The iconic view of Stowe, VT, without the fall colors. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Before visiting friends in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom, my wife and I enjoyed the eye-pleasing scenery of the Green Mountain State.
After a stop at Cabot’s Cheese, we visited Stowe, Vermont’s tourist magnet. Despite the excessive heat, we weren’t disappointed. The young lady at the visitor center helped us make the most of our limited time there.
The Little River flows behind the Stowe Community Church. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
We walked through part of the town to photograph the iconic church with its towering steeple and to find the recommended restaurant for a refreshing salad and hydration. We found both.
After lunch, we took the Stowe Hollow self-guiding tour and found some incredible scenes even in summer. I can only imagine these vistas decked out in fall’s brilliant, warm colors.
Even with fifty shades of green all around, we found the countryside surrounding Stowe stunning. From unique barns and homes with views to covered bridges and the Green Mountains as the backdrop, we left Stowe amazed but ready to fellowship with our friends.
The world’s tallest filing cabinet, Burlington, Vermont. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
When friends in Ohio learned we would be staying overnight in Burlington, Vermont, they suggested we check out an oddity.
After a smooth drive from the Pocomos to Burlington, my wife and I went looking for a good place for dinner. Our Ohio friends said we should check out the world’s tallest file cabinet. So we did.
I’m not sure how they knew about this unusual landmark, because no signs mark the way to it like other touristy places. There’s not even a sign explaining why, how, or when this “monument” was installed.
Thanks to Google Maps, we found it with ease. This amazing structure stands like an unmarked grave in the corner of the parking lot of a nondescript local business.
Best of all, the restaurant we chose was right next door. I enjoyed my monster smash burger and Vermont maple lemonade to wash it down.
My wife and I are in the last leg of our vacation. Yes, retired people take holidays, too.
We started our two-week trip off with a bang. We gathered with our son and his family, our daughter and her husband, and our granddaughter in a cottage on a lake in Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountain region on July 4.
The community where we stayed shot off its fireworks display from the dam of the lake we stayed on. Of course, neighbors around the lake preempted the real show with their mini-pyrotechnic displays. They couldn’t hold a candle to the sponsored ones, however.
At 9:45 p.m., the fireworks began despite the overcast skies and intermittent drizzle. The show must go on, especially on the country’s 250th celebration of independence.
I stood back and captured our families watching the fireworks. With the low clouds and the misty haze, the sparkly colors echoed off of the atmospheric elements.
In this photo, the brief time-lapse created a glowing red glow all around just as the second burst flashed brilliantly white with a double boom. It was a great way to initiate our time with family and friends on our jaunt into New England.
Fireworks in the Poconos. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
On my morning walk, I spotted these spent fireworks cartridges standing in a neighbor’s driveway. In celebration of Independence Day in the U.S., the fireworks did their job the previous evening.
A palette of patriotic colors and occasional booms filled the sky over the street. They wisely left the used containers of mayhem to stand overnight. I’m glad I was able to capture the photo before the spent containers were whisked away.
Rows of Hollyhocks greet me on my morning walk. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
My morning walks in our suburban neighborhood reap several rewards besides exercise.
I enjoy greeting other walkers, runners, and dog walkers. Though it has lessened recently, I still enjoy hearing the birdsong as I make my way.
Song sparrows, Northern Cardinals, Carolina Wrens, House Wrens, House Finches, American Robins sing away, while the Blue Jays and Common and Fish Crows signal with their various alerts and caws.
As the bird calls grow fewer, the many flower gardens send forth a rainbow of colors from season to season. Summer, of course, is the climax of this natural colorful abundance.
I enjoy the Knockout Roses, Irises, Tulips, and other floral displays that, week by week, transform spring into summer. Of all these beauties, Common Hollyhocks are my favorites.
Their mostly pastel colors welcome me as I turn the corner for home. From deep burgundy to pink to white, they stand tall between the street and an iron fence that keeps a pair of Brittney Spaniels in their spacious backyard.
Each time I see those beds of Hollyhocks, visions of watercolors flash before me from my elementary school days. I remember those lovely illustrations in our reading books from the “Alice and Jerry” series.
With all the troubles of the world swirling around us, it’s nice to be reminded of simpler, less troublesome times.
The early morning sun highlighted the taller stalks of Hollyhocks. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
This American Robin knows how to beat the heat. It sat in this birdbath cooling off for the longest time. It didn’t splash or move around like the birds usually do while in the birdbath.
The robin just sat and enjoyed the pleasure of being still and cool. It’s a lesson for all of us to stay cool during this prolonged heatwave.
American Robin keeping cool. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Chimney Swifts in flight. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Chimney Swifts are some of my favorite birds. I have adored these magnificent little birds for a long time. Let me count the ways they bring me joy.
More than likely, you’ll hear these gregarious birds before you see them. Their chattering call, while they are furiously flapping their pointy wings, alerts you to their presence.
I find their looping flight patterns intriguing, too. They like to fly overhead, wings furiously flapping, sometimes dipping low, and then back up in a rapid arch.
If you miss them on their first pass, stand still, and they are likely to return, perhaps bringing others with them as they skim the sky for any and all insects. If you have Chimney Swifts in the neighborhood, you likely won’t be bothered much by mosquitoes.
Chimney Swifts are equally at home in cities, suburbs, and rural areas. As long as these chubby-looking birds have a chimney in which to roost, they will make themselves at home.
It’s only appropriate that Chimney Swifts built their nests on the insides of chimneys. Their sooty colored feathers blend perfectly with whatever powdery substances they might pick up as the birds zip in and out of their chosen chimneys.
To clean themselves, Chimney Swifts will zoom over lakes and rivers, suddenly dip into the water’s surface, and then speed off to air-dry themselves.
Before North American colonization, Chimney Swifts originally built their nests in hollowed trees, on cliff faces, and in caves. Once White pioneers built their brick chimneys, the cigar-shaped birds adapted to a new habitat.
They build their nests on the inside of chimneys by using a glue-like saliva secreted from under their tongues. Chimney Swifts use their long claws to cling to the side of chimneys. The birds cannot perch like most other birds.
Some people cap or screen their chimneys to keep birds out. That, coupled with newer chimney designs and sizes, has led to a decline in the Chimney Swift population in recent years.
When we lived in Ohio, our home was built on an Amish farm. We had Chimney Swifts every year, and we lived there for 38 years.
The stubby chimney on our former Ohio home. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I greatly enjoyed the aerial antics of the chattering Chimney Swifts. In the evenings, I would stand and watch as the birds swirled in loops over the house, dropping closer with every pass until they would dive into our short chimney.
Before we added air conditioning to the house, I would sometimes sleep on the couch in the lower level of our bilevel home on hot, humid summer days. There, the temperature was cooler.
We had a wood-burning fireplace, and when the Chimney Swifts had young in their nests, it seemed like they would feed all night long. The force of their powerful wings, helping them to brake once they entered the chimney, rattled the glass fireplace doors.
An adult bird once fell into the fireplace because I hadn’t secured the damper all the way closed. I would don thick gloves, carefully remove the bird, and let it free outside to fly again.
During the colder months, I loved to sit on the raised hearth in front of the firebox and enjoy the radiant heat and the aromatic aroma of seasoned wild cherry, oak, and ash wood chunks blazing away. The warmth penetrated my shirt, soothing my aching back.
Once the Chimney Swifts arrived in April, however, no more fires were built until the birds left in early October. The birds spent the winter in northwestern South America.
They migrated north over Central America to all areas of the United States east of the Rocky Mountains, where they breed and raise their young. Come October, they began their extended journey back to South America.
Our Virginia home doesn’t have a fireplace, but several of the close neighbors do. Consequently, I can continue to enjoy the chitter-chatter of the helpful Chimney Swifts as they zoom around the neighborhood.
I’m always happy when the first sunflower of the season blooms brightly. The buttery petals that surround the setting-sun center add volunteer beauty to the backyard flower garden.
The birds accidentally plant the seeds that sprout into plants. Despite gleaning by ground-feeding birds and four-legged critters, a few sunflower seeds are overlooked and eventually buried beneath the discarded shells left by birds feeding overhead.
Usually, only one or two sprouts make it to adulthood to produce their flowering sunshine. This year, several competed for the chance to bloom. Though this plant’s stem was twisted by the weight of Common Grackles continually landing on it, being crooked didn’t matter.
I celebrated its success and happily anticipate the American Goldfinches to enjoy its fresh, juicy seeds.
Norfolk & Western’s J-Class 611 steam engine. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The timing couldn’t have been better. My wife’s cousin and her husband came for a four-day visit from their home in North Carolina.
We consider them dear friends. We all enjoy watching trains, especially old ones. That’s what rainfanning is.
As it happened, the Shenandoah Valley Scenic Railroad planned a series of weekend excursions traveling east from Staunton, Virginia, only 40 minutes south of our home. Rick and Brenda would be here during the first weekend.
Despite the wilting heat and humidity, we ventured out to see Norfolk and Western’s J-Class historic 611 steam engine pull classic rail cars across Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. We decided to catch the 10 a.m. run.
We weren’t planning on riding the train. We wanted to watch it steam by with its smokestack puffing and iconic whistle blowing. Of course, we would record the day with video and photos.
Built in May 1950 in Roanoke, Virginia, the N & W J-484 Class engine was the last streamlined steam locomotive before the diesel-powered engines gained favor. The Queen of Steam is the only surviving engine of its kind and is housed in the Virginia Transportation Museum in Roanoke, Virginia.
The Queen of Steam. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The first location we chose did not afford the view we had hoped for, so we went to plan B. We drove a few miles east along the Jefferson Highway to Jericho Road. Only a quarter of a mile south, the tracks crossed the narrow rural road and gave us a treelined look west to where the train would curve into view.
We heard the train before we saw it. The engine’s chug, chug, chug, accompanied by the deep, resonant sound of its horn, alerted us to scramble into position for good looks and photo opportunities.
I began filming even before the storied 611 came into view. The train’s low-pitched whistle sounded as it crossed another road to the west. Soon it came steaming into view.
Full foliage stands of trees on both sides of the tracks created a tunnel effect as the train rounded the curve. Soon, the whistle sounded again, this time for our crossing. The lights flashed, the warning bells clanged, and the crossing gates came down
At the slight incline before the Jericho crossing, the fireman stoked coal into the firebox and a pillar of inky smoke rose from 611’s stubby stack. It was the shot I had hoped for, although I should have aimed the camera a bit higher.
The engine roared by, and fly ash drifted upon us. That’s what happens when you stand too close to the tracks. Even at 78, I showed my immaturity. Still, I got the shots and experience I wanted for all of us.
We tried for a shot of the train as it passed over the Jefferson Highway a few miles east, but we were too late. The combination of red traffic lights and the train picking up steam outpaced our hopes. Sans photographs, at least we got to see the train glide across the bridge.
We retreated to the historic small city of Staunton for lunch. First, we wandered and reminisced in a well-stocked antique store. Many of the items were the very same we are trying to pawn off to our children and grandchildren.
That nostalgic trip only increased my hunger for a tasty burger, which awaited just down the street. We arrived ahead of the noontime crowd and relaxed in the coolness of the comfy restaurant, sipping ice water, sodas, and sweet tea.
After enjoying our specialty hamburgers and French fries, we stepped back out into the abusive elements to a surprise. The train was back at the station, so we walked down to take a close look at the old engine before it left for its second excursion.
We inspected the engine in the shade of the station’s arched canopy. A bright red stripe with white stars adorned both sides of the engine and tenders in commemoration of the United States’ 250th Anniversary.
We had expected larger crowds due to the engine’s popularity. But only a few other railfans had gathered along the tracks.
At 1 p.m. sharp, the engineer blew the Queen of Steam’s unique whistle, and the train slowly pulled out of the station. The giant wheels turned slowly at first, then faster and faster as the J-Class 611 once again thundered east toward the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Joyful for our successful day of railfanning, we headed north for home.
The Blue Grass Valley above the town of Blue Grass, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
My second visit to Blue Grass Valley paid off. The birds and the bucolic scenery lure me.
This remote Appalachian location serves as the border between Virginia and West Virginia. According to the Virginia Department of Wildlife and Recreation, the Blue Grass Valley runs for 7.2 miles. But that’s only measuring from the village of Blue Grass down the valley to US 250.
The northernmost section of the agricultural valley, abutted by sharp slopes on either side, is the place I enjoy the most. Besides its natural beauty, it features abundant wildlife, including lots of birds.
In the spring, songbirds and raptors nest amid varied terrain, with steep hillside pastures on one side and thick woodlots on the other. Brushy fencerows and fallow fields entice Golden-winged Warblers and American Kestrels to live as neighbors.
Since I focus on birds, the steep northwesterly part of the valley offers ample opportunities to see my target species, the Golden-winged Warbler. Of course, timing is everything. Once a report confirms the presence of the Golden-winged Warblers, I head for the hills as soon as the opportunity allows me.
The highland forests of the area are one of the few confirmed locations where the sought-after birds nest. Wait too long, and the birds will be heading south again once their babies fledge.
I had only ever seen one Golden-winged Warbler before, and that was during the Biggest Week in Birding festival in northwest Ohio several years ago. The bird came so close to me that I couldn’t get a sharp photo of it with my telephoto lens.
I couldn’t find the bird on my first trip to Blue Grass. But I arrived too late in the day. On this trip, I was determined to arrive early for a better chance of seeing this gorgeous bird with golden wingbars and a yellow crown to match.
There are only three ways to get to Blue Grass Valley from Harrisonburg, Virginia, and none of them are straight or flat. I chose the middle route, which took me along the narrowest mountain roads but also offered the best birding opportunities.
Blue Grass is less than 60 miles from my home, but with multiple mountain passes and horseshoe curves to navigate, the drive takes me two hours with breaks to bird and rest.
My first stop was Shenandoah Mountain, the eastern front range of the Appalachian Mountains. It happens to be the boundary between Virginia and West Virginia in the George Washington National Forest.
Male and female Red Crossbills graveling on Shenandoah Mountain. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
A couple of birders were exiting their cars when I pulled in. We were there to see the Red Crossbills. That area is one of the few spots in the mountains where they live year-round.
A flock of the Red Crossbills chattered in the trees overhead before diving down to “gravel” in the deep red clay. The birds apparently desire the minerals in that particular spot. I captured several decent shots of the beautiful birds, and then I continued west down the mountain.
The Virginia/West Virginia lines meander like the fast-flowing streams that have carved out the valleys. So, it’s common in this westernmost part of Virginia to cross into and out of each state numerous times.
In fact, the farmhouse where I birded was in Virginia, while the barn, not 50 yards away, was in West Virginia. The farmlane served as the demarcation.
The view from the upper trail.
The house and barn from the lower trail.
Virginia on the left, and West Virginia on the right of the lane.
It was 9:30 by the time I reached the Virginia Ornithological Society farm where the Golden-winged Warblers often nest. Birds were singing away as I headed for the well-marked trails and bathed in the songs, the shade, and nature’s lushness.
I was in awe of the vibrant ferns beneath the leafed-out trees. A clear-winged moth landed in tall grass right in front of me. A single pink wild rose broke the green palette. Still, birds were my objective.
Rose-breasted Grosbeaks, Gray Catbirds, Red-eyed Vireos, and Eastern Towhees sang a concerto for an audience of one. It was music to my ears, nevertheless. Skippers, Tiger Swallowtails, and even an early Monarch butterfly flit and fluttered in the dappled light of the forest.
Scenes from my birding walk. Photos by Bruce Stambaugh
I saw a flash to my left. It was a Golden-winged Warbler. I raised my camera and snapped a horrible photo of the bird. But the golden wings and head were distinctive despite the fuzzy photo. My phone’s birding app confirmed the bird’s song.
As the sun rose higher, so did the temperatures, and the birdsong diminished. I set my sights on capturing landscape photos of this beloved valley, with its intersecting hollows that make the valley appear wider than it really is.
As I drove toward the town with its ramshackle buildings and a few red-brick and white-clapboard houses, I stopped several times to capture the essence of the rural valley. Knowing these Appalachian folks’ desire for privacy, I tried to be as discreet as possible while capturing the paradise they live in. The few ranging cattle I saw didn’t seem to mind, however.
I marveled at how steep these pastures were, rivaling those I had seen in the Lauterbrunnen Valley in Switzerland. Of course, they weren’t quite as high, averaging 3,000 ft. above sea level.
Wispy cirrus clouds hung high in the cerulean sky. Below, many shades of green ran high and low, broken only by brown fences and farmstead buildings.
An iconic shot of the valley.
Fenced in.
A long lane.
Outbuildings.
Giant oaks.
Up a hollow.
A typical farmstead.
The country estate after Hardscrabble Rd.
As a photographer, I loathed the random stringing of power lines that zigzagged down the valley. Of course, the locals needed their electricity, and the power company always took the path of least resistance.
I marveled at the long dirt lanes that ran far up the hollows and disappeared beneath forested mountaintops. Irregular stands of ancient oak trees guarded weathered hay barns.
Before entering the little burg, I stopped to take a photo of a street sign that revealed the aptly named road, “Hardscrabble.” The nearest farmhouse and bank barn, however, proved to be the contrary.
At the town’s three-way stop sign, I turned left and drove alongside the southern branch of the Potomac River. Its headwaters originate two miles to the south.
When I returned to Shenandoah Mountain, I stopped for a break from the winding switchbacks of US 250. It was a historic Civil War monument commemorating the Confederate defensive breastworks used against advancing Union soldiers.
From that vantage point, I could view the mountains from which I had come, and I was only halfway home. Despite the exhausting drive, I’ll return next spring.
Looking west from Shenandoah Mountain on the way home. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Roadkill Crossing 
You must be logged in to post a comment.