-part calls. Then it fell silent.
I had duetted with Barred Owls before and have done sosince, but this was different, more intimate. The owl and I had had aconversation. I was aware that there was an intelligence on the other side ofthe pond and hoped that the owl felt the same way. I’m still not entirely surewhat we were talking about. Sort of, “Can you do this?” but it was enough.
The sky was beginning to lighten in the East. It was time tohead home. I had a general sense of where I was and I always managed to find myway. I adjusted the scarf to cover my face and began the long walk back home throughthe snow.
--
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That must be my ovenbird! I'm missing two this year! Please send them over.
Thanks, Lisa Lazarus
On Wed, Feb 4, 2026, 5:06 PM mchill7 via NFLbirds <nflbirds...>
wrote:
> Went to the Leon County / Jefferson county border out Hwy 90 today. At a
> friend’s house we counted 5 female purple finch and one male PUFI! With
> that awful weather north of us, I have been expecting more interesting
> birds at my house. Also, there was an *ovenbird* lurking around the
> native azaleas. (my green card lists ovenbird: 8b-5d) I’m looking for
> juncos!.. Michael Hill, Tallahassee
>
> --
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> "NFLbirds" group.
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> https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/nflbirds/005001dc9622%2475de7540%24619b5fc0%<24...> > <https://groups.google.com/d/msgid/nflbirds/005001dc9622%2475de7540%24619b5fc0%<24...>?utm_medium=email&utm_source=footer> > .
>
Since I was pretty close to the original author of the Florida Birds field card, I can tell you the difficulty of assigning status to birds that really don’t exactly match any particular seasonality. Of course, Ovenbirds are normally spring/fall migrants (never summer breeders), but they are seen wintering rarely in North Florida (I saw one as a boy at Black Lake). Obviously these are a species with less than 1% of their population wintering in the Deep South and the rest trans-Gulf migrants.
It isn’t too hard to think of a few more, so I’ll (admittedly) estimate several: ~30% of Blue-winged Teal winter south of the US; ~75% of the Peregrines do; ~96% of Black-and-white Warblers do; ~80% of the White-fronted Geese; and so forth.
I *am* convinced that there is a higher and higher percentage of birds wintering in the States and NOT heading to the Tropics, perhaps due to climate change. Given the number of songbirds that perish each year in the migration, they might unwittingly save themselves.
I hope all my friends in Tally are doing well.
Jim in Galveston
From: mchill7 via NFLbirds <nflbirds...>
Sent: Wednesday, February 4, 2026 4:06 PM
To: NFLBirds <nflbirds...>
Subject: [NFLbirds] PUFI
Went to the Leon County / Jefferson county border out Hwy 90 today. At a friend’s house we counted 5 female purple finch and one male PUFI! With that awful weather north of us, I have been expecting more interesting birds at my house. Also, there was an ovenbird lurking around the native azaleas. (my green card lists ovenbird: 8b-5d) I’m looking for juncos!.. Michael Hill, Tallahassee
Went to the Leon County / Jefferson county border out Hwy 90 today. At a friend's house we counted 5 female purple finch and one male PUFI! With that awful weather north of us, I have been expecting more interesting birds at my house. Also, there was an ovenbird lurking around the native azaleas. (my green card lists ovenbird: 8b-5d) I'm looking for juncos!.. Michael Hill, Tallahassee
Nice story. I believe you WERE talking to the owl.
Having grown up in that vicinity, I had to go look at a map to see where you were. Nice territory there!
Carol Magnusen
west Tallahassee
----- Forwarded Message ----- From: Don Morrow <donaldcmorrow...>To: NFLbirds <nflbirds...>Sent: Wednesday, February 4, 2026 at 02:24:50 PM ESTSubject: [NFLbirds] Owl Talk
I got down to St. Marks NWR early and walked alongLighthouse Road at the Double Bridges under a bright half-moon. The East Rivercrosses under the road here. Barred Owls nest in the hammock along the riverand I was hoping to hear one. Just after first light, when day birds began tocall, I realized that I would be disappointed.
I can do a reasonable Barred Owl call and when I was younger,I often used it to attract owls. Hooting up owls can be done to survey them or beused as an environmental education tool, but owl calling is a minor form of owlharassment. You’re not really talking to the owl. What you are doing ischallenging them by apparently being another owl in their territory. Thiscauses an owl to stop feeding while it investigates the intruder. As I havegotten older, I have become content to walk in the dark and let the owls picktheir moment.
One night, though, I did have a conversation with an owl. Itwas forty-five years ago, during my second year of graduate school. Memory canmorph over time, sharpening and elaborating some details, blurring, andeliminating others. As best I can remember, this is how it happened.
I lived on Old Chesterfield Road on the outskirts ofWinchester, New Hampshire, a small town down near the Massachusetts border. Afew hundred yards beyond our house, the pavement ended and the road continuedinto a thirteen- thousand-acre undeveloped state park. I would sometimes stayup late writing papers and drinking coffee. Wide awake at two or three in themorning, I would go walking in the park until sunrise.
Snowfall had been light that year and there was only about ahalf foot of new snow on the ground as I set out down the road in the moonlessdark. New Hampshire winters are very cold – sub-freezing to sub-zero, but I wasdressed for it with heavy boots, wool pants and sweater, a down vest under aheavy parka, a wool hat, mittens, and scarf.
I had no plan that night, nor on any other. Starlightreflecting off the snow had turned the landscape black-and-white. As my eyesquickly adjusted to the night, it was easy to see my way. The park had a welterof twisting, unmarked dirt roads, and trails. I followed Old Chesterfield Roadas it shifted from snow-covered pavement to snow-covered dirt, Then, basedsolely on whim, I turned onto a connecting trail and wandered out into thenight.
When my path led me into thick evergreens the surroundingforest edge was black and I walked down a white pathway roofed with stars. WhenI passed through leafless deciduous forest, the night opened up and the trunksof the maples and oaks stood in ranks of black silhouettes against the lighter snow.
Some nights the wind howled through the trees, sending snowdown on me from the branches above. That night was still and quiet. No soundsintruded from the surrounding rural countryside. I walked making randomdecisions when I came to intersections until I found myself on the edge of apond. It was not big –maybe an acre across. Its frozen surface was a whiteexpanse of snow-covered ice. The sky above was black and spotted with stars. AsI stood there quietly, listening to the silence, a Barred Owl called from thefar side of the pond with its standard eight-part call. Who-cooks-for-you, who-cooks-for-y'all.
That night there was no need to hoot up the owl, it wasthere and had already announced its presence. But, when it called again, onimpulse I pulled the scarf covering my face down, inhaled a lungful of freezingair and hooted my Barred Owl call out into the night. I waited a few secondsand then the owl responded. I was enthralled and began to duet with the owl.The owl would call; I would call back and then the owl would answer me. After a few minutes I began to wonder if wewere really talking or was the owl simply calling rhythmically and I justhappened to call in the gaps between its calls?
Barred Owls have a number of calls. The eight-part Who-cooks-for-you,who cooks for y’all is the most common, but they sometimes do a variant five-partcall, sort of Who, who, who, whoo wah. The pattern is reminiscent of a Great HornedOwl call, but louder and more exuberant. I switched to the variant Barred Owlcall and from the far side of the pond, the owl switched its call to match mine.
We continued hooting to each other for a few minutes untilthe owl switched back to the eight-part call, which I matched. We continued duettingand I was beginning to wonder if the owl had just been humoring me. Then itswitched back to the five-part call. I matched it and we continued hooting toeach other across the frozen pond. Sometimes I switched the cadence of the calland sometimes the owl switched, but regardless, the other changed to match thenew cadence.
We continued until my face and lips were frozen and I waschilled from standing in the snow. I stopped hooting. The unseen owl continued,switching between the five-part and eight-part calls. Then it fell silent.
I had duetted with Barred Owls before and have done sosince, but this was different, more intimate. The owl and I had had aconversation. I was aware that there was an intelligence on the other side ofthe pond and hoped that the owl felt the same way. I’m still not entirely surewhat we were talking about. Sort of, “Can you do this?” but it was enough.
The sky was beginning to lighten in the East. It was time tohead home. I had a general sense of where I was and I always managed to find myway. I adjusted the scarf to cover my face and began the long walk back home throughthe snow.
--
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Date: 2/4/26 11:24 am From: Don Morrow <donaldcmorrow...> Subject: [NFLbirds] Owl Talk
I got down to St. Marks NWR early and walked along Lighthouse Road at the
Double Bridges under a bright half-moon. The East River crosses under the
road here. Barred Owls nest in the hammock along the river and I was hoping
to hear one. Just after first light, when day birds began to call, I
realized that I would be disappointed.
I can do a reasonable Barred Owl call and when I was younger, I often used
it to attract owls. Hooting up owls can be done to survey them or be used
as an environmental education tool, but owl calling is a minor form of owl
harassment. You’re not really talking to the owl. What you are doing is
challenging them by apparently being another owl in their territory. This
causes an owl to stop feeding while it investigates the intruder. As I have
gotten older, I have become content to walk in the dark and let the owls
pick their moment.
One night, though, I did have a conversation with an owl. It was forty-five
years ago, during my second year of graduate school. Memory can morph over
time, sharpening and elaborating some details, blurring, and eliminating
others. As best I can remember, this is how it happened.
I lived on Old Chesterfield Road on the outskirts of Winchester, New
Hampshire, a small town down near the Massachusetts border. A few hundred
yards beyond our house, the pavement ended and the road continued into a
thirteen- thousand-acre undeveloped state park. I would sometimes stay up
late writing papers and drinking coffee. Wide awake at two or three in the
morning, I would go walking in the park until sunrise.
Snowfall had been light that year and there was only about a half foot of
new snow on the ground as I set out down the road in the moonless dark. New
Hampshire winters are very cold – sub-freezing to sub-zero, but I was
dressed for it with heavy boots, wool pants and sweater, a down vest under
a heavy parka, a wool hat, mittens, and scarf.
I had no plan that night, nor on any other. Starlight reflecting off the
snow had turned the landscape black-and-white. As my eyes quickly adjusted
to the night, it was easy to see my way. The park had a welter of twisting,
unmarked dirt roads, and trails. I followed Old Chesterfield Road as it
shifted from snow-covered pavement to snow-covered dirt, Then, based solely
on whim, I turned onto a connecting trail and wandered out into the night.
When my path led me into thick evergreens the surrounding forest edge was
black and I walked down a white pathway roofed with stars. When I passed
through leafless deciduous forest, the night opened up and the trunks of
the maples and oaks stood in ranks of black silhouettes against the lighter
snow.
Some nights the wind howled through the trees, sending snow down on me from
the branches above. That night was still and quiet. No sounds intruded from
the surrounding rural countryside. I walked making random decisions when I
came to intersections until I found myself on the edge of a pond. It was
not big –maybe an acre across. Its frozen surface was a white expanse of
snow-covered ice. The sky above was black and spotted with stars. As I
stood there quietly, listening to the silence, a Barred Owl called from the
far side of the pond with its standard eight-part call. Who-cooks-for-you,
who-cooks-for-y'all.
That night there was no need to hoot up the owl, it was there and had
already announced its presence. But, when it called again, on impulse I
pulled the scarf covering my face down, inhaled a lungful of freezing air
and hooted my Barred Owl call out into the night. I waited a few seconds
and then the owl responded. I was enthralled and began to duet with the
owl. The owl would call; I would call back and then the owl would answer
me. After a few minutes I began to wonder if we were really talking or was
the owl simply calling rhythmically and I just happened to call in the gaps
between its calls?
Barred Owls have a number of calls. The eight-part *Who-cooks-for-you, who
cooks for y’all *is the most common, but they sometimes do a variant
five-part call, sort of *Who, who, who, whoo wah. * The pattern is
reminiscent of a Great Horned Owl call, but louder and more exuberant. I
switched to the variant Barred Owl call and from the far side of the pond,
the owl switched its call to match mine.
We continued hooting to each other for a few minutes until the owl switched
back to the eight-part call, which I matched. We continued duetting and I
was beginning to wonder if the owl had just been humoring me. Then it
switched back to the five-part call. I matched it and we continued hooting
to each other across the frozen pond. Sometimes I switched the cadence of
the call and sometimes the owl switched, but regardless, the other changed
to match the new cadence.
We continued until my face and lips were frozen and I was chilled from
standing in the snow. I stopped hooting. The unseen owl continued,
switching between the five-part and eight-part calls. Then it fell silent.
I had duetted with Barred Owls before and have done so since, but this was
different, more intimate. The owl and I had had a conversation. I was aware
that there was an intelligence on the other side of the pond and hoped that
the owl felt the same way. I’m still not entirely sure what we were talking
about. Sort of, “Can you do this?” but it was enough.
The sky was beginning to lighten in the East. It was time to head home. I
had a general sense of where I was and I always managed to find my way. I
adjusted the scarf to cover my face and began the long walk back home
through the snow.
