Finally, a vanity license plate I could understand.
So many times, I spot vanity plates that stretch my imagination and creativity to their limits. Try as I might, I can’t logically assemble the mix of letters and numbers to mean anything obvious.
For this car, seen in a parking lot in Shenandoah National Park, the meaning was clear as…well, green. And what a sparkling clean verdant color it was.
Here’s the full view of this “GRRREEN” car. My only question is: Was its owner promoting this flashy automobile’s screaming color, supporting ecology, or was it just naivete?
The fog rolled in at Big Meadows in Shenandoah National Park. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Our Ohio friends wanted to visit Shenandoah National Park. The weather was less than cooperative. We ventured out anyway.
On our way to the park, a deck of low clouds obscured our view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, where Shenandoah National Park is located. We pressed on. The dismal weather couldn’t deter our friends from wanting to experience this national gem for the first time.
Once in the park, clouds rolled across the mountain landscape, obscuring most of the views of Shenandoah Valley from the several overlooks along Skyline Drive. Occasional rain dotted the windshield as we climbed higher.
Since our friends enjoy camping, I pulled into the historic Lewis Mountain Campgrounds. During segregation, this was the only area that allowed Blacks to be in the park. Today, it has maintained its rustic look with a camp store, several woodsided cabins, and campsites for tents and campers alike.
Mountain Mint at Milum Gap along Skyline Drive. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
We stopped at Milum Gap, where the Millprong Trail connects with the Appalachian Trail a stone’s throw from the Skyline Drive. Honeybees and bumblebees buzzed at the late-blooming mountain mint blossoms.
We soon arrived at Big Meadows, and just as we exited the vehicle, clouds skirted across the landscape like a chilling phantom. We walked around anyhow.
However, the rain drove us back to the SUV, and we explored the expansive Big Meadows campground with many campsites, shower facilities, and a camp store. Our friends were impressed.
A fern circle in Big Meadows. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
As we returned to the sweeping, prairie-like bowl of Big Meadows, the rain turned to a light mist. So, we chose a path and began to explore. Every time I see Big Meadows, I am always impressed with its expansiveness and the array of colors, even without bright sunshine.
In fact, the low, silvery cloud cover seemed to enhance the plants and flowers we encountered. The simple beauty beckoned us in, and we obliged.
We had only taken a few steps on an established path when we spotted several Spotted Lanternflies clinging to the season’s second-growth Common Milkweed plants and other plant stems. Quick as they are, we still killed a couple of dozen of the invasive species that destroy woody plants and trees.
One of the Spotted Lanternflies we killed.A Spotted Lanternfly on Common Milkweed.
Still, we marveled at the russets, browns, and various greens of September. We admired many blooms and snapped photos to identify them later.
On another path across the way, we noticed another couple. The man was bent over, photographing something low to the ground. His partner stood behind, scanning the area with binoculars.
At first, I thought she was looking at birds. But the unseasonably cool, damp weather even kept the birds sheltered and quiet.
Curious, we approached the couple, who were more than happy to share their finds with us. The man pointed out the ginseng blossoms we saw him photographing.
Using her binoculars, the woman excitedly exclaimed that she had spotted one of 60 of Virginia’s native orchids. We walked several yards together before we arrived at the lone, spiky bloom of the Ladies Tresses.
Soon, a Meadow Variegated butterfly landed nearby. I had never seen one before. It posed nicely for a photo.
Then the amateur botanists sighted what they called a “butter-and-eggs” flower. This time we walked even farther and came upon a small area where the yellow and orange flowers flourished. Its official name is Yellow Toadflax, but it’s also called wild snapdragon. I learned later that it is a highly invasive plant.
I found some rosehips along the path back to our vehicle. It looked like Christmas, with their rosy red berries contrasting with the plant’s shiny green leaves. Spiky Burnet flowers grew nearby.
Stands of Goldenrod dominated open areas beyond Big Meadows, and especially along the road. Yet, we saw few in the high-elevation grassland of Big Meadows.
After basking in Big Meadows’ offerings, we headed north on Skyline Drive, hoping to find openings in the clouds at overlooks. We found a few and enjoyed the views before the clouds rolled back in. We took a short hike at Franklin Cliffs, and I found a Pearl Crescent butterfly resting on a blueberry bush.
Sadly, we also found the park trails sorely lacking maintenance, mostly because of the major staff and funding cuts implemented last year. Weeds and tree limbs, normally trimmed before the federal funding cuts, overhung the trails.
Despite the wet weather and chilly temperatures, our friends enjoyed their introduction to Shenandoah National Park. They assured us that they would be back.
We look forward to seeing them again, especially in that natural setting.
Our friends in Big Meadows. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The autumnal equinox arrives at 8:05 p.m. EDT. This means the sun will set due west this evening. In the U.S., tomorrow begins the first full day of fall.
Many people believe that the equinox brings an even amount of daylight and darkness, but that is a myth. This year, that occurs on Saturday, September 26, and is called equilux. The word is drawn from Latin equi (equal) and lux (light).
As hot as it was early on, summer has flown by. Welcome autumn.
The sun sets due west on the autumnal equinox. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Our friend, Diana, and Neva at the Baltimore Railroad Museum. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Thanks to our host, my wife and I crammed a lot in on an overnight trip to Baltimore, Maryland. We went there to watch the Cleveland Guardians play the Baltimore Orioles. Diana, our host, had other ideas.
If the traffic behaves, it’s a three-hour trip to Baltimore from our home in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. We arrived right on schedule.
After a lovely summer lunch, we headed out into near 90-degree heat to visit a couple of venues Diana thought we would like. She was spot on.
First up was the perfectly named Second Chance warehouse, where used goods of all kinds are for sale to individuals and contractors alike. The place was massive. Customers can buy good used items, from furniture to radiators to old-growth lumber to vintage signs.
We wandered from aisle to aisle browsing the thousands of items available. Of course, the former steel manufacturing plant wasn’t air-conditioned, so we headed for the second spot when we got too hot.
The National Museum of Railroad History and Innovation was just around the block. We visited the air-conditioned history section to cool off and learn about railroad history. The museum recently changed its name from the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Museum to better represent the full scale of railroading.
We found the roundhouse to be the most interesting part. While Diana and Neva sat in rocking chairs in front of a fan, I wandered from old steam engines to diesel engines and passenger cars. I learned a lot.
Once a month, an engine is brought into the roundhouse pulling a coach to demonstrate how the roundhouse works. A 60-foot turntable rotates with 19th-century engineering.
The weight on the turntable rests on a highly efficient pivot center filled with massive ball bearings. Staff and sometimes visitors push long wooden levers to rotate the engine or car, perfectly balanced on the turntable.
After I made my rounds exploring the old engines and passenger cars, we headed back to Diana’s to rest and have another delicious meal. We left for the baseball game an hour before game time. With the heat, we decided not to walk and hitched a ride with Diana’s daughter.
We walked past the statue of my all-time favorite third baseman, Brooks Robinson, who played his entire career for the Orioles. Brooks was a human vacuum sweeper at the hot corner, and he certainly deserved to be voted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.
We found our seats near the Guardians’ dugout on the third-base side of the diamond. We had excellent views of the Cleveland players as they stretched and warmed up before the first pitch.
The game started out right for my Guardians. Rookie Chase DeLauter hit a two-run homer to give Cleveland the early lead. It didn’t last long. The Orioles had their way with Cleveland pitchers, and we left before the game ended.
The evening had cooled as we waited on our ride back to Diana’s. After our long day, we all slept well.
Despite the Guardians’ loss, I was glad we had come to Baltimore, a city with a lot to offer. We had a wonderful host who showed us only a snippet of this East Coast city.
My wife poured more cooked apples into the strainer. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
As summer ends every year, it’s applesauce season at our house.
My energetic and talented wife orders the apples from a local orchard weeks in advance. She anxiously awaits the phone call advising that they are ready.
When that call comes, the well-organized plan unfolds to perfection as it has for years. A bushel of Ginger Gold apples is retrieved, and the former kindergarten teacher gets to work.
Everything is ready for the applesauce assault. For one warm morning near summer’s end, our galley kitchen resembles an assembly line.
Of course, I’m a partner in the endeavor, but Neva is in charge. She checks the apples’ ripeness once she returns home, and usually within a day or two, they are ready to be worked up.
The sliced Ginger Golds. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The entire process is an extravaganza. The plastic containers are washed and ready to accept their sweet-tart contents. The mixing bowls stand clean and shiny, ready to share in their next-to-last role in the annual making of the tangy applesauce.
First, though, the apples are washed, sliced, and placed in bowls until they are mounded high. Kettles sit on stovetop burners, their contents steaming away at a low boil.
The apple slices are added in and cooked until their flesh is soft but not mushy. That’s where I enter the picture.
The apples are transferred to a smaller container and carefully carried to the screened-in back porch. Because we start the process early in the morning, the porch is cooler than it is later in the day. Plus, cranking steaming hot cooked apples can be a messy project, especially with a male septuagenarian as the manual laborer.
Cooking the apples. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The hand-cranked Victorio strainer is already affixed to the old painted drop-leaf table. The peeler’s top container is filled with the cooked apple slices, and I crank away. It’s important to turn the crank at just the right speed to avoid any splatter or mishap.
The apples are pushed into an opening at the top of the cylinder where blades separate the skin from the apple’s flesh as the handle is cranked. The skins follow a conical tunnel into another bowl while the finally cut apple flesh slides and oozes through a sieve into a different container.
That’s the good stuff, the critical ingredient to make applesauce. Once the container is full, the contents are emptied into one of the larger bowls, and granulated sugar is sprinkled in to cut the tartness.
An old-fashioned wooden spoon stirs the sugar into the applesauce, and occasional taste tests ensure it’s just right. The entire process is repeated until the last slice of apple disappears.
The end of the line. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Including the preparation and cleanup, the entire production takes up most of the morning. But it’s oh so worth it.
The quarts and pints hold a sweet-tart treat that, if rationed diligently, will last through the winter. Applesauce complements any meal.
When the grandkids ask for more, Nana knows all the sweaty effort was worth it.
The backside of a severe thunderstorm. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
After last evening’s storm passed, I stepped out the back door to check my rain gauge when this amazing scene stopped me in my tracks.
We had yet another storm, but it clearly had intensified as it approached the Blue Ridge Mountains and Shenandoah National Park, which serve as the eastern boundary of Rockingham County, Virginia, where we live.
The view of the mammatus clouds from my driveway. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The setting sun dramatically illuminated the eastward-moving thunderstorm. The pouch-like clouds are mammatus clouds, formed when colder air aloft sinks into warmer air below.
Mammatus clouds almost always occur either at the lead of a severe thunderstorm or at the rear of the anvil-shaped thunderstorm crown. For meteorologists and those who appreciate and study clouds, spotting mammatus clouds is a rarity.
Since such clouds don’t last long, I wanted a view with a better line of sight. So, I headed to nearby Heritage Oaks Golf Course, behind an elementary school, which gave me an unobstructed view of the fast-moving storm.
As you can see, the turbulent clouds had already changed in the five minutes it took me to arrive at the golf course. Plus, the sun had set behind the Allegheny Mountains 30 miles to the west, changing the intensity and direction of its rays. Consequently, the colors of the clouds mellowed to more orange than white and yellow.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
Still, I was ecstatic to capture these shots, so much so that I never did check the rain gauge.
An ally for all things wild, wonderful, and of nature died yesterday at his home in Port Royal, Kentucky. Wendell Berry was 92.
I didn’t know him personally, but a writer friend of mine did. Wendell even occasionally stayed in a cabin on my Amish friend’s farm in Holmes County, Ohio.
In honor of this great writer and activist for justice, I am posting his most noted poem, “The Peace of Wild Things.”
Rest in true peace, Wendell.
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
A puffy white cloud August day. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
When I rose for my morning walk around the neighborhood, it was 47 degrees outside. On August 25!
As I walked in the early morning coolness, I thought more about how this August had been so different in the eastern U.S. The eighth month of 2026 here in Virginia’s lovely Shenandoah Valley has been anything but normal weatherwise.
August behaved normally the first nine years of living here after moving from Ohio’s Amish country. Year after year, August’s sun beat down, and the humidity overwhelmed you.
Usually, large cracks in the hardened, red soil zigzagged like spider webs. The parched grass crunched beneath your feet, devoid of any moisture for days, even weeks on end. Not this year.
Our burned-out backyard in 2020. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Apparently, August masqueraded as April. A few spring flowers bloomed again. With storm after storm, some locales measured inches of rain. A few areas even experienced tornadoes, a rarity in Virginia, with property damage and power outages. Fortunately, no injuries or deaths were reported.
Even then, the area remains abnormally dry, according to the U.S. Drought Monitor. That’s how dry the early weeks of summer were.
Though we didn’t realize it at the time, summer’s dog days fell in June and July. Haze filled the bucolic valley, significantly obscuring the view of the mountains to the east and west.
Strong winds in a severe thunderstorm damaged our Red Maple tree. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
With August’s arrival, puffy white clouds sailed through deep blue August days. When school began again, students donned jackets while waiting for the school bus. They still wore shorts, however.
Instead of parched yards, lawns grew and grew, sometimes requiring mowing twice a week. It was a cash cow for high schoolers mowing lawns.
Unfortunately, the states to the south and west, clear to the Pacific Ocean, blazed and baked under record-high temperatures, extreme heat warnings, and massive wildfires. High winds spread small fires into thousand-acre conflagrations in minutes.
It wasn’t just the U.S. either. Europe and Canada shared in the record heat, dryness, and wildfires. Homes were destroyed, and firefighters were hard-pressed to contain the raging wildfires. The fires spread so rapidly around Las Vegas, Nevada, that residents escaped with only the clothes they wore. Passengers on European river cruises were inconvenienced by having to deboard for buses because the water was so low.
August’s weather has been a double-edged sword. Upper-level winds carried wildfire debris far from the fires’ origins, resulting in air quality issues for millions of folks. That also created glowing, golden sunrises and sunsets as a trade-off for the undesirable smoky smells.
A hazy sunset over the Allegheny Mountains. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
At the same time, people appreciated the coolness, especially in the morning. Those on their daybreak exercise in my neighborhood have been wearing jackets and sweatshirts instead of T-shirts.
Of course, the regularities of August are still with us no matter the weather. Crickets and katydids lull us to sleep. Monarch, Tiger Swallowtail, Spangled and Variegated Fritillaries, and Pipevine butterflies flit from flower to flower, occasionally stopping for a photo op.
The avian fall migration has begun in earnest. I’ve successfully chased Swallow-tailed Kites and Mississippi Kites, both species far north of their normal range. Warblers and other songbirds have joined them in their quest for appropriate food absent in northern climes in the colder fallow seasons.
Conversely, folks in the southwestern U.S. have been baked in consecutive 100-degree-plus days, weeks in some places. Those are abnormal temperatures for August, even for those areas.
Clearly, geographic location has played a major role in the weather one has experienced this August. That’s the way weather rolls.
Despite the storm-damaged maple tree in my front yard, I’m very thankful we were in the cooler zone of August’s many vagaries.
The bucolic Shenandoah Valley. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I went out in search of some rare birds for the Shenandoah Valley: Mississippi Kites. Unfortunately, a storm front quickly moved across the Appalachian Mountains and into the valley.
Fortunately, as the storm clouds built, they were north of me a few miles. Unfortunately, that’s where the birds had been sighted. The sun beat upon my back as I trudged through the farm field for a better view of the small valley below me.
With the Kites nowhere in sight, I turned my attention to the cumulonimbus clouds moving rapidly northeast. The late afternoon sun brightly illuminated them. Shortly after taking this photo, the National Weather Service issued a Severe Thunderstorm Warning for those in the path of the storm.
That’s the way of bird watching. You go in search of one thing, and end up photographing something entirely different, but equally inspiring.
When the Swamp Milkweed plants bloom, I regularly check the blossoms for Monarch Butterflies. On this day, I found Green June Beetles instead.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Green June Beetles emerge to mate in late July and August. This one was feasting on the nectar of the lovely mauve flowers of the Swamp Milkweed.
The chunky one-inch-long beetles of the southeastern U.S. are commonly seen flying low to the ground in yards in mid to late summer.
My only question is: if they hatch in late July, why are they called Green June Beetles?
A Green June Beetle on Swamp Milkweed blossoms. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
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