rural life – Roadkill Crossing

Harvest Moonrise and Moonset: A Celestial Interplay of Light

The Harvest Moon rose over Massanutten Mt. on October 25, 2026. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Virginia weather finally cooperated this month, giving me opportunities to photograph the rising and setting of October’s Full Harvest Moon. In previous months, the weather had been cloudy and wet during the full moon cycle.

So, I checked the times for both events and planned accordingly. I chose Harrisonburg’s city Heritage Trail beside Bluestone Elementary School, a five-minute drive from our home, to shoot the full moon rising over Massanutten Mountain. The mountain’s southernmost terminus is a few miles east of the city, and it runs about 50 miles north and south through the center of the historic Shenandoah Valley.

The valley’s floor undulates between the Blue Ridge Mountains, home to Shenandoah National Park, to the east, and the Allegheny Mountains to the west. An elevated point just southeast of the school overlooks the trail, the city golf course, and a city park. It provides an excellent view of Massanutten.

Before leaving home, I checked a chart to estimate when the moon would rise above the mountain. The official time listed 5:50 p.m., but that assumes a flat horizon. That’s not the case in the Shenandoah Valley.

Since the moon would appear just before sunset, the sky would be pale, making it a bit difficult to spot the rising moon. Fortunately, a high-pressure system had settled over the valley, clearing the air of hazy humidity.

At exactly 6 p.m., the moon just peeked over Massanutten’s ridge northeast of Harrisonburg. I snapped away as the celestial beauty rose higher above the mountain and the sky grew darker.

Hikers and dog walkers passed by, and I gladly shared the Harvest Moon with them. Those not walking with their heads glued to their smartphones already shared a moment of mutual admiration with me.

The typical Full Harvest Moon shot. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Before bedtime, I snuck out and captured the typical photo of the bright full moon against its home in the velvety black sky. Filled with awe, I planned my morning sunrise adventure to document the full cycle of the setting Harvest Moon.

I had no trouble finding the moon that morning. I snapped a photo of it hanging just above my neighbor’s trees. I headed to Mole Hill, my mainstay for sunset photography, though I wasn’t sure it was the best location since the moon would settle in the north-northwest.

The full Harvest Moon over Mole Hill. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Another frost glistened in the intertwined light of the silvery moon and the slanting, blinding rays of the rising sun. Fortunately, Mole Hill, an ancient volcanic core, helped block the harshness.

Still, the moon view wasn’t quite what I wanted. I drove west a mile to Majestic View Road, and what a panorama it was. Scanning south to north, farm after farm joined together like a carefully assembled quilt.

Fog lifted out of the agricultural Dry River Valley. Water still flowed down from mountain rains, and the cool air condensed the river’s surface into a feathery cloud of mist that lifted ever so slowly over the blanket of farmsteads. The metal tops of their tall grain silos reflected the sunlight.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

Fog wasn’t the only element shimmering over the valley. The cold morning forced homemakers, farmers, and cottage industry employees to fire up dozens of wood stoves. Smokey pillars rose straight up until they hit a layer of colder, heavier air, then turned sharply south.

The hair on my arms rose, not from cold, but from exhilaration. I couldn’t have imagined such spontaneous, coordinated choreography between humankind and almighty nature.

I returned my attention to the setting moon as it neared the summit of Shenandoah Mountain, the eastern front range of the Alleghenies. The moon angled toward a pair of tall evergreens on the ridge of the old folded mountain, easily seen even with the naked eye.

I clicked and clicked until the moon finally slithered below the mountaintop. I picked out a landscape shot with the moon over the mountain and texted it to my family. Joy is meant to be shared, not hoarded.

I headed east the way I had come, but soon stopped on the southeastern side of Mole Hill. The scene south resembled a monochrome factory town from a hundred years ago. One after another, chalky columns rose until colliding with the colder air and sharp sunrays. I stood transfixed.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

An American Robin flew onto a branch of the black walnut tree just above me, shaking my spell. Again, I drove downhill, but didn’t get far. More unbelievable scenery unfolded before me. I only had minutes to capture what the farmer whose lane I had parked in must see every sunny day.

As I shot different angles, I stood amazed, grateful, inspired, and fulfilled. If the farmer had observed me, I’m sure he had his own form of fun as well.

The view from the farmer’s lane. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Morning Mist at the Lake

The shots I love most aren’t the ones I expect to take. They are the spontaneous ones that appear suddenly, unexpectedly, and often only for a moment.

This scene appeared as I walked back to my vehicle in the rain after photographing the American White Pelican, the shot I wanted. After crossing a short footbridge at the west end of the lake, I stood in disbelief.

There it was, the opportunity I didn’t expect. A red barn across the lake, an orange sugar maple to its right, mist muting their color’s intensity. A carpet of weathered water lily leaves spread out across the shallows of the lake in front of a stand of burnished cattails.

On top of all that, a tree’s branch framed the surreal setting. Click.

Good Reason, Bad Decision

I really shouldn’t have taken this photograph. But when an alert came in that a lone American White Pelican had landed on Lake Shenandoah, I had to go see it and take some photos.

Given the results, I’m glad I did, but I wish I hadn’t. I was diagnosed with acute bronchitis the previous day and was prescribed four different medications. I took them as directed and slept well.

When the rare bird alert appeared just after 8 a.m., my birding adrenaline kicked in. I finished my meager breakfast, checked the radar, and found no rain.

So, I headed east six miles to the state-owned lake. It misted all the way. The closer I got to the lake, the more menacing the sky appeared. I hadn’t walked 20 yards from my vehicle when the rain began in earnest.

I passed another birder friend who said the pelican was just floating in the middle of the lake. So, I hustled to the fishing dock, and there it was. But the fog and rain made it difficult to photograph.

Still, I got several shots, but being a typical photographer, I wasn’t happy with the results. I should have turned back to my SUVs and headed home. Instead, I stayed, got wetter by the minute, and took photo after photo.

This is the best one of the series.

American White Pelican. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Why this bird was here alone, no one knows. American White Pelicans usually migrate from northern climes this time of year in large flocks to southern locations. This individual clearly got lost.

Today is a beautiful, warm autumn day when I should be out taking photos of the annual changing of the leaves. Instead, having learned my lesson, I’m behaving myself and staying put.

Robots in the Neighborhood

A robotic lawmower. 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.

Nurturing Relationships as We Age

Birding with friends. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

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.

A Surprise Nor’easter Sunset

A faint rainbow at sunset. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

The weather forecast didn’t call for it, but last night the westernmost edge of the significant nor’easter covered Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley just before sunset.

My wife and I were watching Major League Baseball when I noticed an eerie orangeish color in the northern sky. I rushed outside and spotted a faint rainbow in front of thick clouds in the eastern sky.

I grabbed my camera and headed to a farm with a clearer view to the west. The sun had already set behind the Allegheny Mountains, illuminating a few rogue clouds.

It was a welcome, colorful surprise.

The surprise sunset. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Autumnal Equinox

The autumnal equinox arrives at 8:05 p.m. EDT. This means the sun will set due west this evening. In the U.S., tomorrow begins the first full day of fall.

Many people believe that the equinox brings an even amount of daylight and darkness, but that is a myth. This year, that occurs on Saturday, September 26, and is called equilux. The word is drawn from Latin equi (equal) and lux (light).

As hot as it was early on, summer has flown by. Welcome autumn.

The sun sets due west on the autumnal equinox. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Appreciating the Moment

The backside of a severe thunderstorm. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

After last evening’s storm passed, I stepped out the back door to check my rain gauge when this amazing scene stopped me in my tracks.

We had yet another storm, but it clearly had intensified as it approached the Blue Ridge Mountains and Shenandoah National Park, which serve as the eastern boundary of Rockingham County, Virginia, where we live.

The view of the mammatus clouds from my driveway. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

The setting sun dramatically illuminated the eastward-moving thunderstorm. The pouch-like clouds are mammatus clouds, formed when colder air aloft sinks into warmer air below.

Mammatus clouds almost always occur either at the lead of a severe thunderstorm or at the rear of the anvil-shaped thunderstorm crown. For meteorologists and those who appreciate and study clouds, spotting mammatus clouds is a rarity.

Since such clouds don’t last long, I wanted a view with a better line of sight. So, I headed to nearby Heritage Oaks Golf Course, behind an elementary school, which gave me an unobstructed view of the fast-moving storm.

As you can see, the turbulent clouds had already changed in the five minutes it took me to arrive at the golf course. Plus, the sun had set behind the Allegheny Mountains 30 miles to the west, changing the intensity and direction of its rays. Consequently, the colors of the clouds mellowed to more orange than white and yellow.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

Still, I was ecstatic to capture these shots, so much so that I never did check the rain gauge.

In Memory of Wendell Berry

An ally for all things wild, wonderful, and of nature died yesterday at his home in Port Royal, Kentucky. Wendell Berry was 92.

I didn’t know him personally, but a writer friend of mine did. Wendell even occasionally stayed in a cabin on my Amish friend’s farm in Holmes County, Ohio.

In honor of this great writer and activist for justice, I am posting his most noted poem, “The Peace of Wild Things.”

Rest in true peace, Wendell.

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

A Great Blue Heron. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

August Wasn’t August This Year

A puffy white cloud August day. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

When I rose for my morning walk around the neighborhood, it was 47 degrees outside. On August 25!

As I walked in the early morning coolness, I thought more about how this August had been so different in the eastern U.S. The eighth month of 2026 here in Virginia’s lovely Shenandoah Valley has been anything but normal weatherwise.

August behaved normally the first nine years of living here after moving from Ohio’s Amish country. Year after year, August’s sun beat down, and the humidity overwhelmed you.

Usually, large cracks in the hardened, red soil zigzagged like spider webs. The parched grass crunched beneath your feet, devoid of any moisture for days, even weeks on end. Not this year.

Our burned-out backyard in 2020. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Apparently, August masqueraded as April. A few spring flowers bloomed again. With storm after storm, some locales measured inches of rain. A few areas even experienced tornadoes, a rarity in Virginia, with property damage and power outages. Fortunately, no injuries or deaths were reported.

Even then, the area remains abnormally dry, according to the U.S. Drought Monitor. That’s how dry the early weeks of summer were.

Though we didn’t realize it at the time, summer’s dog days fell in June and July. Haze filled the bucolic valley, significantly obscuring the view of the mountains to the east and west.

Strong winds in a severe thunderstorm damaged our Red Maple tree. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

With August’s arrival, puffy white clouds sailed through deep blue August days. When school began again, students donned jackets while waiting for the school bus. They still wore shorts, however.

Instead of parched yards, lawns grew and grew, sometimes requiring mowing twice a week. It was a cash cow for high schoolers mowing lawns.

Unfortunately, the states to the south and west, clear to the Pacific Ocean, blazed and baked under record-high temperatures, extreme heat warnings, and massive wildfires. High winds spread small fires into thousand-acre conflagrations in minutes.

It wasn’t just the U.S. either. Europe and Canada shared in the record heat, dryness, and wildfires. Homes were destroyed, and firefighters were hard-pressed to contain the raging wildfires. The fires spread so rapidly around Las Vegas, Nevada, that residents escaped with only the clothes they wore. Passengers on European river cruises were inconvenienced by having to deboard for buses because the water was so low.

August’s weather has been a double-edged sword. Upper-level winds carried wildfire debris far from the fires’ origins, resulting in air quality issues for millions of folks. That also created glowing, golden sunrises and sunsets as a trade-off for the undesirable smoky smells.

A hazy sunset over the Allegheny Mountains. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

At the same time, people appreciated the coolness, especially in the morning. Those on their daybreak exercise in my neighborhood have been wearing jackets and sweatshirts instead of T-shirts.

Of course, the regularities of August are still with us no matter the weather. Crickets and katydids lull us to sleep. Monarch, Tiger Swallowtail, Spangled and Variegated Fritillaries, and Pipevine butterflies flit from flower to flower, occasionally stopping for a photo op.

The avian fall migration has begun in earnest. I’ve successfully chased Swallow-tailed Kites and Mississippi Kites, both species far north of their normal range. Warblers and other songbirds have joined them in their quest for appropriate food absent in northern climes in the colder fallow seasons.

Conversely, folks in the southwestern U.S. have been baked in consecutive 100-degree-plus days, weeks in some places. Those are abnormal temperatures for August, even for those areas.

Clearly, geographic location has played a major role in the weather one has experienced this August. That’s the way weather rolls.

Despite the storm-damaged maple tree in my front yard, I’m very thankful we were in the cooler zone of August’s many vagaries.