architectural photography – Roadkill Crossing

Harvest Moonrise and Moonset: A Celestial Interplay of Light

The Harvest Moon rose over Massanutten Mt. on October 25, 2026. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Virginia weather finally cooperated this month, giving me opportunities to photograph the rising and setting of October’s Full Harvest Moon. In previous months, the weather had been cloudy and wet during the full moon cycle.

So, I checked the times for both events and planned accordingly. I chose Harrisonburg’s city Heritage Trail beside Bluestone Elementary School, a five-minute drive from our home, to shoot the full moon rising over Massanutten Mountain. The mountain’s southernmost terminus is a few miles east of the city, and it runs about 50 miles north and south through the center of the historic Shenandoah Valley.

The valley’s floor undulates between the Blue Ridge Mountains, home to Shenandoah National Park, to the east, and the Allegheny Mountains to the west. An elevated point just southeast of the school overlooks the trail, the city golf course, and a city park. It provides an excellent view of Massanutten.

Before leaving home, I checked a chart to estimate when the moon would rise above the mountain. The official time listed 5:50 p.m., but that assumes a flat horizon. That’s not the case in the Shenandoah Valley.

Since the moon would appear just before sunset, the sky would be pale, making it a bit difficult to spot the rising moon. Fortunately, a high-pressure system had settled over the valley, clearing the air of hazy humidity.

At exactly 6 p.m., the moon just peeked over Massanutten’s ridge northeast of Harrisonburg. I snapped away as the celestial beauty rose higher above the mountain and the sky grew darker.

Hikers and dog walkers passed by, and I gladly shared the Harvest Moon with them. Those not walking with their heads glued to their smartphones already shared a moment of mutual admiration with me.

The typical Full Harvest Moon shot. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Before bedtime, I snuck out and captured the typical photo of the bright full moon against its home in the velvety black sky. Filled with awe, I planned my morning sunrise adventure to document the full cycle of the setting Harvest Moon.

I had no trouble finding the moon that morning. I snapped a photo of it hanging just above my neighbor’s trees. I headed to Mole Hill, my mainstay for sunset photography, though I wasn’t sure it was the best location since the moon would settle in the north-northwest.

The full Harvest Moon over Mole Hill. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Another frost glistened in the intertwined light of the silvery moon and the slanting, blinding rays of the rising sun. Fortunately, Mole Hill, an ancient volcanic core, helped block the harshness.

Still, the moon view wasn’t quite what I wanted. I drove west a mile to Majestic View Road, and what a panorama it was. Scanning south to north, farm after farm joined together like a carefully assembled quilt.

Fog lifted out of the agricultural Dry River Valley. Water still flowed down from mountain rains, and the cool air condensed the river’s surface into a feathery cloud of mist that lifted ever so slowly over the blanket of farmsteads. The metal tops of their tall grain silos reflected the sunlight.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

Fog wasn’t the only element shimmering over the valley. The cold morning forced homemakers, farmers, and cottage industry employees to fire up dozens of wood stoves. Smokey pillars rose straight up until they hit a layer of colder, heavier air, then turned sharply south.

The hair on my arms rose, not from cold, but from exhilaration. I couldn’t have imagined such spontaneous, coordinated choreography between humankind and almighty nature.

I returned my attention to the setting moon as it neared the summit of Shenandoah Mountain, the eastern front range of the Alleghenies. The moon angled toward a pair of tall evergreens on the ridge of the old folded mountain, easily seen even with the naked eye.

I clicked and clicked until the moon finally slithered below the mountaintop. I picked out a landscape shot with the moon over the mountain and texted it to my family. Joy is meant to be shared, not hoarded.

I headed east the way I had come, but soon stopped on the southeastern side of Mole Hill. The scene south resembled a monochrome factory town from a hundred years ago. One after another, chalky columns rose until colliding with the colder air and sharp sunrays. I stood transfixed.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

An American Robin flew onto a branch of the black walnut tree just above me, shaking my spell. Again, I drove downhill, but didn’t get far. More unbelievable scenery unfolded before me. I only had minutes to capture what the farmer whose lane I had parked in must see every sunny day.

As I shot different angles, I stood amazed, grateful, inspired, and fulfilled. If the farmer had observed me, I’m sure he had his own form of fun as well.

The view from the farmer’s lane. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Morning Mist at the Lake

The shots I love most aren’t the ones I expect to take. They are the spontaneous ones that appear suddenly, unexpectedly, and often only for a moment.

This scene appeared as I walked back to my vehicle in the rain after photographing the American White Pelican, the shot I wanted. After crossing a short footbridge at the west end of the lake, I stood in disbelief.

There it was, the opportunity I didn’t expect. A red barn across the lake, an orange sugar maple to its right, mist muting their color’s intensity. A carpet of weathered water lily leaves spread out across the shallows of the lake in front of a stand of burnished cattails.

On top of all that, a tree’s branch framed the surreal setting. Click.

Rising From the Rubble

I was out and about looking for photo opportunities of trees changing color in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley when I came upon this scene.

The morning sun highlighted both the orange leaves of the sugar maple and a huge pile of rubble from duplex apartments being demolished because of faulty foundations.

The contrast between nature’s beauty and human destruction, even though it was needed, perfectly defined juxtaposition.

Beauty above the rubble. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Snippets of Baltimore

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.

Lunch with Diana. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

August Wasn’t August This Year

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

Welcome to August!

It’s hard to believe, but today is the first day of August.

August is notorious for hot, hazy, humid days, better known as the Dog Days of Summer. But as this photo from August 2024 shows, when a cold front pushed through, it used the energy from the heat and humidity, along with the dew point, to create some pop-up thunderstorms.

The cooling after the storms is a welcome relief, but given August’s reputation, the pleasant weather seldom lasts.

Of course, August offers more than uncertain weather. County and state fairs are held. Back-to-school sales entice parents and their offspring to purchase new clothing for their students, who will soon begin a new school year.

Farmers are literally making hay and hoping for rain to quench their grain crops. Golden, hazy sunsets will close out productive August days.

And for the record, August officially begins the fall bird migration, with some birds already molting into their non-breeding plumage.

So, welcome to August, and embrace all that she has to offer.

An August thunderstorm formed over Shenandoah National Park. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Arriving on the Maine Coast

Our first look at the ocean from the cottage where we stayed in Maine. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Without realizing it, my wife and I drove through rural Maine toward our destination on the road we needed to take to our friend’s cottage. We had the road’s name but not the state route number.

We needed to stop at a grocery store to pick up butter and eggs. Since the country highway went through no towns, there were no stores to be found.

I was shocked when we came to US 1, the highway that runs southwest to northeast, essentially paralleling the Maine coast. We headed into Bath to buy the needed foodstuffs. It’s a 30-minute drive from the cottage to the closest grocery store in Bath. So, our stop was required.

Heightened anticipation propelled the drive south to the island. The ubiquitous birches, maples, and evergreens line the gently winding road to the cottage, only interrupted by bridges across inlets and streams, and marshes and ponds where Great Egrets and Snowy Egrets probed among the reeds and rushes.

When we turned onto the narrow road to the cottage, fiddlehead ferns, balsams, and birches welcomed us. So did our host when we finally arrived.

The refreshing ocean breezes, the roar of the waves, the scent of the pines, and the familiar birdsongs offered a welcoming chorus, too. Never had settling in been so easy.

An hour later, we stood on the dock at Five Islands, Maine, for the annual blessing of the boats. The name comes from the five islands in the harbor. A local pastor said a patriotic prayer for safety and a successful lobster season, and the lobstermen and their friends and families gathered on their boats. Other moored boats provided picturesque opportunities.

As soon as a memorial wreath had been tossed into the water in remembrance of those hardy fishermen who had passed on, we found a picnic table that sheltered us from the stiff wind and enjoyed our sack lunches.

Most lobstermen powered up their boats and headed out to ply their well-hewn skills. Others, on bigger boats, stayed to party the afternoon away.

Teenagers separated the luscious lobster meat from its hard gray shell. They provided the crucial step between the marine crustacean and the delicious $30 lobster rolls. I hoped they were paid well.

Soon, a box truck backed onto the dock, and a 450-pound Bluefin Tuna was hauled up, prepared for market, and trucked off. It was fascinating to watch the efficiency and cooperation of people who knew what they were doing and were doing it well.

As we walked back to the car, I couldn’t help but notice the orange lichens painting the rock retaining walls by the steep embankments. The wood-shingled cottages sat askew overlooking the harbor.

By the time we returned to the cottage, the low tide had revealed the sandy beach hidden by the ocean at high tide. The sand expanded wider and wider as it approached the receding Atlantic.

It drew me down like a moth to a porch light. I was mesmerized by the giant granite boulders that line the embankment in front of the cottage. I stepped lightly, making sure this septuagenarian didn’t allow his curiosity to override his common sense.

I explored the broadness of the sand and photographed other cottages hanging high above the temporary beach. Three hours later, the sea once again filled the bay, and the sound of the waves crashing and the cool onshore breeze ensured a night of restful, undisturbed sleep.

The high tide rolled in. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

On to Maine With a Stop in Norway

A cornfield with a view in rural Maine. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Somehow, we left New Hampshire for next-door Maine and ended up in Norway.

We left North Conway, New Hampshire, and the GPS took us on an unexpected route. We drove all country roads on the way to Maine’s capital, Augusta. We passed through one small town after another. Winding roads lined by deciduous and evergreen trees and occasional farm fields connected all the towns to one another.

We drove through Fryeburg, Lovell, Sweden, and Waterford. But we had to stop in Norway. Unlike the other burgs, welcoming storefronts lined Norway’s Main Street. It was lunchtime, so we decided to stop.

The quirky creativity of Norway, Maine.

When we exited our vehicle, music drew us eastward along Main Street. We looked for a restaurant as we went. We found the source of the music in no time. A lone musician played at the town’s weekly farmer’s market across the street.

We checked it out and kept walking. The entrance to the local food coop stopped me in my tracks. Its eclectic entrance earned a photo. A few paces later, I stopped again to take a photo of the Weary Club of Norway Maine.

I had no idea what that was, and they weren’t meeting, so I looked it up. The “wearies” formed their social club 100 years ago. They were “the Shakers and Dealers in cedar shavings, social gossip, political wisdom, and Yankee philosophy.”

The Kennebec Cabin Company. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Not finding a place to eat, we kept moving over the rolling, tree-studded landscape and stopped in Manchester, Maine, at the Maine Cabin Masters gift shop and restaurant. Its official name is the Kennebec Cabin Company.

We ate outdoors in the shade to avoid the extreme heat. The house is the gift shop with the typical tourist offerings and prices.

After lunch, we checked out the striking state capital building and drove to an adjacent town set on the bank of the Kennebec River for some ice cream. It was a refreshing way to end an intriguing day.

The Maine State Capitol Building. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Along New Hampshire Route 16

The Ellis River at Jackson, New Hampshire. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

There’s a lot to like about driving on Pinkham Notch Road, which is New Hampshire Route 16. We wanted to revisit some of the places we had seen seven years ago, when we initially visited the area.

After leaving the Mt. Washington area, we took the long way around to our hotel in Gorham, New Hampshire. We headed southeast to Pinkham Notch Road.

Our first stop was Jackson, a sleepy resort town on the Ellis River. The historic Honeymoon Covered Bridge, built in 1876, spans the river and is the village’s icon. Jackson also houses cute cottages, tourist businesses, and country inns.

The road basically follows the flow of the Ellis River, whose headwaters begin on Mt. Washington. The Glen Ellis Falls crash down 64 feet in a rock-filled narrow gorge a few miles north of Jackson.

To access the falls, you have to cross through a pedestrian tunnel under Route 16 and wind your way along the river, down rocky steps, and on a trail that’s occasionally muddy in spots. The trek is well worth it, however. Amid a forest of birch trees and evergreens, the rushing waters crash against giant, jagged boulders before falling and continuing down the mountainside.

Just up the road is the AMC Pinkham Notch visitor center. It’s the place for serious hikers to check in, rest, and shower. The Appalachian Trail that descends from Mt. Washington slides behind the center and crosses the road at Pinkham Notch.

The Pinkham Notch visitor center. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

A little farther up the highway is the entrance to the Wildcat Mountain ski area. If you’re up for it, the auto road to Mt. Washington is right across the road.

If you enjoy the outdoors in any season, the Pinkham Notch area in New Hampshire offers activities for everyone.

Glen Ellis Falls, Gorham, New Hampshire. Video by Bruce Stambaugh

Vermont Scenes

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.