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.
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.
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.
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.
One of two American Flamingos near Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh.
This is how birding works. Just before my wife and I left to visit our 16-month-old grandson and his parents in Rochester, NY, a friend in Florida posted on social media about American Flamingos being spotted in a farm pond in south-central Pennsylvania.
I knew we couldn’t stop on the way up, but I hoped beyond hope that the birds would still be there when we left for our home in the Shenandoah Valley on Monday. I checked the American Birding Association’s rare bird alert daily as we enjoyed visiting with our son and his young family.
On Monday morning, the birds were still there and reportedly very easy to see. In all my years of birding, I’ve heard that before, only to arrive five minutes after the birds flew off into the sunset. In the birding world, that’s called “dipping.”
It was a six-hour drive from Rochester to St. Thomas Township, Franklin County, Pennsylvania. When we left Rochester, the day was partly sunny. By the time we reached the state line of the Keystone State, it started to rain. I kept my mind on my driving. I wanted to see those birds, but we had to get there first. So, I drove carefully.
The ABA rare bird alert included the GPS coordinates, so I figured we would drive right to the farm pond, which we almost did. We had Waze plugged into the car’s GPS system while I used my Google Maps for backup. I wasn’t taking any chances.
I am so glad I did because Waze said we had arrived when all we had were fields on the right and a line of houses on the left. My Google Maps saved the day, and we circled around and found Pond Lane.
The countryside was gorgeous. Puffy white clouds floated by in a bright blue sky. The large, rolling fields of soybeans served as a two-tone yellow and green carpet below. Fieldstone farmhouses and red barns dotted the landscape.
Soybeans beneath a late summer sky.
Sweeping fertile fields.
The old homestead.
Fields, forests, and mountains.
The old stone house and Black Angus in the shade.
A mountain in the backyard.
As we approached from the west, I smiled because I could see a string of cars parked along the road and birders on the opposite side looking through spotting scopes and binoculars. As I slowly approached the scene, my wife shouted, “I see one!” I parked the car in the first space on the north side of the road and raced to the spot where my wife saw the flamingo.
Sure enough, there it was. The beautiful pink bird was standing on one leg in the middle of the shallow pond. It had its head tucked under its left wing, sleeping. I got a quick photo between two trees and then walked up to where most birders stood with an unobstructed view. It was a little farther away, but we could see it clearly through the binoculars and my camera’s viewfinder.
My wife helped steady me in the warm wind rushing over and down the nearby Appalachian Mountains to the west. Once the bird awoke, it waded, fed, and preened in the afternoon sun. I asked another birder where the second flamingo was. I didn’t like the answer.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
In the early morning hours after sunrise, a snapping turtle bit the other flamingo in the leg, injuring it. A wildlife rehab center was notified, and personnel arrived and captured the injured bird. Surgery was performed to fix the broken leg. It still remains in their care.
The other flamingo continued to thrill birders who arrived from near and far. How did birds that should be in the Bahama Islands and the Florida Keys get to Pennsylvania? The most plausible answer is that Hurricane Idalia blew them north.
That is the accepted answer because American Flamingos were located in 10 states, some well inland like these birds. Birders from other states were chiming in on the social media conversations, wishing for the flamingos to be found in their states, too.
Why such fuss over the flamingos? Well, in every state except Florida, the sighting of the flamingos was a record first for each of those states. Birders take their hobby seriously. Consequently, they keep many lists and records by recording the bird species, where it was seen, the date(s), and times. The Cornell Laboratory in Ithaca, New York, is the official state and national records compiler.
I had seen flamingos in Florida and Texas before, but seeing this beautiful bird so far inland was extra special. And it was all thanks to a hurricane.
The farm pond in Pennsylvania where the American Flamingo was observed. The bird is just right of the willow tree in the foreground. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh.
The view from Grandview Point. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh.
Located east of Beckley, West Virginia, New River Gorge National Park and Preserve is a gem of a place. My wife and I recently visited there for two days. Our goal was to see the New River Gorge Bridge. We experienced much more than that. Also, I finally learned an important life lesson.
Because we usually avoid driving on I-81, we took Virginia 42 southwest through the Allegheny Highlands’ beautiful hills, valleys, small towns, and mountain gaps. We stopped at Augusta Springs Wetlands to bird along the boardwalk. We saw a number of lovely wildflowers and 21 species of birds. The next stop was the Humpback Covered Bridge west of Covington, Virginia.
Humpback Bridge.
Interior of the Humpback Bridge.
Humpback Bridge
But it was the national park we wanted to see most. The park has four visitor centers because of its mountainous terrain and steep gorge. Sandstone Visitor Center was our first stop just off I-64. The helpful ranger gave us excellent advice on the roads to travel and what to expect.
Our first stop was the observation area of Sandstone Falls. They were as beautiful as advertised, but the falls weren’t running at full force with so little rain this summer. We drove along the railroad tracks to the quaint town of Hinton, where we crossed to the west side of the New River. We drove north a few miles to reach the boardwalk that took us near the river’s main flow.
Eastern section of Sandstone Falls.
Rapids and Sandstone Falls.
Eastern side of Sandstone Falls.
Spicebush Swallowtail on Cardinal Flower.
The western section of Sandstone Falls.
Western section of Sandstone Falls.
The fastest flow.
I wanted to get a closer shot, so I headed across an island of ancient debris of huge boulders smoothed by years of flowing water. Scattered among the rocks were large trunks of trees, their bark long scoured away. It finally hit me that I shouldn’t have attempted this trek. I eased my way over rocks and rivulets to the shore of the river’s main course. I got the shots I wanted and returned to the boardwalk via an easier route.
Our next stop was Grandview, and what a view it was. We looked down 1,000 feet to see one of the horseshoe bends of the New River. The sun bathed the hillside forests and illuminated the riverside train tracks.
On the second day, we headed to the nearly abandoned town of Thurmond, a boomtown in the coal mining heydays. Today, only five folks live there. They all serve on the town council. One is the mayor, one is the secretary and the other three serve as council members. It was fascinating to walk the town of the once thriving businesses. Fortunately, the daily Amtrak train stopped to pick up a lone passenger while we were there. As the train pulled away, I realized a freight train had stopped on the mainline, allowing the Amtrak train to pass. It was a double treat for this train enthusiast.
On the way out of Thurmond, the road snaked along Dunlop Creek and a train track. Because of the steep descent of the topography, the creek had many rapids and small waterfalls. The sun broke through the thick tree canopy to highlight one of the falls.
Finally, we took in the magnificence of the historic New River Gorge Bridge. The bridge carries U.S. 19. Consequently, the visitor center and the observation boardwalks were much more crowded than the other locales.
I wanted to get a photo of the bridge from the river view. The only way to do that was to wind our way down narrow roadways with several sharp switchbacks. There were a few places to stop along the way, including one right under the famous bridge.
We continued down the twisting road, the river’s rapids on the right, bearing their white teeth. Soon we made a sharp, right-hand turn and drove across the old bridge to the designated parking lot. I told my wife I was heading to the bridge we had just crossed to photograph the New River Gorge Bridge, which spans 3,030 feet across the New River Gorge and is 876 feet above the river. The bridge is the longest single-span arch bridge in the world.
Rafters about to hit the rapids.
The New River Gorge Bridge.
The New River Gorge with the old bridge in the lower right.
Under the bridge.
Rafters and the old bridge.
The size of the boulders and the old bridge.
Running the rapids.
The New River Gorge Bridge taken from the old bridge.
However, I got distracted. I first heard and then saw whitewater rafters running the rapids with others waiting their turn. So, I hustled toward the water’s edge only to discover even bigger boulders than I had at Sandstone Falls. Wanting close-up shots, I scrambled across the rocks as carefully as I could. But the rafters were faster than this 75-year-old grandfather with a bad back and weak knees. Though only 50 feet from the water, I knew I should stop for safety’s sake. I got a few photos, including one lone kayaker who got turned around and bounced through the whitewater backward, just missing a giant rock. As soon as he hit calm water, he headed to the eastern shoreline to compose himself. I was doing the same in preparation for meeting my wife since I had been gone long enough to take the bridge photos and be back already.
After 52 years of marriage, I knew that look when I told her what I had done. I confessed that I should not have gone down there alone on those large slippery rocks. I hustled to get the coveted New River bridge photos. We drove back under the bridge on the switchback narrow roadway until we reached US 19.
The thrills I got from these two days easily could not block out my aches and pains. We learned a lot about the newest national park. And finally, after seven and a half decades, I realized I wasn’t 25 anymore.
A male Indigo Bunting preening along the Appalachian Trail.
Whenever I go exploring, I can always expect the unexpected. It’s what drives me to get out of doors.
I headed to Shenandoah National Park to mainly photograph butterflies. I had seen photos from the park with Turks Cap Lilies blooming. Those lovely flowers are magnets for butterflies.
I knew a place in the park where I had previously seen butterflies flock to the beautiful lilies. It happened to be where the Appalachian Trail crosses Skyline Drive. The location also had a parking lot designed primarily for day hikers.
I pulled in and was immediately disappointed. No Turks Cap Lilies were to be found. Across the road, other wildflowers were blooming, so I started heading there.
When I go to the park, it should be no surprise that I multitask. My camera is strapped across my left shoulder for easy access, and my binoculars dangle around my neck for wildlife spotting, especially birds.
Just as I reached the crosswalk, a bird flushed out of the undergrowth to a dead tree limb at the forest’s edge. It was a male Indigo Bunting, always a beautiful bird to see.
I stopped, swung my camera around, aimed, focused, and clicked away. As I did so, this beautiful bird began to preen in the morning sunshine. The lighting was perfect, and the bird entertained me for several minutes before a passing car caused it to dive for cover.
Butterflies were few and far between as I checked in at different locations in the park. Nevertheless, watching this enchanting bird for those precious minutes made the trip worthwhile.
We live in a noisy world. It’s hard to find pure silence to simply listen, ignore the busyness of your mind, and relax without interruption.
When I saw an invitation to participate in a Contemplative Sit at the end of the daily devotion I received via email from Richard Rohr, I clicked on it. I instinctively knew I needed the 12-minute exercise to calm my mind, body, and soul. I didn’t realize how hard it would be.
The Reverand Dr. Barbara Holmes led the video presentation. The screen was a lifeless gray, with the title “Contemplative Sit” half grayed out. Once the single chime of a small bell rang to begin the exercise, I closed my eyes, thinking I could better concentrate on breathing in and out. It wasn’t to be.
I thought about last night’s sunset, the high gray clouds reflecting the sun’s warm glow. Our mother star had long since sunk below the Allegheny Mountains. I waited then for the warm beauty of the sky and now for a fulfilling silence.
I heard a crash from the video I knew wasn’t part of the meditation. I opened my eyes and saw the countdown to skipping another YouTube ad. I immediately clicked it away. Then I noticed the words, “We focus on the breath going in and out of the body.” I realized I needed to keep my eyes open to be fully engaged.
At that moment, however, I became acutely aware of all the noise around me. My neighbors across the street were mowing their yard in their usual father-and-son tandem. The sound of the two mowers competed with the tinnitus in my ears. I had buzzing external and internal competition to distract me.
Ironically, only then did I hear the video’s faint ebbing and flowing of wind rustling over a prairie, a desert, through tree limbs. I couldn’t tell, and it didn’t matter. I concentrated on my breathing. I unconsciously rubbed my hands on my thigh bones down to the knees and back to the hem of my kaiki shorts.
A single-engine plane flew a few hundred feet over the house, probably from the local private airport eight miles away. Its sturdy engine soon carried it out of earshot.
Was I failing this intentional time of contemplation? I let go of that judgment and refocused on my breathing. I spied a mother robin bobbing in the grass beneath the red maple tree in our front yard. She had speared an insect, likely to help feed her second brood of the summer.
My cell phone dinged. Another person in the group text commented on my friend Mike’s release from the hospital. I breathed a breath-prayer of thanks and gratitude.
A morning breeze rustled the leaves and bounced the smaller limbs of the maple outside my window. Still, I heard the wind’s faint rhythm coming and going from the video. Two Goldendoodles from the neighbors down the street barked, a regular occurrence. I continued breathing, letting go, and focusing on silence without self-criticism.
A pair of Northern Cardinals flew into the maple tree, and the video bell sounded the meditation’s end. I felt free, rooted, and ready to face the rest of the day.
I hadn’t planned on doing this meditation. But I have always enjoyed spontaneous activities that arouse my senses of the world around me. This morning’s experience was an unexpected but necessary infusion into another day of joyful living.
(I have included the link to the meditation if you are interested.)
Big Meadows Wayside on the left and the Byrd Visitors Center on the right.
Big Meadows, an open, rolling, bowl-shaped landscape, features diverse plant, tree, and wildlife species. I consider it one of the most beautiful locations in Virginia’s Shenandoah National Park.
As evidence of its wonders, these photos from a recent visit exemplify its natural splendors.
Fawn at the meadow’s edge.Wild Columbine. Male Indigo Bunting.Woodland Sunflower.The land meets the sky.A ladybug on Fly Poison.
I gladly handed over my iPhone to the ticket-taker at the Van Gogh Immersive Experience in Washington, D.C. We had only just gathered everyone together at the entrance when she had offered to take our family photo, an image I dearly wanted.
It had been four years since the three families had all been together, and in that time, another grandchild had joined our ranks. Our two oldest grandsons had never met the youngest. I wanted this precious moment to be documented for perpetuity. As mobile as today’s societies are, especially the younger generations, I wasn’t taking any chances. I considered the family photograph as my personalized Father’s Day present.
As it turned out, this was the only photo of all of us together at the same place at the same time we got in the three-day gathering in our nation’s capital. The comings and goings of our active crew mirrored the busy lives of our adult children, their spouses, and teenagers. I certainly wasn’t disappointed.
I had my shot and could now relax into the follow-the-crowd mode. The other adults, our daughter, son, son-in-law, and daughter-in-law, would share the responsibility of setting the agenda for the Sunday through Tuesday reunion. I’m usually the one to suggest and plan trips. However, this time I silently relished my grandfatherly role. Though not surprised, I marveled at their skills in managing offspring, arranging transportation, and finding restaurants to suit everyone.
Of course, they consulted Nana and Poppy about places we wanted to go, do, visit, and tour. I was more than happy to go with the flow. Shoot. I would have been pleased if we had stayed in the hotel. A certain familial satisfaction overcame me.
The pandemic played a significant role in keeping us apart all this while. Our son, his wife, and the newest grandson, Teddy, live in upstate New York, a seven-hour drive from the lovely Shenandoah Valley, where my wife and I live. We moved there six years ago from our home of 38 years in Ohio’s Amish country to be close to our daughter and her family.
Teddy arrived over a year ago, complicating our Nana and Poppy roles. Our son and his wife have done an exceptional job keeping us informed of Teddy’s progress, and we travel north as we can.
But here we all were, assembled together. Everyone agreed to make the Van Gogh experience our initial group event. The New Yorkers intended to take the Metro from Dulles International Airport to the hotel. Due to track maintenance, that plan got derailed. It took them longer to get from the airport to the hotel than from Rochester to Dulles.
With air temperatures heating up, the Van Gogh Immersion became the perfect place to chill and smother Teddy with plenty of attention. To enhance the experience, lounge chairs, bean bags, small ottomans, and blankets were scattered around the gymnasium-sized, carpeted room. We all found our relaxation niche and enjoyed the show. Teddy loved showing off his newly found walking and running skills. The rest of us merely basked in the moments as they unfolded.
That was plenty for the first day. Returning to the hotel, we ordered dinner from a local pizzeria. We found the perfect place to hold a pizza party and enjoy each other’s company, the building’s rooftop. I relished the lively chatter, the food, and the cityscape views. We finished the day with gelato and a rousing game of cards with the teens. It was a balance we all needed to complete the day.
We walked a mile in the morning’s coolness the next day for a delicious breakfast spread. The portions were so large that only the teens cleaned their plates. We stayed so long that the day’s heat had already begun as we worked our way toward the National Mall. It was Juneteenth, and we had tickets for the National Museum of African American History and Culture. We wanted the youngsters to see first-hand the sad history of how African Americans arrived in this country and what they endured in slavery, the Jim Crow era, and the present. The chronology began on the lower floors, and we worked our way up in small groups. Is there another choice when you have a toddler and septuagenarians in the same family? We didn’t have time to do the outstanding museum justice.
We exited into the early afternoon heat and humidity commonplace for D.C. summer days. Teddy’s parents found a refreshment truck parked near some massive shade trees, and the rest of us soon joined them for some shaved ice and smoothies. Nana was in her glory feeding Teddy some of her cool mango drink. Teddy’s eager reaction showed his gratitude.
Colorful murals were abundant.
Mural.
The Washington Monument from the Jefferson Memorial.
At the FDR Memorial.
Colorful canopy.
A short walk brought us to the World War II Memorial in the shadow of the Washington Monument and at the reflecting pool’s eastern end. I spied a group of Amish circling the memorial’s parameter and recognized the older leader. Unfortunately, I was too far away to say hello.
We continued walking west to the Lincoln Memorial for the older grandkids to experience. Before we left the area, we pointed out the impressive yet solemn Vietnam War Memorial from a distance.
By now, everyone was tired, and we headed back to the hotel via three modes of transportation. Some of us took an Uber, while two adventurous teens followed their father to the Metro. Since Teddy needed a nap, his parents chose to push the stroller three miles.
With the day’s heat and humidity, we were glad for the hotel’s air conditioning in which to rest. However, the teenagers all wanted to play cards, a vacation tradition since they were young. We ordered burgers from a local restaurant and reclaimed the hotel’s rooftop. The banter and passing around Teddy put a punctuation mark on a fulfilling day. The games played on, but we seniors called it a night, our hearts full.
As I settled in for the night, I reflected on the day’s interactions. Everyone we met, hotel, restaurant, museum staff, and Uber drivers, were engaging and courteous. They made this country boy feel right at home in the city.
The adults headed for a lighter breakfast than the previous day while the teens slept in. Afterward, they had to be awakened to say goodbye to Teddy and his parents, who had to leave for their return flight. We hugged and kissed and thanked them for making the trip, and then they were gone.
Those that remained returned to the monument area. Our first stop was the Jefferson Memorial. The day was warm again, but a steady east wind made it bearable.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
We walked to the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial, which my late father truly enjoyed when I first visited it with him as part of an Honor Flight for World War II veterans. I told the grandkids how their great-grandfather, who used a wheelchair, nearly rose to his feet when he saw the statues of the longest-serving president. Dad even knew the name of Roosevelt’s dog, which also had an oversized bronze.
The Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial stood a short walk away. We were a few months late for the blooming of the famous cherry trees along the path. The impressive King Memorial faced the Jefferson Memorial across the choppy basin. From there, we strolled to the Korean War Memorial. With its platoon of soldier statues, the setting gives you pause about the futility of war.
It was time to head home. We retraced our steps through the FDR Memorial and back to the van. As we rolled south down the interstate, I enjoyed the commotion of the card games with Nana and teenage grandchildren in the back seats. I was happy to have my son-in-law drive and most grateful for our joyous times together.
We had so much fun that we had already made tentative plans for next year’s get-together. In the meantime, I’ll bask in the joyous afterglow of our little family’s reunion.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had heard a Mourning Warbler singing before, but I had never seen one. I always attributed that to their habitat and skulking behavior. It could have been my poor eyesight, however.
Mourning Warblers tend to stay closer to the ground than the one I spied 15 feet high in a dead wild cherry tree. They favor low brushy habitats, not bare tree limbs. Yet, here it was, and I was pretty happy to be able to capture a few photos before this beautiful bird with a lovely song dropped into the underbrush and out of sight.
Most Mourning Warblers nest in boreal forests in states and Canadian provinces well north of Virginia. However, there is a small area in the Allegheny Mountains along the boundaries of Virginia and West Virginia, where they also breed.
When I learned that other birders had spotted Mourning Warblers near Reddish Knob, a mountain summit on the Virginia/West Virginia border, I decided to go for the bird. The drive to that area is less than an hour from my home in the Shenandoah Valley.
Other birders had the same idea. The bird was easily heard, and with six pairs of eyes, the target bird was soon spotted. However, I didn’t expect it to be so out in the open. But I had to act fast. Mourning Warblers seldom sit still. As you can see, this bird was already looking down and dropped out of sight right after I snapped this photo.
I was grateful for the help of the other birders, who were equally happy that I was able to get the photographs I desired. The Mourning Warbler was only one of several bird species I saw that day, but it was the best.
Roadkill Crossing 
You must be logged in to post a comment.