history – Roadkill Crossing

Railfanning With Friends

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.

A moment to remember. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Exploring the Blue Grass Valley

The Blue Grass Valley above the town of Blue Grass, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

My second visit to Blue Grass Valley paid off. The birds and the bucolic scenery lure me.

This remote Appalachian location serves as the border between Virginia and West Virginia. According to the Virginia Department of Wildlife and Recreation, the Blue Grass Valley runs for 7.2 miles. But that’s only measuring from the village of Blue Grass down the valley to US 250.

The northernmost section of the agricultural valley, abutted by sharp slopes on either side, is the place I enjoy the most. Besides its natural beauty, it features abundant wildlife, including lots of birds.

In the spring, songbirds and raptors nest amid varied terrain, with steep hillside pastures on one side and thick woodlots on the other. Brushy fencerows and fallow fields entice Golden-winged Warblers and American Kestrels to live as neighbors.

Since I focus on birds, the steep northwesterly part of the valley offers ample opportunities to see my target species, the Golden-winged Warbler. Of course, timing is everything. Once a report confirms the presence of the Golden-winged Warblers, I head for the hills as soon as the opportunity allows me.

The highland forests of the area are one of the few confirmed locations where the sought-after birds nest. Wait too long, and the birds will be heading south again once their babies fledge.

I had only ever seen one Golden-winged Warbler before, and that was during the Biggest Week in Birding festival in northwest Ohio several years ago. The bird came so close to me that I couldn’t get a sharp photo of it with my telephoto lens.

I couldn’t find the bird on my first trip to Blue Grass. But I arrived too late in the day. On this trip, I was determined to arrive early for a better chance of seeing this gorgeous bird with golden wingbars and a yellow crown to match.

There are only three ways to get to Blue Grass Valley from Harrisonburg, Virginia, and none of them are straight or flat. I chose the middle route, which took me along the narrowest mountain roads but also offered the best birding opportunities.

Blue Grass is less than 60 miles from my home, but with multiple mountain passes and horseshoe curves to navigate, the drive takes me two hours with breaks to bird and rest.

My first stop was Shenandoah Mountain, the eastern front range of the Appalachian Mountains. It happens to be the boundary between Virginia and West Virginia in the George Washington National Forest.

Male and female Red Crossbills graveling on Shenandoah Mountain. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

A couple of birders were exiting their cars when I pulled in. We were there to see the Red Crossbills. That area is one of the few spots in the mountains where they live year-round.

A flock of the Red Crossbills chattered in the trees overhead before diving down to “gravel” in the deep red clay. The birds apparently desire the minerals in that particular spot. I captured several decent shots of the beautiful birds, and then I continued west down the mountain.

The Virginia/West Virginia lines meander like the fast-flowing streams that have carved out the valleys. So, it’s common in this westernmost part of Virginia to cross into and out of each state numerous times.

In fact, the farmhouse where I birded was in Virginia, while the barn, not 50 yards away, was in West Virginia. The farmlane served as the demarcation.

The view from the upper trail.
The house and barn from the lower trail.
Virginia on the left, and West Virginia on the right of the lane.

It was 9:30 by the time I reached the Virginia Ornithological Society farm where the Golden-winged Warblers often nest. Birds were singing away as I headed for the well-marked trails and bathed in the songs, the shade, and nature’s lushness.

I was in awe of the vibrant ferns beneath the leafed-out trees. A clear-winged moth landed in tall grass right in front of me. A single pink wild rose broke the green palette. Still, birds were my objective.

Rose-breasted Grosbeaks, Gray Catbirds, Red-eyed Vireos, and Eastern Towhees sang a concerto for an audience of one. It was music to my ears, nevertheless. Skippers, Tiger Swallowtails, and even an early Monarch butterfly flit and fluttered in the dappled light of the forest.

Scenes from my birding walk. Photos by Bruce Stambaugh

I saw a flash to my left. It was a Golden-winged Warbler. I raised my camera and snapped a horrible photo of the bird. But the golden wings and head were distinctive despite the fuzzy photo. My phone’s birding app confirmed the bird’s song.

As the sun rose higher, so did the temperatures, and the birdsong diminished. I set my sights on capturing landscape photos of this beloved valley, with its intersecting hollows that make the valley appear wider than it really is.

As I drove toward the town with its ramshackle buildings and a few red-brick and white-clapboard houses, I stopped several times to capture the essence of the rural valley. Knowing these Appalachian folks’ desire for privacy, I tried to be as discreet as possible while capturing the paradise they live in. The few ranging cattle I saw didn’t seem to mind, however.

I marveled at how steep these pastures were, rivaling those I had seen in the Lauterbrunnen Valley in Switzerland. Of course, they weren’t quite as high, averaging 3,000 ft. above sea level.

Wispy cirrus clouds hung high in the cerulean sky. Below, many shades of green ran high and low, broken only by brown fences and farmstead buildings.

An iconic shot of the valley.
Fenced in.
A long lane.
Outbuildings.
Giant oaks.
Up a hollow.
A typical farmstead.
The country estate after Hardscrabble Rd.

As a photographer, I loathed the random stringing of power lines that zigzagged down the valley. Of course, the locals needed their electricity, and the power company always took the path of least resistance.

I marveled at the long dirt lanes that ran far up the hollows and disappeared beneath forested mountaintops. Irregular stands of ancient oak trees guarded weathered hay barns.

Before entering the little burg, I stopped to take a photo of a street sign that revealed the aptly named road, “Hardscrabble.” The nearest farmhouse and bank barn, however, proved to be the contrary.

At the town’s three-way stop sign, I turned left and drove alongside the southern branch of the Potomac River. Its headwaters originate two miles to the south.

When I returned to Shenandoah Mountain, I stopped for a break from the winding switchbacks of US 250. It was a historic Civil War monument commemorating the Confederate defensive breastworks used against advancing Union soldiers.

From that vantage point, I could view the mountains from which I had come, and I was only halfway home. Despite the exhausting drive, I’ll return next spring.

Looking west from Shenandoah Mountain on the way home. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Serenity on Moores Mill Road

On Moores Mill Road. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

A birding friend of mine messaged me that he had found a Dickcissel singing on a fence post along Moores Mill Road, 20 miles from my home. I had to wait a day to chase the rarity in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.

Colored like a miniature Eastern Meadowlark, the chunky grassland bunting occasionally wanders east from its mid-American breeding habitat. I had seen Dickcissels before when we lived in Ohio, but this would be my first in Virginia.

The narrow country road cut through two farm fields, with wire fencing hugging both sides, making it easy to spot the wayward bird. I made sure I left early in the day to see this bird. As it turned out, there was more than one.

To get there, I drove most of the way on the Valley Pike, also known as US 11. The historic roadway was the main route up and down the storied valley until the interstate opened in the 1960s.

Both Confederate and Union troops moved up and down this highway and on May 15, 1864, fought a battle in New Market, only a few miles north of where the Dickcissels were. It was easy to envision soldiers marching along and cavalry horses kicking up dust on what was then a dirt road.

A Dickcissel on a fence wire. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I turned east on Moores Mill Road, stopped a quarter mile off of US 11, stepped out of the car, and listened and looked for the short, buzzy song. AllAboutBirds.org describes the grassland bird’s song as “fairly short but hard to miss, a clicky buzzing dick-dick-ceessa-ceessa.” Thus the bird’s name.

Soon, I heard the bird, and then another calling on the opposite side of the road. One bird perched on a tall weed in a grassy field to the south. A Dickcissel on the north side sang a fence wire. I wasn’t sure which way to look.

I snapped a few photos before a car approached from the west and slowed. The birding vest I wore, the binoculars around my neck, and the camera in my hand were a dead giveaway to the driver about what I was doing.

The Baltimore Oriole. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

At first, I thought the vehicle would pass on by. Instead, it stopped. I had just snapped a photo of a Baltimore Oriole, which didn’t spook as the car passed by.

The driver stopped to see what I was up to. He was a man in his 70s, gaunt, and unshaven. With the driver’s-side window down to talk, I noted piles of clothes, used fast-food cups and wrappers, and other items filled his 10-year-old vehicle. Rather than judge, however, I asked if he lived nearby.

“No,” he said, “I live a few miles west of here. I’m on my way to get breakfast at one of the restaurants in New Market.”

In my head, I questioned why he was driving east when New Market was straight north. Still, the man wanted to know what kind of birds I was seeing.

All the while, one of the Dickcissels had perched on a bare, thorny bush 50 feet in front of the car, and the oriole still sang from a tall, leafy bush 50 feet behind.

Not surprisingly, the man had never heard of a Dickcissel, but he perked up when I told him I had seen and heard a Baltimore Oriole.

“Man,” the guy exclaimed, “I haven’t seen one of those birds around here in a long time.”

Rather than pointing out the oriole singing in the bush behind him, I showed him a photo of the bird on the camera’s rear screen. He couldn’t believe it.

I asked him if he knew where the road got its name, and he immediately replied. “Well, a long time ago, a man named Moore owned the land on both sides of the road,” he said. “He had a grist mill on the creek about a quarter of a mile south of the bridge.” He pointed east toward the stream.

I thanked him for the information and, wanting to get back to birding, told him I didn’t want to keep him from his breakfast. He told me he appreciated my showing him the photo of the oriole and continued on his way.

I was intrigued by the man and wondered if he was actually homeless, given the interior of his vehicle. The 15 minutes I spent chatting with him hadn’t really been an interruption at all. I spotted birds even as he talked.

Eastern Kingbird. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I continued birding and recorded several species typically found in this grassy habitat. An Eastern Kingbird gave me good looks right from my car. A Savannah Sparrow sang somewhere from the tall grasses. A Gray Catbird practiced its imitations of other birds before dashing for cover.

Curious, I drove east as the road descended to cross the creek. The man was right. The leaves on the sycamore trees growing along both sides of the creek banks obscured my view of the old mill’s remnants.

I turned around to head home when another car approached. Another birder wanted to add the Dickcissel to her yearly list. She already had photos of the birds by the time I stopped to share where I had seen them.

The Dickcissels could have simply been migrating. I’ll return to Moores Mill Road to see for myself. When I do, I’ll be surprised if that day can match the serenity of this morning.

A Dickcissel singing. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Palm Sunday!

First Daffodil

My wife and I enjoy visiting her cousin and spouse in the Piedmont of North Carolina. They return the favor by visiting us in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.

We all enjoy many of the same types of retirement excursions, including the local history of areas we visit. We like antiques and thrift stores. And we all enjoy watching birds.

We ventured out to a state park a few miles from their home. While looking for early songbird migrants, we walked a short loop through a woods with moslty second growth trees.

Sprinkled in among the woods were remnants of former residences and farm buildings. Near them, this clump of daffodils had sprouted up, a spontaneous memorial to the people who planted them.

After all the snow we had, it was a pleasure to find a single blossom in full bloom.

On Bells Lane

My wife and I planned to meet some friends for dinner at a restaurant in the town where they live, 30 minutes south of our home. On the way there, I wanted to check a birding hotspot where several nice bird species had been seen and photographed.

We veered off our route a mile and a half to drive the narrow, hilly, winding Bells Lane. The road wound up, down, and around for less than two miles. Yet, the habitat varied greatly in that short distance.

The Blue Ridge Mountains serve as the backdrop for Bells Lane. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

As we climbed the first hill lined by brushy fence rows and trees, I spotted a small flock of Canada Geese foraging on the hilltop. Pastured hillsides with tuffs of tall grasses, dotted with a few large trees, roll away on either side of the roadway.

I didn’t dare drive too fast. There was too much to see. Tucked away in the swale of two hills, cattails ringed a small pond, perfect for shorebirds and waterfowl.

Since the day had been mostly cloudy and dusk was nearly upon us, I merely wanted to check out this popular birding spot. Still, I saw a Northern Harrier coursing over a rolling field heading away from us.

Of course, I stopped a few times to take photos of this stunning landscape, even in winter’s dormancy. Amber stocks of spent weeds infiltrated the rolling tan pasture fields. Dead thistle plants painted their own fencerow portraits.

White-crowned Sparrows and White-throated Sparrows flushed from the roadside into the safety of nearby bushes. A Red-tailed Hawk perched on a precarious limb over another fallow field.

What surprised us most were the old, plantation-like farms we found along Bell Lane. The farm lanes were so long and lined with unkempt trees and vegetation that we could hardly see the homes and outbuildings. The settings literally oozed history.

Rounding a curve, we passed a gray-haired lady walking her black lab. On the left, a small pond stood, nearly hidden by the vines threading their way through the saplings and the wire fence.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

We crossed a small stream and were soon at the intersection back at the main highway. I was mightily impressed with the opportunity this country lane provides for bird watchers.

Without question, I will be back to Bells Lane. I’ll search for the Sandhill Cranes, Short-earred Owls, and any other birds, big or small. I’ll see what stories this curious road reveals as well.

2025 in 12 Photos

We live in a crazy world that seems to grow crazier by the day. But we must not let the chaos get to us. We need to carry on as best we can. For me, photography is one outlet that shuts out the din of the world’s madness against itself.

I enjoy photographing the wonder all around me, the serendipitous joy that springs upon me. By capturing those affectionate moments, I can share them with others, including you.

Staying in the present moment allows me to see things that others might just pass by. Consequently, I took thousands of photos this year. My photos feature people, insects, birds, trees, mountains, flowers, sunsets, sunrises, boats, planes, and a sundry of other subjects.

I have chosen to select one image for each month to review 2025. I hope each photo speaks to you the way they all did to me. Here then is 2025 in photos. Enjoy.

January

It’s only appropriate to begin this photo series with a snowy scene in January. This lone tree stood beneath the hovering clouds and was perfectly centered by the farm equipment tracks in the snow. The cerulean sky provided an excellent backdrop, like blue ice in a glacier.

February

Is there anything more stunning than a bright red male Northern Cardinal in the midst of winter? Against evergreens laden with a skiff of snow, the bird shows even more colorfully. It’s just one of the reasons I love watching, feeding, and photographing birds.

That’s especially true when they grace your backyard with such natural beauty.

Male Northern Cardinal, Harrisonburg, Virginia. February 8. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

March

I enjoy walking in our suburban neighborhood of nearly 500 homes any time of year. Besides the required exercise, I encounter many photographic moments. This neighbor had the foresight to plant daffodil bulbs around an old hand cultivator, once used to till garden soil, which helped control the weeds.

Emerging from winter, the buttery yellow of the blooms added a splash of color that complemented the old, rusting implement.

Daffodils as accents, March 21, Harrisonburg, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

April

Though not the state flower, Virginia Bluebells should be. They are native to the state and are its namesake. Besides that, the flowers are simply beautiful. Their pink buds turn to azure blue blossoms, and they are a welcome sight wherever they bloom in spring.

May

I captured this photo at a historic village in Mumford, New York. Since it was Mother’s Day, the Genese Country Village and Museum had people in period clothing doing demonstrations and providing information about their particular station.

While walking by a barn, I caught this man and his dog sitting in the morning sunshine. The darkness of the barn’s interior made them stand out all the more.

A man and his dog, Mumford, New York, May 11. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

June

I’m a sucker for sunsets. With its fluffy-cloud days, June is often a good time to watch for glowing evening skies. June 20th was one such day. It just happened to be the summer solstice, when the sun would be at its northwestern-most point in the evening sky.

I headed to my favorite photo spot, the western slope of a local landmark, Mole Hill. Mole Hill is a prominent mound in Shenandoah Valley’s Rockingham County. You can see miles south, west, and northwest from the extinct volcanic core.

On the way there, I saw a pony cart tied to the trunk of a walnut tree at the peak of Mole Hill Road. I didn’t think much of it until I heard the distinct sound of hoves hitting the pavement. I turned and saw an Old Order Mennonite young woman and two girls in an open cart behind a blond-maned pony heading my way.

Knowing they would not want their photo taken, I waited until the cart was well past my location before I snapped the shutter. The setting sun illuminated the pony’s mane and the seeded heads of the tall grass north of the roadway.

With the evening quickly cooling, a light fog began lifting out of the river valley below the Allegheny Mountains that mark the boundary between Virginia and West Virginia.

The combination of the golden sky, the glowing clouds, the darkened mountains, the mist, the farmsteads, and the rolling valley floor created a once-in-a-lifetime scene. It felt like a holy moment, and I was thrilled to capture it for others to see.

Heading into the sunset, June 20, Dayton, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

July

In the United States, July literally always starts out with a bang. July 4th is Independence Day, and it just so happened that the cruise ship my wife and I were on docked in Portland, Maine, on that hallowed day.

Fortunately, the ship’s starboard side, where our cabin was, faced the city’s harbor. We had a front-row seat to all the explosive colors reflected in the water. It was a fun way to close out our trip.

July 4th, Portland, Maine. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

August

Like many other locales in the nation, August was a hot, humid, and all too dry month. Still, people ventured out, keeping their routines and schedules despite the withering temperatures.

That was true for all kinds of outdoor sports. This photo shows the proud moment of the young man I mentor, far outpacing all the other high school runners in a cross-country meet. I wasn’t the only one who was pleased. Daniel’s classmates created a human gauntlet to welcome him as he approached the finish line.

Winning the race, August 29, Harrisonburg, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

September

This September in Virginia’s lovely Shenandoah Valley was fabulous. After a hot, humid summer, September ushered in cooler temperatures and revealed the magnificent colors of her topography and vegetation, both natural and cultivated.

This was the view I saw as I exited my vehicle at a country store near the quaint town of Dayton. How could I not take this shot?

From the area’s fertile soil, curving rows of field corn and rolling contours led the eye to the Allegheny Mountains to the northwest and the cruising cumulus clouds above. Come harvest, it was a bumper crop of corn.

Though I didn’t see it at the time, an American Crow is near dead center in the pastoral photo.

Early September in the valley, September 4, Dayton, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

October

Our three-year-old grandson loves Halloween. He also loves bubbles, so his folks bought him a bubble machine. Teddy wanted to show off how the bubble maker worked when we visited him and his parents the week of Halloween.

When Teddy ran behind the bubbles, the sharply slanting sun highlighted the multi-colored, windblown bubbles. The various-sized bubbles and their proximity to my camera created a moment I can’t forget. It was one of my favorites of the year.

Teddy and his bubbles, Rochester, New York, October 26. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

November

When a Red-headed Woodpecker poses for you, you have to take the shot. Of course, I am always ready with the camera when the moment arrives.

December

My wife and I spent Christmas week in Sarasota, Florida, with our daughter and her family. We wanted to devote holiday family time together somewhere warm. I’m happy to say the weather was perfect. With two college-aged grandsons and a teenage granddaughter, we hit the beach a few times.

After basking in the warm sunshine during the day, we returned a couple of times for the sunset. When the clouds didn’t cooperate, we settled for golden sundowns.

In this photo, a Brown Pelican appears to be leading the way home for this family walking along North Lido Beach. Sometimes the photo paints the picture for you. Plus, it’s only appropriate that we let the sun set on 2025.

Leading the way, December 23, Sarasota, Florida. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I hope you and yours have a joyous and safe New Year.

A Ghostly Encounter I Can’t Forget

Hoover Auditorium, Lakeside, Ohio. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I didn’t believe in ghosts until I saw one.

It was July 3, 2010. My wife and I were enjoying our annual laidback week at Lakeside, Ohio, a Chautaqua community on the shores of Lake Erie.

Lakeside provided a respite away from the daily grind of life for thousands of families during its Memorial Day to Labor Day season. Founded in 1873 as a Methodist summer camp, the village has grown into a thriving community that promotes education, recreation, religion, and arts and entertainment.

My wife and I participated in selected activities from all four pillars of opportunity during our week-long stay. But we mostly relaxed with friends on the wrap-around front porch of the hospitality house where we stayed a week each year. We played dominoes for hours.

Across the street in the 100-year-old Hoover Auditorium, Lakeside offered a variety of entertainment and lectures each evening, Monday through Saturday. That’s where I saw the ghost.

A lively and loud Celtic group of singers and dancers nearly filled the 2,000-seat venue. We arrived early to secure seats where the breeze would provide relief from the hot and humid Ohio summer days. The old auditorium remained essentially unchanged from its construction in the late 1920s, including the absence of air conditioning.

The band busted out lively tune after tune. The music wasn’t my cup of tea, but experiencing new cultures was part of the Lakeside design. I was glad we had chosen front row seats in the second section of Hoover, where I could stretch my feet into the east-west aisleway.

About halfway through the program, the excessive noise emanating from the stage made me restless. Apparently, it bothered the ghost, too. For some reason, I looked up at the suspended triangular metal beam that held the speakers and the spotlights that illuminated the stage.

From stage left, a glowing, blueish-white figure appeared. A man walked casually across the beam, not built to hold any significant weight, to stage right.

As the music boomed out, I sat transfixed on this man from another era. He had the appearance of a maintenance man. The man looked to be in his 50s, clean-shaven, and I can never forget his ruddy face with that square jaw. His hair was slicked back, a style of the time, and parted on the left side.

He wore a work shirt with no label, thick denim work pants cinched with a thick leather belt, and heavy leather boots that laced up in the front. The apparition was dressed in the attire of an early 20th-century construction worker, the same era as when the storied auditorium was erected.

I followed the man as he casually stepped across the beam until its end. He knelt and appeared to be adjusting something. I wondered if he was attempting to turn down the sound.

Had the clanging and drumming of the uproarious music awakened this ghost? Was he annoyed at all the ruckus?

At that point, I briefly looked around at the audience. All eyes were fixed on the musicians and dancers on the stage. I glanced back up to the man, and he wasn’t there. In his place was a softball-sized glowing orb, the same blueish-white color as the man. The orb quickly arched back to where the man first appeared and then disappeared.

I looked at my wife beside me, but like the rest, she was focused on the performers. I had always wondered what I would do if I ever saw a ghost. I had my answer. I just sat there in disbelief.

Questions ran through my brain like a runaway train. What had I just seen? Had anyone else seen the same thing? Why did I see it? What did it mean? Was I crazy?

At the show’s end, we retreated to the porch across the street. I sat quietly as other guests discussed the show, waiting for someone to mention the ghostly maintenance man. No one did.

The next day, my curiosity got the best of me. I visited the village’s archive center housed in an old, white-clabbered church building. Besides the archivist, I was the only one there, which allowed me to speak candidly with the young woman about my existential experience.

She listened attentively to my story, nodding her head, seemingly believing every word I said. The young woman merely replied that she had never heard of a ghost in Hoover Auditorium.

“But,” she continued, “I’ve heard strange sounds while working alone here. And I have caught glimpses of what I thought were visitors, but no one had come in.” I felt heard and accepted.

The woman went on to tell of several sightings of ghosts in the old Lakeside Hotel. Guests had even reported them sitting on their bedsides. She sent me next door to where all of Lakeside’s records were kept.

I asked the village historian, an older woman, to review the architect’s plans for Hoover Auditorium. The employee led me to an architect’s metal cabinet, where the narrow, flat drawers pull straight out. I soon was reviewing the blueprints for the interior of the auditorium.

I found no structural beam that would have run across and above the stage where I saw the ghost. However, I did discover that the scaffolding used to build the inside of the auditorium reached approximately the same height as the metal frame where I saw the ghost. The woman, who also kindly listened to my story, said she had no record of anyone being injured or killed during the construction of Hoover.

So, I was back to where I started. Full of unanswered questions, and wondering why, out of an audience of 2,000 people, I was the only one to see this phantom. After fifteen years, the entire scene is still etched in my mind so keenly that I could still pick this guy out of a lineup.

I’m still baffled as to why I saw this ghost. But what it did do is open my eyes and my own spirit to a fuller understanding of life. Much to the contrary of today’s thinking and behaving, life isn’t simple black or white, or right or wrong.

This experience showed me that life is full of gray areas, questions without answers. Most of my life is now behind me. I strive to stay in each moment and embrace whatever comes my way, even if it is a ghost.

At the very least, I now know how I would respond if I saw a ghost. I just watched, wondered, and marveled at what I saw.

Hotel Lakeside. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Walking Around Sydney, Nova Scotia

Our intrepid guide, John Bourgeois. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

We arrived at 7 a.m. at the Port of Sydney, Nova Scotia, located on the eastern end of Cape Breton Island. From our veranda, the old town still seemed to be asleep.

Before we left the ship, we couldn’t help but notice a giant fiddle on the dock, welcoming visitors to this intriguing town. At 60 feet tall, the largest fiddle in the world stands as a tribute to the island’s Celtic heritage and in reverence to its decades of fiddling.

We opted for a walking tour around the town over another long bus ride into the country. We were glad we did. We hardly lost sight of the Zuiderdam, which was fine with us.

Our morning stroll around Sydney was just that, very leisurely. Our guide was a character, dressed in period clothes, and unafraid to express his opinion. He was a hoot. With a name like John Bourgeois, did he have any other option? His surname gave away his personality.

John clearly loved his native town. His folklore stories of mysterious intrigue easily kept our attention. John knew the town’s history like the back of his hand. He should have. His family name went back generations, enabling him to interject personal ancestral history into his tantalizing tales. Perhaps some of them were true.

As we walked up hill from the dock, John took his time with his steps and his words. He knew himself and his town well.

John pointed out the Royal Bank Lion Monument, a symbol of power at the start of the prosperous steel mill days, now long defunct. He drew our attention to the now-abandoned church with an upside-down ship’s hull for a roof, the house where the ladies summoned the beleaguered sailors returning from a long voyage, and the community’s old firehouse, now a mustard-yellow painted two-story home with a bright blue door.

We enjoyed the flower gardens of lovely old two-story homes still occupied by long-term residents, and toured an old building that served as a residence and general store. It’s an impressive museum in its third life. We spied a Paul Bunyan-style mural of a hockey player that honored the beloved Canadian sport.

After giving John a generous tip for his honesty and folksy stories, I asked him for directions to a restaurant he recommended. He said it was just a little way straight ahead. A half-mile later, I found it, and the restaurant was closed. Apparently, I was as magnanimous as I thought.

We walked back to the Joan Harriss Cruise Pavilion, where we found a restaurant with lobster rolls. It was a relaxing way to end our walk around Sydney.

As our ship left the dock and headed out of the inlet, I realized that Sydney was much more than what we saw on our walking tour. The roofs of houses and church spires stretched far inland.

We passed the old coal tipple where ships loaded the once major export. Like the steel mills, the mines are now shuttered. Farther out along the peninsula, a forested backdrop highlighted impressive homes, rural stone churches, and a lighthouse where the harbor pilot boarded his boat for the ride home.

We enjoyed another musical performance after a nice dinner and called it a day. Halifax was our next highly anticipated destination.

Surprises on Prince Edward Island

The House of Green Gables. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I wasn’t sure what to expect from Prince Edward Island. Consequently, what the island offered surprised me.

We rose as the sun peeked over the eastern horizon into a cloudless sky. That correctly portended a fair weather day for our afternoon excursion to the Green Gables House and Museum.

Based on the comments of others who had been to PEI, I expected Charlottetown to be dotted with quaint, lovely houses. If they were there, we didn’t see them.

Our bus trip to the Green Gables Heritage Place included a sightseeing tour of the island. However, because the house is located on the other side of the island from the port, it was basically an hour’s drive out and another one back on the same roads.

We saw the fertile red soil that produces a variety of crops grown in many other locations. Prince Edward Island is the potato capital of Canada. I thought that, impressive as big as Canada is, and given that PEI is Canada’s smallest province, with 2,185 square miles.

On the way to our destination, we passed Lucy Maud Montgomery’s gravesite, located not far from the beloved homestead that inspired her writing. Here, too, I wished the bus would have stopped for photo opportunities. But we were on a three-hour tour, and I wanted to make sure we arrived back at the ship before the 4:30 p.m. departure.

We enjoyed the self-guided trek through the old house, all decked out with appropriate period furniture. However, the only piece of furniture that was original to the home was the halltree.

Those familiar with “Anne of Green Gables” likely could imagine reading about Anne’s escapades as we ventured from room to room, upstairs and down. I was particularly impressed with the meticulously manicured grounds.

Lovely flowers were in full bloom. Not a weed could be found in the modest vegetable garden. A variety of songbirds sang among the trees and flower gardens around the sloping property.

I spied a path that led to the woods where Anne frolicked, and I took it more for birding purposes than curiosity. I crossed the footbridge over the creek and up into the woods, only to stop short.

The woods soon gave way to a different kind of green. The Green Gables Gold Course surrounded the historic homestead. I sucked the breath right out of me. I pondered what L. M. Montgery might think about that.

Returning to the museum to meet my wife, I asked our step-on guide about the irony of a golf course encapsulating this historic site. The kindly lady merely informed me that PEI was the golf capital of Canada.

I was taken aback by that, since we had only seen rolling agricultural fields with occasional crossroad towns since we left Charlottetown. My wife and I found a shady spot and enjoyed our snack lunch before boarding the bus for our next stop.

A short drive brought us to Prince Edward Island National Park. The park was a narrow but expansive area that included long stretches of red rock cliffs with white sand beaches below. The Gulf of St. Lawrence stretched out deep and wide before us.

Too soon, we were back on the bus retracing our tracks to Port Charlottetown. We made it back to the Zuiderdam with little time to spare.

The aft of the ship was moored to a cement platform in the harbor. A local longshoreman and his female crew piloted out to untie the giant rope that steadied the docked cruiseliner. On the way, two young females entertained us by pretending to be those human-like wind socks that many car dealerships use to get your attention. Their imitation was a fun send-off for us.

As our ship pulled out into the Hillsborough River, we could see more of Charlottetown. With its church spires, busy harbor, shoreline parks, and colorful cottages and homes, it was indeed a charming town.

Sailboats, pleasure boats, and fishing boats escorted us back to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. A pair of red-roofed, white lighthouses accented by lush evergreens and patches of PEI’s famous red soil bid us farewell.

The seas turned a deep, stunning blue as nighttime approached. That meant dinnertime and more cruise ship entertainment. The day of surprises had tired me out, and sleep came easily.