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October’s Celestial Wonders

October has blessed us with some fantastic and surprising celestial wonders. The full Hunter Super Moon and the comet Tsuchinshan-ATLAS graced our night skies last week. The comet is still being seen but will soon vanish from sight.

Earlier in the month, the Aurora Borealis danced in the skies across the northern hemisphere, leading the stellar trifecta. Residents in the southernmost regions, like Arizona and Florida, even saw them.

I didn’t have to go far to view any of the trio of events in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, where I live. The aurora’s colorful display reminded me of the animated light shows projected onto the American and Canadian Niagara Falls.

However, it’s hard to beat Nature’s heavenly choreography. All I had to do to see the Northern Lights was to step outside my front door. Pinks, reds, and greens played across the sky, dimming and dancing for all to see.

The Aurora Borealis on October 10, Harrisonburg, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I had only once seen the northern lights as a young man living in Ohio’s Amish Country. The red curtain of zigzagging brilliance danced and sizzled strangely in the southern sky. Yes, I heard an associated zapping sound, but briefly.

I knew the forecasts for the Aurora Borealis were favorable, but I didn’t expect to see such vivid beauty this far south. It was a welcomed surprise that enabled many to cross off seeing the Northern Lights from their bucket list.

Next up was October’s Hunter Super Full Moon, the fourth consecutive super full moon this year. I like to catch the moon rising over the Blue Ridge Mountains, which also host Shenandoah National Park in central Virginia.

October’s Hunter Super Full Moon over Shenandoah National Park. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

The Hunter Super Full Moon followed me home. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Because I wasn’t exactly sure where the moon would appear, I was able to snap a few shots just after it rose above the famed mountain range. The rural setting made the picture all the more captivating.

Then came the comet. Like the Northern Lights, the news media informed us of its arrival. The comet was expected to be its brightest on October 14. Unfortunately, fog, haze, and rain clouds obscured our skyward view.

Thursday, October 17, was our first clear night. My wife and I headed to a local landmark, Mole Hill. It’s an extinct volcanic core, long eroded and now covered with farmed fertile soils on its gradual slopes and a thick mixed forest on the steeper portion of the cone.

Mole Hill’s higher elevation didn’t help us find the comet. A hazy sky over the Allegheny Mountains, 30 miles to the west, was the culprit. We looked and looked but returned home disappointed. However, I wasn’t giving up since the comet wouldn’t reappear for 80,000 years.

The comet was viewed from Eastern Mennonite University’s hill. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

The next night, I had success from the hill behind Eastern Mennonite University in Harrisonburg. After viewing photos from my iPhone 14 Pro taken around 7:30 p.m., I spotted a faint streak in the sky. What I couldn’t see with my old naked eyes, my smartphone easily captured for me. I was ecstatic.

We quickly found the comet standing in the middle of our street. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I took a few more photos and returned home to celebrate with my wife by showing her the sequence of images. Afterward, we went outside, stood in our residential street with no street lights, and found the comet about 30 degrees northeast of Venus, which hugged the horizon.

The next night proved even more successful. I zoomed in with the phone’s long lens and captured more than the comet and its long, fuzzy tale. When I looked at the photo, I realized Starlink was streaking across the sky just northeast of the comet.

The Comet and Starlink. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

October has been good to us so far. I wonder what joyous tricks she’ll offer up by Halloween.

The comet Tsuchinshan-ATLAS. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

The Colorful Week That Was

My wife and I were busy last week. Everywhere we went, we saw color, literally and metaphorically. Color dominated, from flowers to birds to people to landscapes to food to sunsets.

Here are a few samples of the vivid, muted, and impressive hues we encountered as we traveled from Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley to the Piedmont of North Carolina and back.

We met good friends from Ohio for breakfast in Front Royal, Virginia.

We bought apples and fresh cider at a local orchard.

We enjoyed lunch with cousins from California and North Carolina.

Dan Nicholas Park Lake.
Textures and colors.
The Foot Bridge.
A multitude of greens.
A pristine lake.
Reflections.
The last lily bloom.
Muscovy Duck.
A migrating Bay Breasted Warbler.
A Great Blue Heron.

Dan Nicholas Park wasn’t the only place we saw birds. We sat in the shade and chatted while various species of birds visited our hosts’ backyard feeders.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

Of course, I had to include a sunset from Cannon Park in Salisbury, North Carolina.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

The evening we arrived home in Harrisonburg, Virginia, the aurora borealis brightened the night sky. The following morning, we had the first frost of the season.

On Saturday, we hustled from one event to another. It was Homecoming at Eastern Mennonite University, where our daughter is the athletic director. The highlight for us was the dedication of the new state-of-the-art track. The ceremonies culminated with a ceremonial lap around the track by significant donors, former track members, and current track members. The oldest participant to run was in his 80s. He runs every day.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

Sugar Maple leaves are peaking.

That evening, we watched our grandson lead the Rock City Regime as the drum major at a high school band competition.

The colorful week ended with a welcome home by late-blooming clematis.

A Birder’s Dream Come True

Kirtland’s Warbler, Waynesboro, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

When I opened the email from the birding listserv this morning, I knew I would pursue this rare bird. Fall bird migration was in full swing, and it’s a real rarity when a Kirtland’s Warbler is spotted. Experts estimate that only 1,500 of this species remain today.

It turned out that this bird was in a park only a mile from the wildlife rescue center where I took the injured Cape May Warbler last week. I had never been to the park where the Kirtland’s had been spotted.

My wife and I headed southwest toward Waynesboro, taking familiar back roads. Crossing over I-81 told us we had made the right decision. The busy highway was nearly bumper to bumper in both north and south lanes.

The GPS took us right to the park. The small parking lot was full, but fortunately, a space opened up right after we pulled in. Another birder arrived right after us and wondered where the bird was. I had no idea until we saw a small group emerge from the trees and thicket carrying binoculars and cameras with baseball bat-sized lenses.

They stopped and pointed their cameras and bins toward the thicket as we joined them. They spotted the bird immediately, and as good birders are want to do, they helped newcomers like us find the bird.

My wife had the rare bird in her binoculars before I did. Once it popped into the open, I saw the bird through my binoculars and then tried to capture images on my camera. Documentation is essential in birding, especially rare birds.

The bird darted up and down, in and out of the jungle of vines, saplings, and mature trees. It foraged on insects and berries. The bird finally popped into my viewfinder, and I got this photo and a few other less desirable ones.

Seeing a Kirtland’s Warbler is always exciting, especially if it is a life bird, meaning the first time you have seen the elusive bird. It’s a birder’s dream come true. Indeed, this bird was a lifer for several in the cooperative group.

Birding is all about finding and sharing, which Neva and I experienced today. On our way home, we celebrated with a delicious late lunch at our favorite burger place.

Golden Hour in Berlin, Ohio

This scene caught my attention as my wife and I arrived in Berlin, Ohio, at her sister’s place. The white of the Amish homes and barns glowed in the Golden Hour light.

September’s First Week in Photos

The first week of September brought a variety of photographic opportunities and emotions. I’ll let the week’s activities play out in the photos and captions.

My wife and I spotted this hot air balloon sailing over our neighborhood on our regular morning walk. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

We celebrated communion at church. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

A storm front brought much-needed rain Sunday evening, leaving a rainbow spawned by the setting sun’s rays. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Sunday’s sunset exploded with a multitude of texts and colors. This photo was taken on Sunny Slope Farm. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Mole Hill, an extinct volcanic core, always makes an excellent foreground for the sunset over the Allegheny Mountains. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Fog rose from the Dry River in western Rockingham County that Sunday evening while grays and mauves dominated the southwestern sky. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

The sky’s drama continued as I drove home on September 1. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

The backyard Hyacinth bean plant was in full bloom in the morning sunshine on September 3. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Evening clouds splayed over Silver Lake near Dayton, Virginia, on September 3.
Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

The evening’s thin cirrus clouds made it seem like old Mole Hill was erupting.
Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

On the west side of Mole Hill, the soft sunset seemed to emmite striated clouds.
Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

As I watered our thirsty flowers, shrubs, and trees the following evening, I spotted a Black Swallowtail caterpillar. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I attended an excellent lecture and gallery preview by photojournalist and filmmaker Morgan Heim at Eastern Mennonite University on Friday morning. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

We ended the week by attending our church’s annual retreat at a camp at the base of Massanutten Mountain northeast of Harrisonburg. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

The Male Ego vs. Common Sense

The yard I foolishly mowed. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I sat beneath a spreading canopy of an ornamental tree at my favorite cafe, waiting for my celebratory lunch. It was my reward for a spontaneous decision I wished I hadn’t made.

Early in the late August morning coolness, I had already walked my usual mile in our suburban neighborhood. The humidity neutralized the refreshing temperature.

The forecast showed heavy rain off and on for the next three days. As I walked, I weighed my options. Should I mow our yard or not? The grass was already high, and the rain would only allow it to grow thicker and higher.

Our granddaughter, who usually mows for us, was in school. Plus, I needed more time to request the on-call lawn service, so I was the only option. The truth is that I loved to mow the yard. I enjoy the exercise and the challenge of mowing the grass in different directions each time, creating various patterns in the yard.

Back home, I confidently announced my decision to my wife.

“Are you sure?” she wisely asked with clear doubt and a contorted look. She knew the consequences that I ignored.

I gassed up the mower and charged onto the lawn as my wife left for the morning. It was 68 degrees Fahrenheit when I started and 86 degrees when I finished.

The first 20 minutes went well. I made several passes around the perimeter of our third of an acre and got halfway through the front yard when the reality of why others mow our lawn kicked in.

I’m allergic to grass. Despite my nose running like a baby’s, I followed my male ego’s insistence. I soldiered on as best I could while my wife’s question rattled in my numbed brain. Soon, however, the physical reactions forced this stubborn septuagenarian to take an extra-long break. I needed to rest and hydrate. Plus, I used half a box of facial tissues.

Nevertheless, I pressed on as the temperature spiked and the humidity intensified. With the front yard finished, I retreated to the garage’s shelter to repeat my previous routine: sit, drink, towel away the sweat, and repeatedly blow my nose.

In short, I was miserable and exhausted but still determined to finish the job. My stubborn male ego spurred my misguided desire to do so. Fortunately, with a few more rounds, I completed the mowing. I took another break before cleaning up the mower and blowing off the driveway, sidewalk, and patio. What should have taken an hour turned into two.

I was ecstatic to be finished despite my stupidity. I cleaned up and basked in the comfort of air conditioning.

As the late morning transitioned into the afternoon, I headed to the downtown cafe I loved. I treated myself to my favorite lunchtime dish: a gluten-free waffle with fresh fruit and sweet tea in the dappled shade of that cityscape tree. The delicious food vindicated my miserable morning. At least, that’s what I rationalized.

My celebratory lunch. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I spent the afternoon relaxing in a lounge chair in the shade of the back porch. I promptly fell asleep despite the heat, which now had reached 96 degrees. An hour later, I awoke to a new reality. Despite the ongoing drought, the National Weather Service posted a flood watch for northern Virginia. Hopefully, rain was on the way.

The hazy, clear blue sky filled with high cirrus clouds. Soon, a brisk wind sailed lower, more menacing cumulous clouds overhead.

A blessed, gentle rain began by early evening but quickly became a downpour. Lightning flashed in every direction, with some strikes too close for comfort. Ear-splitting booms instantly followed bright bolts.

The evening cooled once the storm front passed, and I settled in for a good night’s sleep, exhausted but happy for the rain and the manicured yard. I confessed my evident male ego stubbornness to my compassionate wife, laughed at my foolishness, and fell into a contented, deep sleep.

In his iconic 1909 craft book “Write It Right,” Ambrose Bierce stated that “good writing” is “clear thinking made visible.” My actions proved that muddled reasoning is just as evident.

Holes in the Clouds

Altocumulus Clouds. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

On our morning walk, my wife and I spotted an unusual cloud formation, as seen in the photo above. We first noticed the large hole in the formation of altocumulus clouds. Then, my wife spotted a second one while I focused on the knife blade-looking break to the right of the holes.

Airliners caused all three of these anomalies. You can see the remnants of the contrails left by the speeding planes. Notice how they are spread out in the mid-level atmosphere where altocumulus clouds form. These jets simply punched holes in these vertically climbing clouds. The instability aloft caused the holes and contrails to widen.

The National Weather Service said this about altocumulus clouds: “Altocumulus clouds with some vertical extent may denote the presence of elevated instability, especially in the morning, which could become boundary-layer based and be released into deep convection during the afternoon or evening.”

We are still waiting for the deep convection to produce some much-needed rain here in Virginia.

Recalling a Rare Family Vacation

My older brother and I hauled in the walleye. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I fondly remember my family vacations in the 1950s and ’60s. I vividly recall them because we didn’t take many. We were a lower-middle-class family from a blue-collar city in northeast Ohio. My folks didn’t have the money to travel around the country too often, especially with five active and vocal children.

My most memorable trip as a youngster was a week on Pelee Island, Ontario, Canada, in Lake Erie. It was the middle of summer, sunny, hot, and humid.

As a 10-year-old, I was excited about our trip for multiple reasons. First, we had to take a ferry from Sandusky, Ohio, to the island. In those days, no passports or IDs were needed. You just paid the ferry fee and boarded the ship. I remember leaning over the side of the boat that foggy morning to watch crew members load cars and trucks onto the ferry.

Our dear mother couldn’t bear to watch because the drivers had to ease the vehicles from the dock to the ship over two unattached, thick wooden planks. I paid particular attention when our 1947 cream-colored, two-door Chevy coupe slipped across the void. Even as a kid, I saw that the car wasn’t centered on the planks. Still, it made it.

Our cousins and their parents accompanied us on the trip, along with our mother’s mother. Their three juveniles were nearly the same age as our three oldest. It was a guaranteed good time.

We enjoyed the voyage around other islands and through Lake Erie’s whitecaps. When we sighted Pelee, our excitement multiplied. From a distance, all I could make out were trees. A little cluster of attractive buildings appeared when the ferry drew closer to the dock. We disembarked and waited for our vehicles. I noted a general store with toys in its nine-pane front window during the downtime.

We piled in the car and headed south and then east on dirt roads, swirling dust clouds into the cerulean sky. As he drove, our outdoorsman father spotted pheasants in fields on the way to our little cottage without slowing down. How we all managed to fit into that two-bedroom, one-bath lake house, I don’t know. As a kid, it wasn’t my problem.

That week’s weather was sunny, hot, and humid, perfect for eight children ages four to 14 to play on the beach that served as our front yard. We enjoyed wading in the warm Lake Erie water when the tide went out. We built sand castles and took turns burying one another in the sand.

We spent hours scouring the beach for sea glass. My young mind couldn’t comprehend how the combination of water and sand could smooth sharp, jagged broken glass. I held the evidence in my hand, nevertheless.

A trio of fishermen rented the cottage south of ours. They used a beautiful wooden Lyman boat with an inboard motor to come and go. One afternoon, the fish must not have been biting because the boat came charging in at low tide.

Even as a kid, I could see by the men’s actions that they were drunk. One guy even fell overboard into the shallow water. Of course, the high-speed approach mired the boat into the wet sand. No matter how hard they tried, the boat wouldn’t budge until the tide came in.

Later, with the boat freed, I moseyed down the beach and found a silver cigarette lighter reflecting the afternoon sun in the clear, shallow water. A cigar lay nearby on the beach. Its paper wrapper with a bright red band still secured the stoggy. My uncle confiscated both when I revealed my treasures at the cottage.

Our father and uncle frequently went fishing for crappies and walleye. When the schools of fish moved a few hundred yards directly offshore of our cabin, my dad and uncle caught enough to feed the entire crew. The delicate white meat of the pan-fried fish filled our hungry bellies.

While our fathers fished, our mothers and grandmother watched us play hour after hour on the sandy beach. Those were the days before sunblock, and apparently, no one remembered to bring along suntan lotion. Before the week was over, the four oldest boys, including me, moaned and groaned in a darkened bedroom. The severe sunburns halted our lakeside romping. We were sore all over, unable to find a comfortable position to rest.

Still, it had been a memorable week. To top it off, our parents remembered the general store with toys. My eyes lit up when I saw the rotating stand displaying several kinds of English-made Matchbox toys. There was no plastic to be found in these miniatures of reality, and they were only a dollar each. I was ecstatic because our parents had given each of their five children a dollar before entering the store. So, I took my time and finally decided on an English-style fire truck as the ferry horn sounded for people to board.

We scurried to the dock across the road, and I carefully clutched my prize, not wanting to crush the colorful cardboard matchbox containing my precious purchase. I bid Pelee farewell as we walked up the ferry’s ramp for the return cruise to Ohio.

It had been a memorable week of fun in the sun, filled with ferry rides, fresh fish, and playing in the water with my siblings and cousins. Those pleasures successfully blocked the short-term memory of my painful sunburn.

These well-worn Matchbox toys are the only ones I have left. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Memorial Day!

The U.S. Marine Corps Memorial, Washington, D.C. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Today is Memorial Day in the United States. It is a day designed to remember U.S. military personnel who have fought and died in wars.

The commemorative day originated as Decoration Day on May 30, 1868, in honor of Union soldiers who had died in the Civil War. It has since been renamed Memorial Day in memory of all loved ones who have died. Congress also set the day as the last Monday in May, making a three-day holiday.

Americans see the weekend as the start of summer. Many schools have already completed their academic year, making June vacations a real possibility for families who can afford them.

Memorial Day has evolved to include parades, 21-gun salutes at cemeteries, family gatherings, and picnics. Memorial Day falls on my wife’s birthday this year, so we will celebrate that with our family, too.

I took this photo on September 12, 2009, at the U.S. Marine Corps Memorial in Washington, D.C. The statue depicts the raising of the American flag on Iwo Jima during World War II.

My older brother and I had accompanied our late father on an Honor Flight out of the Akron-Canton Regional Airport in Ohio. The veterans on the flight gathered in front of the memorial for a group photo. Our father is third from the left in the front row.

Criders and Bergton, Virginia

Criders, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

My wife and I are still exploring Rockingham County, Virginia, where we have lived for seven years. That may sound hard to believe, but Rockingham is the third-largest county in Virginia. It covers 853 square miles, so there’s a lot of area to see.

We recently toured with friends an area of the mostly rural, agricultural county that we had never seen before. They were as curious as we were.

We chose the remote northwest section, where wildfires scorched thousands of acres of mountainous terrain in the George Washington National Forest during the first week of spring. We were pleasantly surprised with what we found.

Recent rains have greened up most of the area, with only a few burned spots visible from roadways. Thanks to firefighters’ efforts, an abandoned cabin was the only structure burned.

The areas of Bergton and Criders are set in a wide-open, fairly flat valley floor surrounded by mostly deciduous forests. It was a lovely scene.

The background of wooded hillsides and the building storm clouds behind this abandoned schoolhouse made an idyllic landscape portrait. It was one of many finds of the day.