She was from a prominent American family. A university student at the time, she came to our little town to work for a semester as an intern at the local newspaper, where I was a reporter/photographer and the sole darkroom technician. She had an old, well-loved, wood-chassis, large-format camera for her creative work (was it a Deardorff? I don’t remember).
I got her oriented to the peculiarities of our darkroom -- where she would develop her sheet film in trays after hours and make her contact prints -- and I suggested some locations for shooting. One day I took her to the McKenzie Pond Boulders, which were then known only to a few locals but have since become a “destination” for boulderers (people who climb boulders) in the northeastern U.S. It must have been late October. The light was magical. The paths of two very different lives crossed briefly on the common ground of photography. The semester ended. The years since have become decades. This photo and two others, along with incomplete, indistinct memory are what remain. I don’t recall her name.