The Yellow Garden Spider on its web. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I’m not sure how long the Yellow Garden Spider had been there. Friends visiting from Ohio spotted it one morning as we headed out to explore our area of the Shenandoah Valley.
On a foggy morning, I found the spider’s intricate web dotted with dewdrops large and small. The sparkling display surrounded the arachnid like stars in the night sky. The spider, also known as a Black-and-yellow Argiope, was a giant, one of the largest the four of us had ever seen.
The spider’s web hung from the lamppost over the nandina bushes at the end of our front sidewalk. Several wrapped-up victims accompanied the sparkling dewdrops.
It was a fun way to start our day.
The Yellow Garden Spider. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Technology is always around us. Computers, laptops, tablets, smartphones, AirPods, hearing aids, and the list goes on and on. It can be dizzying at times, and I didn’t even mention AI.
Recently, while walking in the neighborhood, I encountered my first robotic lawnmower. To be honest, I didn’t even know remote-controlled lawnmowers existed. That probably says more about my naiviete than it does about technology.
When I arrived home, I encountered yet another robotic piece of equipment. A local landscaping business was replacing some older shrubbery for the neighbor across the street.
A robotic excavator. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
One of the workers arrived with a machine he unloaded with a remote control device. He guided it to the backyard, where I assume it did quick work of whatever shrub needed to be extracted.
Soon the man and his machine returned to the trailer, onto which the robotic excavator was quickly loaded. The worker did his job without even breaking a sweat.
I suppose that’s the same reason expressed in the use of the robot mower.
As for me and my house, we’ll keep paying our granddaughter to cut our yard.
Nearly 80 years of living have taught me how valuable strong, wholesome relationships are. As a youngster, I learned that family comes first, followed by close friends.
Growing up in a neighborhood of baby boomers taught me the importance of having caring, trustworthy pals. The importance of proper socialization stuck with me.
I’ve tried to carry those lessons throughout my life and into retirement. Healthy bonding relationships create a twofold effect for me. I feel better physically and emotionally.
As we age, we need nurturing relationships that sometimes require a certain vulnerability. It’s important to be open to every opportunity to connect and reconnect. That can happen through planned meetings or a spontaneous encounter at a restaurant, or even on vacation.
For me, it means incorporating my gifts and abilities with those of others. I enjoy writing, so I facilitate a monthly Zoom writing group with creatives in their 70s, 80s, and 90s. We each read a piece, and the listeners offer supportive comments and share ideas for improvement, or even suggest taking the story in a different direction. We also laugh a lot, and sometimes cry.
Surrounding yourself with like-minded people, especially as you age, is critical for retirees. An occasional nature walk in a local arboretum with folks who share my interests keeps me refreshed and uplifted.
A Tiger Swallowtail butterfly along a hiking trail. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Even as older folks, using our five senses lets us keep learning and growing. I try to listen more than talk. I enjoy hearing others’ stories and how they handled situations similar to what I’ve experienced.
I belong to a local birding club that holds regular outings. I attend as often as I can, not only to find migrating birds, but also to learn techniques for properly identifying bird species. Fall warblers, dressed in their drab colors, are difficult for me to identify. My birding friends eagerly show me how to tell a fall Cape May Warbler from a Bay-breasted one.
My wife and I belong to three different small groups, two of which meet monthly and always with food. We take turns hosting, and everyone contributes to the modest feast. One group is intergenerational, with ages ranging from infants to grandparents.
Two of the three groups are both comprised of seniors. It’s easy to share our latest aches and pains as we age, but once the simple meal is finished, we get down to business by answering a pre-assigned prompt individually. We discuss current events, memories from our formative years, and issues we need advice on. Serious or playful, the conversations are rewarding.
At a church retreat. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Hearing others’ experiences and perspectives broadens my thinking. It helps me better understand a point of view different from my own. That enhances and nurtures my life.
During the COVID-19 restrictions, we Zoomed every other week with my wife’s sister and four cousins, who were like brothers and sisters growing up. We enjoyed the camaraderie so much that we’ve continued monthly Zooms, since we live in different states.
My wife also Zooms monthly with college friends, all of whom graduated in the early 1970s and are scattered across the country. Those strong connections have led to in-person gatherings and even vacations together.
My wife and I spent a few days in Maine last summer with one of those lifelong college friends. The sound of ocean waves crashing lulled us to sleep while the pastel light of the rising sun awakened us at 4:30 a.m. We walked along the shore at low tide and ate fresh lobster on the dock in a quaint cove.
Weeks later, we visited the same friend in Baltimore, Maryland. She was a perfect host. On the hottest day of September, we toured a massive second-hand store and then a railroad museum. In the evening, we attended a baseball game at Camden Yards. We enjoyed our time together despite my Cleveland Guardians’ loss.
My wife of 55 years has many useful and creative gifts, but the greatest is hospitality. She loves hosting friends, family, and new neighbors for meals and fellowship. A young couple moved next door from New Mexico. Of course, my wife invited them for dinner, and they stayed for four hours. The conversation freely flowed, and they soon returned the favor.
Friends occasionally visit us from other states, especially from our home state of Ohio. They are enchanted by Virginia’s bucolic Shenandoah Valley, where we moved nearly a decade ago to be close to our daughter and her family.
We enjoy escorting visitors around our small city and the surrounding agricultural countryside. Shenandoah National Park borders our county to the east, and each visitor finds the park as remarkable and awe-inspiring as I do.
On one recent visit by Ohio friends, we met another couple who helped us locate and identify tiny but beautiful flowers we would have missed. The pesky gnats and cloud-enshrouded mountains couldn’t diminish our pleasant adventures.
The same results occur when we visit our son, his wife, and their young son in upstate New York, or when we return to our beloved Holmes County, Ohio, where we lived among the Amish for nearly four decades.
We moved to Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley to be close to our daughter and her family. Those 10 years have flown by as we watched our grandchildren grow and mature. We followed them from T-ball to college baseball, attended piano recitals, band concerts, high school musicals, and volleyball games.
Packing bags of food for children. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
We find great comfort and connection with others as we not only worship, but also participate in activities that involve community members. My wife volunteers at a thrift store once a week, and we both help pack and distribute food for food-insecure families at a local elementary school.
Of course, life challenges us physically as we age, so we exercise regularly and are mindful about what we eat and how much we eat. We make regular checkups with doctors and appointments with physical therapists as needed.
At our age, hardships occur too often for friends and family. Empathy and compassion help soothe the emotional pain we encounter.
Traveling has been an eye-opener for us, and we wish we had done more when we were younger. But we can only move forward in life and enjoy and learn from the trips we do take, whether by car, plane, or cruise.
My wife and I feel most grateful for our families and the many friends we have. Their love and support shower us with kindness and appreciation, whether they live next door or in another state or country.
Relationships flourish when we nurture them with compassion and openness. Their unconditional inclusion keeps us engaged and going.
In all of this, if I have learned anything in life, it’s that we are all one human family. Even amid differences, accepting others doesn’t mean agreeing with them. Instead, heartfelt connections count.
At this age, that’s exactly how I desire my life experiences and human interactions to add up.
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.
My wife and I are in the last leg of our vacation. Yes, retired people take holidays, too.
We started our two-week trip off with a bang. We gathered with our son and his family, our daughter and her husband, and our granddaughter in a cottage on a lake in Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountain region on July 4.
The community where we stayed shot off its fireworks display from the dam of the lake we stayed on. Of course, neighbors around the lake preempted the real show with their mini-pyrotechnic displays. They couldn’t hold a candle to the sponsored ones, however.
At 9:45 p.m., the fireworks began despite the overcast skies and intermittent drizzle. The show must go on, especially on the country’s 250th celebration of independence.
I stood back and captured our families watching the fireworks. With the low clouds and the misty haze, the sparkly colors echoed off of the atmospheric elements.
In this photo, the brief time-lapse created a glowing red glow all around just as the second burst flashed brilliantly white with a double boom. It was a great way to initiate our time with family and friends on our jaunt into New England.
Fireworks in the Poconos. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Norfolk & Western’s J-Class 611 steam engine. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The timing couldn’t have been better. My wife’s cousin and her husband came for a four-day visit from their home in North Carolina.
We consider them dear friends. We all enjoy watching trains, especially old ones. That’s what rainfanning is.
As it happened, the Shenandoah Valley Scenic Railroad planned a series of weekend excursions traveling east from Staunton, Virginia, only 40 minutes south of our home. Rick and Brenda would be here during the first weekend.
Despite the wilting heat and humidity, we ventured out to see Norfolk and Western’s J-Class historic 611 steam engine pull classic rail cars across Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. We decided to catch the 10 a.m. run.
We weren’t planning on riding the train. We wanted to watch it steam by with its smokestack puffing and iconic whistle blowing. Of course, we would record the day with video and photos.
Built in May 1950 in Roanoke, Virginia, the N & W J-484 Class engine was the last streamlined steam locomotive before the diesel-powered engines gained favor. The Queen of Steam is the only surviving engine of its kind and is housed in the Virginia Transportation Museum in Roanoke, Virginia.
The Queen of Steam. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The first location we chose did not afford the view we had hoped for, so we went to plan B. We drove a few miles east along the Jefferson Highway to Jericho Road. Only a quarter of a mile south, the tracks crossed the narrow rural road and gave us a treelined look west to where the train would curve into view.
We heard the train before we saw it. The engine’s chug, chug, chug, accompanied by the deep, resonant sound of its horn, alerted us to scramble into position for good looks and photo opportunities.
I began filming even before the storied 611 came into view. The train’s low-pitched whistle sounded as it crossed another road to the west. Soon it came steaming into view.
Full foliage stands of trees on both sides of the tracks created a tunnel effect as the train rounded the curve. Soon, the whistle sounded again, this time for our crossing. The lights flashed, the warning bells clanged, and the crossing gates came down
At the slight incline before the Jericho crossing, the fireman stoked coal into the firebox and a pillar of inky smoke rose from 611’s stubby stack. It was the shot I had hoped for, although I should have aimed the camera a bit higher.
The engine roared by, and fly ash drifted upon us. That’s what happens when you stand too close to the tracks. Even at 78, I showed my immaturity. Still, I got the shots and experience I wanted for all of us.
We tried for a shot of the train as it passed over the Jefferson Highway a few miles east, but we were too late. The combination of red traffic lights and the train picking up steam outpaced our hopes. Sans photographs, at least we got to see the train glide across the bridge.
We retreated to the historic small city of Staunton for lunch. First, we wandered and reminisced in a well-stocked antique store. Many of the items were the very same we are trying to pawn off to our children and grandchildren.
That nostalgic trip only increased my hunger for a tasty burger, which awaited just down the street. We arrived ahead of the noontime crowd and relaxed in the coolness of the comfy restaurant, sipping ice water, sodas, and sweet tea.
After enjoying our specialty hamburgers and French fries, we stepped back out into the abusive elements to a surprise. The train was back at the station, so we walked down to take a close look at the old engine before it left for its second excursion.
We inspected the engine in the shade of the station’s arched canopy. A bright red stripe with white stars adorned both sides of the engine and tenders in commemoration of the United States’ 250th Anniversary.
We had expected larger crowds due to the engine’s popularity. But only a few other railfans had gathered along the tracks.
At 1 p.m. sharp, the engineer blew the Queen of Steam’s unique whistle, and the train slowly pulled out of the station. The giant wheels turned slowly at first, then faster and faster as the J-Class 611 once again thundered east toward the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Joyful for our successful day of railfanning, we headed north for home.
It was a simple, mundane task that turned into a celebration of connections.
I needed gasoline for the lawnmower since our granddaughter said she would come the next day to mow our yard. The gas can for the mower was empty, so I drove to the local gas station to fill it and my vehicle, a process I gave little thought to.
A pickup with a huge water tank in the truck’s bed blocked most of the pumps. I was able, however, to back into the one pump that had the non-ethanol fuel I needed.
I went to insert my credit card and noticed a black one had been left in the slot to pay for the gas. I pulled the card out and wondered what I should do with it. The office at the rural station had already closed.
If it were my card, I would want someone to retrieve it and try to contact me. So, I put the card safely in my wallet, turned my attention to paying for gas with my own card, and returned home.
I Googled the lady’s name on the card and quickly found her address and phone numbers, both landline and cell phone. I called the mobile line first and left a message. I tried the landline, but it rang a rapid busy signal, a sign that it was no longer a working number.
I figured I would get a quick response to my message, but I was wrong. When I still hadn’t heard anything by the next day, which was a Saturday, I called the 911 center’s non-emergency number to see what I should do with the card. The dispatcher told me to drop it off at the police station. I decided to wait until Monday to do that and hope the lady would follow up with me before I went.
That’s exactly what happened when shortly before 9 a.m. Monday, the lady called. The number where I had left the message was actually her son’s phone, and he didn’t let her know until just before she called me.
To say she was giddy to know her card was safe would be an understatement. But there was more to it.
The lady explained that when she realized she had misplaced her card, she checked her latest transactions with it online. Purchasing the gas was the last charge.
She drove to the station to see if she could find her card. A truck with a large water container on the back was at the pump. The man driving the truck saw her looking around the pump we had used and asked if she needed help.
“I left my credit card in the pump yesterday,” she explained.
The man asked, “Was it black?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “How did you know?”
“I was here yesterday, and I saw a guy take the card out of the pump,” he said. It was the same man and truck I had seen. He told the woman that he buys a lot of gas there.
“I think he took the card up to the office,” he told her. Of all the details, he got that one wrong.
Then came the real shocker of the phone conversation.
“Are you Maren’s grandfather?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “How did you know?”
“I am Maren’s mentor at church,” she replied. “I recognized your last name because of your daughter.”
I thought, “What a small world.” But that wasn’t all.
The kind woman was a cousin of a dear friend of mine who had recently died unexpectedly. I chuckled to myself about the multiple overlapping connections we had.
Darlene arrived at my home a couple of hours later to retrieve her credit card, which she had put on hold to prevent misuse. In return, she thoughtfully handed me a carton of fresh strawberries.
We stood on the front porch and chatted for a long time about the happenstances that had led to the return of her card and the serendipitous connections we had discovered.
The more we conversed, the more common relationships we discovered. It was a joyous first meeting, and more than a fair trade of strawberries for a wayward credit card.
April 19 – 25 is designated as Volunteer Appreciation Week. If we take the time to notice, volunteers are all around us, helping us live our lives to the fullest by doing things that may go unnoticed.
Volunteers can be of any age. Grandparents, parents, men, women, teens, and youngsters take time to pick up trash from local creek banks in parks. Older students help younger ones during reading time at school.
Multi-generational volunteers helped knot and stitch comforters. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Volunteers help pull weeds at the local arboretum. They lead tours at local museums. They pick up litter along state, local, and interstate highways.
Volunteers come from groups like scouting organizations, hunting clubs, or are individuals who care deeply about the environment and their community. They can serve as crossing guards and ushers at concerts.
Of course, we can’t forget volunteer firefighters and emergency medical technicians who leave their jobs, family gatherings, and other activities to help someone in need for little or no pay.
Yesterday, grandparents, friends, parents, brothers, sisters, mentors, and the students themselves helped knot and stitch comforters for five high school seniors who will soon graduate. It’s an annual tradition.
Folks from our church also volunteer weekly at a local elementary school attended by children who live near the church. The volunteers pack food into bags for food-insecure families. It’s amazing how staff members and students alike thank the volunteers as they travel throughout the school and deposit the food-filled bags outside of classrooms.
I’ve only listed a few ways people can volunteer to help others. In what ways do you volunteer?
Packing bags of food at an elementary school. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
My wife and I spent the morning of our 55th wedding anniversary birding. That’s about as exciting as it gets for septegenarian celebrations.
Though spring bird migration had been ongoing for a month, the early warblers were only now beginning to be seen and heard in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. I wanted to see and literally hear those lovely, high-pitched songs. I know the term “literally” is overused, but this was my first bird outing with hearing aids.
I’m a very curious person, and I wanted to hear what I was missing in my latter years. Previously, I had to depend on the ears of younger birders to know, for example, that a Cape May Warbler was near. The bird’s thin, high-pitched “see, see, see, see” call was beyond my perception.
I knew March 27 was too early for the Cape May. But equipped with my hearing aids, perhaps I could catch the calls of other early-arriving warblers. So, off we went to a noted birding hotspot in Augusta County, Virginia, Bells Lane.
My wife occasionally accompanies me on my birding adventures, but she wouldn’t call herself an avid birder. I appreciate her company and enjoy showing her a particular species when I spot one.
Even though Bells Lane is in the city limits of Staunton, its geography and topography shout country. The narrow road meanders up, down, and around hills and valleys from a US highway to a state road. From its zenith, traffic buzzes north and south along I-81, though the noise barely reaches the beloved birding location.
With its proximity to the city, people use Bells Lane for other reasons. With only a handful of residents along its winding two-mile stretch, the narrow pavement is a safe place to jog, bike, or walk your dog, in addition to birdwatching.
When I pulled off the main highway onto Bells Lane, I opened the moon roof and lowered the windows, and drove at a snail’s pace. The air was cool, but fresh with the scent of apple blossoms and birdsong. I smiled with great pleasure at hearing multiple birds singing, and used the popular Merlin app on my iPhone to confirm my suspicions.
Birders are happy with such technological advances that can affirm or alert you to nearby birds. However, the combination of common sense and location tempers emotions when a rare bird is indicated.
Using their amazing ability to imitate other birds, Northern Mockingbirds are notorious for setting off frenzied searches for birds that aren’t there. I almost got caught doing that this time.
In the thicket of blooming redbuds and serviceberry bushes and old-growth trees, I caught a quick glimpse of a yellow and black bird zipping through the understory. An oriole, I thought, but which one? I didn’t see it long enough to identify it.
Much later on at the summit of Bells Lane, Merlin showed a Scott’s Oriole. I had never seen one, and wondered if that’s what I saw a half hour ago. That was unlikely, since a Scott’s Oriole’s territory is the southwestern United States.
One of several Northern Mockingbirds we saw. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Then I saw it. A Northern Mockingbird sat atop a fence post, demonstrating its wide repertoire of songs. I immediately discounted the Scott’s Oriole sighting, but wondered how in the world the mockingbird knew the oriole’s song if it had never heard it.
We saw several Northern Mockingbirds as we wound our way along the bumpy road, with horse and cattle farms dominating the rolling landscape. At one stop, I could only see the top of what appeared to be a rather large house, well situated behind a wooded hillside.
Between the road and the house, birdsongs rang out as clear as day. I stood in awe and joy at being present in that moment, finally able to hear those glorious songs so well.
The underrated Field Sparrows dominated the avian chorus. Unfortunately, I couldn’t locate even one of the birds, though they had to be close to me. That’s the disadvantage of birding alone. My wife enjoyed the bird cacophony while reading in the SUV.
The low, gray clouds made photographing birds difficult.
Several times, I parked the vehicle and walked along the roadway. I met another birder who advised me that a flock of Ruby-Crowned Kinglets was foraging for insects 50 yards ahead on the left side of the road, where the underbrush thickened.
I quickened my pace, only to be stopped by the luxurious liquid sound of an Eastern Towhee. It was a male. The black hood with rusty sides and a white streak down its chest provided protective camouflage as it kicked and scratched among the dead leaves on the forest floor. I finally got a clear shot of it.
Farther up the road, I must have found a stray of the Ruby-crowned Kinglets. The lone bird flitted from limb to limb over my head, devouring insects.
Merlin showed a Pine Warbler calling, but I couldn’t find it. Pine Warblers are often among the first of their species to migrate back north after overwintering in the warmer southern states.
The young Bald Eagle on its perch. Photos by Bruce Stambaugh
As we reached the halfway point, we were at the summit of the ridge. A line of black Angus steers lumbered away from a small red barn down the pasture toward the road.
A snag of a tree stood just beyond the barn, and at the highest perch was a subadult Bald Eagle. Patches of white feathers against black revealed its age. It wasn’t a warbler, but I was thrilled to see it. The proud bird sat perfectly still, overseeing the valleys to its east and west.
Notorious for roosting in one location for hours on end, the young Eagle seemed oblivious to the cattle, the American Crows flying in the distance, and to me. I snapped away before retreating to my SUV.
The forecasted rain began to fall, gently at first and then more steadily. Our morning of birding had come to an end with perfect timing.
We headed back into town for lunch, having heard and or seen 43 bird species in a little over two hours. I anticipated warblers, but saw an eagle instead. It was an unexpected gift on our anniversary morning.
Two curious American Robins checked out the young Bald Eagle. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
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