birding – Page 5 – Roadkill Crossing

There’s Great Joy in Decluttering

The cowboy hat. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

My wife and I have been cleaning the house item by item for longer than I can remember. And we’ve been married for 53 years.

She has always been ahead of me in the disposing game. I’m finally beginning to understand the joy of discarding items I have clung to for far too long.

Gone is the brown felt stetson cowboy hat my daughter’s family gave me as a gift years ago when they lived in Texas. It was a striking hat, but I seldom wore it. So, why should I keep it?

To be considerate, I asked my daughter if she cared if I gave the hat away. She just smiled and said, “It’s your hat. You can do whatever you want with it.”

Of course, I knew that, but I wanted to be sensitive to her since she had purchased the thing. I could have donated it to a thrift store, but I didn’t.

Guess where the stetson ended up? Back in my daughter’s household. Her second son, 17, jumped at the chance to own it. He hopes to have a hatter stretch it so it fits him.

Knowing that the hat has a familial home has instilled as much pleasure in me as having received it in the first place. Isn’t that the point of decluttering your life, especially when you’re 76?

Our two-year-old grandson loves to dress up as a firefighter, among other wholesome job roles. I kept my old helmet from my volunteer firefighting days. The black fiberglass headgear, long lacking necessary safety standards, still has my uniform number, 828, emblazoned on it.

When I offered it to his parents for their son, they declined. I wasn’t either surprised or disappointed. The thing has too many places for tender little fingers to get pinched or cut.

So, the same grandson who confiscated the cowboy hat will also own my helmet. I don’t know what he will do with it, but when I hand it over, I’m sure he’ll ask questions about emergencies to which I responded. I have a storehouse of tales to tell him.

My old fire helmet. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Our teenage granddaughter didn’t hesitate when I offered her a t-shirt from a favorite burger place on the island where we wintered in Florida. Our daughter’s family joined us for a few days a couple of times, and the grandkids loved that restaurant, too. Many snowbird memories passed to her in that faded shirt.

When our son and daughter were young, I brought out my old model train set at Christmas and continued that through the toddler years of the grandchildren. Now, our son has it to entertain his son. I don’t have to be there to know and sense the joy of a child and his father connecting one track segment to another until the oval is complete. Just mentally picturing that scene is enough.

A teen I mentor enjoys birding but needed a bird guide. Over the years, I have collected many books on birds, so it was no sacrifice to give this enthusiastic youngster a field guide I cherished so that he could, too.

I have an old black-and-white photo of four of the 28 fourth-grade students from my first year of teaching. I will send it to the one Amish boy in the picture, knowing he would revere it more than me. He will remember and tell his grandchildren when his fourth-grade class created a radio station.

I discover new items daily that equally resurface loving and sad memories. If I don’t need the apparel, souvenirs, or keepsakes, I gladly pass them on to the younger generations for posterity. I’ve already had mine.

Learning to Pay Attention

The opportunity I had hoped for. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

This is the second in a series celebrating National Park Week.

On the afternoon of May 23, 2018, I decided to finish my day in Shenandoah National Park by hiking the Rock Spring Cabin trail. According to the park map, the trail wasn’t long, and I was curious to see the cabin.

So, off I went, binoculars around my neck and camera across my shoulder. I soon reached the point where the trail joined the Appalachian Trail (AT), and I hiked on. I could hear birds chirping and singing all around me, but the lushness of the forest prevented me from seeing or photographing most of the birds.

As the AT wound west and north around a hillside, the Rock Creek Cabin trail veered left and down a fairly steep slope. I passed the hiker’s shelter, saw the spring gurgling from beneath giant boulders, and hiked back up the incline to the cabin owned by a local hiking club.

My fascination satisfied, I returned to the skinny dirt incline toward the AT. Just before I arrived at the iconic trail, a pair of Common Ravens croaked and chattered noisily overhead. Their deep-throated gurgling echoed through the dense landscape as they bounced from tree branch to tree branch in my direction.

Thinking I was the intruder who initiated the ravens’ commotion, I started down the trail at a slow pace. I didn’t want to disturb the birds any more than I already had.

The strange thing was, though, that they didn’t really seem to pay me any heed. They swooped lower to another tree ahead of me but continued their conversation.

So, I swallowed my ego and began to pay better attention to what was bothering the birds. A short distance down the AT, I discovered their concern. A young but large black bear was foraging on the lush, green forest floor.

I readied my camera and saw my chance. The bear was approaching a small cluster of trees that separated us. So, I quickened my pace to try to photograph this beautiful creature as it emerged from behind the trees.

I stood quietly on the trail for the bear to appear. I didn’t have to wait long. I aimed and clicked the camera just as the bear spotted me. That one simple noise sent the bear racing headlong down the hill and quickly out of sight.

I got one shot and only one shot of the bear. I was as happy as the bear was scared. I had my first photo of a bear in the wild.

That day, I learned an important lesson: Pay attention and use your senses to see all that a national park offers.

The Quandary

A Carolina Chickadee. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I chuckled when this Carolina Chickadee landed on the rim of my window feeder and briefly struck this pose.

It looked like the little bird was trying to decide which black oil sunflower seed to choose. Of course, that’s a biased human observation. In reality, the bird likely was looking for a good seed amid the litter of spent seed shells left by other birds.

It soon found one and flew away to crack the shell open to get to the sunflower meat.

A Strange Stand-off

I was searching for migrating birds when I encountered this scene at a farm pond.

A male Mallard was escorting his partner as they foraged along the far end of the murky pond. A Black Angus steer suddenly trotted over to check out the feathered creatures encroaching on his territory. Fortunately, the duck and the steer stopped short and began a brief staredown.

Once the bull calculated that the duck was no threat to his ego or pasture, it waded into the pond for a drink. The Mallard didn’t seem too impressed.

Male Mallard vs. a bull Black Angus steer.

Evolution of a Sunset

A reflective sunset in the eastern sky in Rockingham Co., Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

No two sunsets are alike. That should be no startling revelation. Each sunset has its unique evolution, however. Some last just seconds with only a hint of orange, while others splash the western sky with a painter’s palette’s worth of colors.

Sometimes, a sunset defies both stereotypes and logic. That’s when a photographer’s fun begins.

Our home in Virginia’s verdant Shenandoah Valley faces north. Consequently, I need to check the western sky well before dusk for the ingredients for a decent sunset. If I spot puffy clouds hovering over the Allegheny Mountains, I get ready to head west.

I often gather my camera gear and drive a few miles southwest to a ridge overlooking a fertile valley dotted with Old Order Mennonite farms. Only the Dry River splits the gently rolling farm fields. Its tree-lined banks make its southward path easy to spot.

A favorite photo location for a mountain view is the aptly named Pleasant View Old Order Mennonite Church. Look west from its grounds, and the aged, rolling ridgeline of the Allegheny Mountains endlessly fills the horizon. Look east, and Massanutten Mountain dominates the landscape, with the Blue Ridge Mountains 40 miles beyond.

Please click the photos from the church to enlarge them.

There are no guarantees with sunsets, of course. Atmospheric conditions play good cop bad cop with the sunsets’ outcomes. I’ve been fooled and disappointed too many times to have high expectations. I set out with the joy of simply being able to witness whatever develops.

As a septuagenarian, I have learned to be patient with sunsets. I have headed home long after sunset’s time had expired, only to see a blooming garden of pastels fill the western horizon in the rearview mirror. So, even if the initial stages of the evening glow are less than spectacular, I persevere. Too often, I leave disappointed. Still, my time wasn’t wasted. I enjoyed the fresh air and American Robins and Eastern Bluebirds singing as they settled into their nighttime roosting positions.

Such was the case recently when I spied a patchwork of clouds hovering over the Alleghenies. When I arrived at the old church, the sun was nearly hidden behind those old, weathered peaks. Still, I snapped a few shots and then moved lower into the valley to hopefully catch a colorful reflection in a roadside farm pond or the Dry River, which had plenty of running water from recent rains.

The western glow perfectly silhouetted the lines of trees along the river banks. I stopped my vehicle by the cemetery of a historic country church. As I exited my car, my eyes were drawn southeast. I was stunned. The beautiful blues and pinks of a prized sunset flooded the eastern sky. I snapped away from different angles as quickly as possible, knowing the colorful array before me wouldn’t last long.

My first view of the reflective sunset in the east. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Had I not stopped for a photo looking west, I would have missed the glorious beauty as far as I could see north to south. As a photographer, it always pays to look over your shoulder before putting away your camera. Satisfied with the many eastern-facing shots, I turned to the tree line and got my intended but less colorful photos.

Then, I remembered Slab Road, a quarter of a mile away. Rural road names in Virginia are about as practical as they come. Instead of a bridge over the Dry River, the highway department poured a narrow two-lane cement surface over the riverbed since the river was indeed dry more often than wet.

I stopped short of the river and quickly exited to catch the last light of the day reflecting on the water dammed up by the slab. The scene was breathtaking but not nearly as dramatic as the sunset reflected against the eastern clouds over Shenandoah National Park.

The Dry River flows over Slab Road. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

A milk truck with a shiny, 3,000-gallon stainless steel tank forged through the running water over the slab. I followed, hoping to capture one more decent landscape shot. But my prime time was up, and I came away with a bland photo of a farmstead with powerlines running through the sky.

Nevertheless, the evolution of this sunset couldn’t have played out better. My heart overflowed with joy and gratitude for a beautiful ending to another precious day on earth.

The tree line that marks the Dry River. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Bird Migration Has Begun

A male Canvasback escorts two female Buffleheads on a local lake. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

With the calendar turning from February to March, bird migration has officially begun. True, several bird species had already started the arduous task of returning north from their southerly winter habits.

To account for that, birders divide the seasonal calendar in the Northern Hemisphere much differently than humans do. Bird spring runs in March, April, and May when most migrating birds return to the nesting homelands in the northern United States and Canada.

Surprisingly, summer is the shortest season for birds. It lasts just two months, June and July. It’s prime mating, nesting, egg laying, and hatching time. Once the young are self-sufficient, the first migrating birds begin their long trips south.

The fall season for birds runs from August through November. Different species have more than one brood and migrate on a different schedule based on habitat, food supplies, and other factors. For birds, December, January, and February comprise the winter months.

So, now that March has arrived, birders scout their favorite ponds, lakes, rivers, streams, wetlands, and fields for any early arrivals on their way north. Birders especially prize waterfowl and songbirds to spot and photograph.

Locations where migrating birds frequent are called hot spots. I checked a few on March 1. Though I didn’t find many bird species, I enjoyed seeing and photographing new migrants.

An American Pipit poked its head above the grass just to the left of the Northern Cardinal.

My first stop was one of my favorite locations for birds and sunsets, Silver Lake in Dayton, Virginia. It’s a 12-acre lake built in 1822 for a mill. The shallow lake is perfect for diving and dabbling ducks. I saw only a trio of female Buffleheads and one muskrat this time.

A few miles away is the Cooks Creek Arboretum, tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac. I spotted three birders with binoculars aimed at a hillside farm field. Birders tend to be pleasant people, so I didn’t hesitate to ask what they were seeing.

“About 150 American Pipits are flying and landing in the field,” one of them said. “Unfortunately, they seem to land over the crest of the hill.”

We walked together down the path to get a better look, but with a heavy cloud cover in the late afternoon, the birds were only visible during their short, rapid flights. However, I followed the birds to the flatter, more southern part of the field.

I captured a relatively poor photo of a few of the pipits flying. Patience, though, is a venture for birders. I saw a few birds foraging in the green vegetation of the field. I captured one of the small brown pipits as it began to fly. After wintering in the extreme southern U.S. and Mexico, the pipits were on their way to the far north Arctic tundra.

Please click the photos to enlarge them. Photos by Bruce Stambaugh

Happy seeing these fascinating visitors, I was pleased at my next stop just a few miles east. A local hot spot farm pond held dozens of Green-winged Teals and a handful of Northern Shovelers. Since the pond is on private property, I stood on a knoll across the road from the pond. With the distance of the pond, the chilly wind, and my inability to hold the camera steady, I felt fortunate to get some shots of these lovely birds.

I drove several miles to another farm pond much closer to the road. A lone Blue-winged Teal swam with a pair of Mallards while two Canada Geese watched from the shoreline.

On the way home, I detoured to a local arboretum and quickly found a nesting Great Horned Owl with two owlets in the fork of a sycamore tree. Friends had told me about it the day before.

Though spring doesn’t officially arrive until March 19, the birds are on the wing for spring migration. I intend to catch as much of the birding splendor as I can.

A Great-horned Owl with owlets. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Woodpeckers at My Birdfeeders

A male Red-bellied Woodpecker at the suet feeder. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

It’s been a slow winter for feeding birds. Both the number of birds and the kind of species coming to my birdfeeders are down.

I have my suspicions, but I’m not exactly sure why. It could be the two roaming black cats that wait stealthily for lunch. Or, it could be the loss of cover. My neighbor cut down two mature trees on our property line. Or, it could be the inconsistent weather of cold and warming here in the Shenandoah Valley. Or, more likely, there are simply fewer birds. In a recent report, Cornell University estimated three billion birds have been lost in North America since 1970.

However, I am happy with the variety of woodpeckers that have made a regular appearance at our feeders. They have especially frequented the peanut butter suet feeder in the front yard. The feeder hangs from the large red maple, only 30 feet from the street. Others prefer the black oil sunflower seeds, while some peck at the cracked corn I spread on the ground.

All the woodpeckers announce their arrival in one manner or another. The Red-bellies and the Flickers want the bird world to know that they are arriving, so their harsh, loud screeches warn other birds to get out of their way. I have not seen the two species at the feeders together.

The Downy Woodpeckers are the most discrete. Their soft squeak or rapid-fire drumming on a tree limb gets my attention. Other times they just show up.

Here are a few of my favorite shots of the various woodpeckers at my feeders.

A female Red-bellied Woodpecker searches for black oil sunflower seeds on the ground. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

A female Downy Woodpecker snatches a sunflower seed. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

The morning sunshine highlighted a male Northern Flicker at the suet feeder. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

A male Downy Woodpecker at the suet feeder. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Ducks on a Pond

I went birding the other day to a couple of small lakes. I was hoping to find a flotilla of waterfowl. But it was not to be. At Silver Lake, I did see a lone male Canvasback swimming with two female Buffleheads.

A male Canvasback and two female Buffleheads. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

The offerings at the larger Lake Shenandoah, southeast of Harrisonburg, Virginia, were even less. I scanned the lake with my binoculars and saw nary a bird. I walked the mile-and-a-half path around the lake, hoping to find a few ducks tucked among the cattails out of the wind.

As I reached the midway point, I spotted a diving duck. The little brownish duck didn’t stay long on the surface. After several tries, I finally got a photo of a female Ruddy Duck.

Even though there were few ducks on the ponds, I considered it a successful day of birding.

Of course, baseball buffs know the expression “ducks on the pond” as a euphemism for runners in scoring positions. I like it when my multiple interests overlap.

The Sentinel

A Blue Jay scout atop a neighbor’s maple tree. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

We’ve had several chilly, gray-sky mornings lately in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. Consequently, our backyard birdfeeders have been active. The usual suspects frequent the hanging and tray feeders to crack open the tiny black-oil sunflower seeds.

A small flock of American Goldfinches are the most faithful. A small flock of European Starlings are the least wanted. The latter devour nearly any bird food I provide.

Occcasional visitors are Northern Cardinals, Dark-eyed Juncos, a resident Song Sparrow, a pair of Carolina Wrens, and a few White-crowned and White-throated Sparrows. I’m glued to the windows when they all arrive, often simultaneously.

But the bird that usually announces its arrival is the Blue Jay. Of course, they seldom come alone. A group of four to eight brighten my feeders irregularly. They hog down the sunflower seeds, peck at the cracked corn, and sometimes the peanut butter suet.

When I’m out filling the feeders and heated birdbaths, I hear them mimicking other birds in the neighborhood. My favorite imitation is of the Red-shouldered Hawk, which makes occasional low flights over the house in search of a songbird meal.

The intelligent Blue Jays keep a sharp eye out for the Red-shouldered Hawk. They want to keep their feathers intact. Sometimes, I hear the Red-shoulder’s loud, repetitive screeching, meant to scare out hiding songbirds. The call is too close for me not to see the hawk. More often than not, it’s a Blue Jay in an evergreen pretending to be a hawk.

The Blue Jays apparently have observed this mode of attack and use it to their benefit, not to attack other birds, but to frighten them away from the feeders so they have free dibs at the goodies as they dive in like blue and white jet fighters.

Smart as they are, the Blue Jays may keep a sentinel perched high in a neighbor’s tree, listening and watching for any potential predator like a cat, hawk, or human. They take no chances.

I was fortunate to spy a Blue Jay lookout the other morning. It perched quietly for several minutes, turning its head every which way to ensure the coast was clear for breakfast. I turned away and then back again, but the tree was bare.

Mallards at Sunset

A trio of mallard ducks floating on Silver Lake, Dayton, Virginia.

I hope you had an enjoyable Thanksgiving. My wife and I had our Thanksgiving celebration spread over several days, from Sunday to Saturday.

We hosted our daughter and her family for a Sunday evening Thanksgiving meal. We enjoyed their company as much as the delicious food.

On Thanksgiving Day, we traveled southeast two hours to Lynchburg, Virginia, to meet up with my wife’s cousin and her husband, who live in North Carolina. Lynchburg was our halfway meeting place.

We rented an Airbnb and enjoyed hiking, sightseeing, playing cards and dominoes. Of course, the four of us downed a wonderful Thanksgiving meal. It was good to be together again as we always cherish their company.

My wife and I arrived home in the Shenandoah Valley just before dark Saturday evening. With wispy clouds in the southwest sky, a colorful sunset looked favorable. I headed to my favorite local spot for sunset reflections, Silver Lake in Dayton, Virginia.

I waited and waited, and finally, a bright orange area radiated over the Allegheny Mountains. As I snapped shot after shot, three mallard ducks landed on the lake.

The ducks swam towards the glowing reflection. I kept praying them onward before the color faded. Sure enough, they glided into the “warm” water, and I clicked away.

The photo above is highly cropped. The water reflects the sky’s beauty without the power lines, poles, and cell towers. It was a satisfying ending to our week of giving thanks.