Our suburban home near Harrisonburg, Virginia, faces north. That requires me to constantly check east and west around dawn and dusk for any hint of a colorful sunrise or sunset.
My chances of catching a lovely sunrise have to be more intentional. The older I get, the easier it is for me to sleep past the sun’s morning appearance. Seniors seem to have a sleep cycle similar to that of newborns. I fall asleep fine, but staying asleep is another matter. Consequently, my awakenings in the middle of the night contribute to my sleeping pattern. I toss and turn and then sleep soundly until sun up.
So, I have many more Virginia sunset photos than sunrises. I walk in the neighborhood as often as I can, and I especially like doing so in the morning.
The morning sun highlighted a farmstead on Mole Hill. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The other day, my wife and I were about to begin our morning stroll when I noticed the sun shining on a farmstead on the eastern slope of Mole Hill, a local landmark. Mole Hill is the remnant of a volcanic core from millions of years ago. Over millennia, nature’s elements have weathered and withered the basalt down into a gently sloping geographic feature resembling a molehill, thus its name.
With my camera at the ready, I captured the sun highlighting this old homestead. I didn’t think much of it then, but that changed the following evening.
I wasn’t too hopeful for a glowing sunset, yet when I looked out, the sky radiated orange across the western sky. I knew my only chance for a photo was from the middle of the street in front of our home. So, I did that, standing at nearly the same spot as the morning photo of Mole Hill.
The farmstead stood out even with the setting sun behind it. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
In one of the photos, the same farmstead stood out, even on the shaded side of the historic hill. I don’t tinker with my photos, so this eerie highlight simultaneously puzzled and intrigued me.
Call it what you will. I’m glad the sun shines on Mole Hill morning and evening.
I was searching for migrating birds when I encountered this scene at a farm pond.
A male Mallard was escorting his partner as they foraged along the far end of the murky pond. A Black Angus steer suddenly trotted over to check out the feathered creatures encroaching on his territory. Fortunately, the duck and the steer stopped short and began a brief staredown.
Once the bull calculated that the duck was no threat to his ego or pasture, it waded into the pond for a drink. The Mallard didn’t seem too impressed.
A reflective sunset in the eastern sky in Rockingham Co., Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
No two sunsets are alike. That should be no startling revelation. Each sunset has its unique evolution, however. Some last just seconds with only a hint of orange, while others splash the western sky with a painter’s palette’s worth of colors.
Sometimes, a sunset defies both stereotypes and logic. That’s when a photographer’s fun begins.
Our home in Virginia’s verdant Shenandoah Valley faces north. Consequently, I need to check the western sky well before dusk for the ingredients for a decent sunset. If I spot puffy clouds hovering over the Allegheny Mountains, I get ready to head west.
I often gather my camera gear and drive a few miles southwest to a ridge overlooking a fertile valley dotted with Old Order Mennonite farms. Only the Dry River splits the gently rolling farm fields. Its tree-lined banks make its southward path easy to spot.
A favorite photo location for a mountain view is the aptly named Pleasant View Old Order Mennonite Church. Look west from its grounds, and the aged, rolling ridgeline of the Allegheny Mountains endlessly fills the horizon. Look east, and Massanutten Mountain dominates the landscape, with the Blue Ridge Mountains 40 miles beyond.
The western view.The view north.Massanutten Mountain to the east.
Please click the photos from the church to enlarge them.
There are no guarantees with sunsets, of course. Atmospheric conditions play good cop bad cop with the sunsets’ outcomes. I’ve been fooled and disappointed too many times to have high expectations. I set out with the joy of simply being able to witness whatever develops.
As a septuagenarian, I have learned to be patient with sunsets. I have headed home long after sunset’s time had expired, only to see a blooming garden of pastels fill the western horizon in the rearview mirror. So, even if the initial stages of the evening glow are less than spectacular, I persevere. Too often, I leave disappointed. Still, my time wasn’t wasted. I enjoyed the fresh air and American Robins and Eastern Bluebirds singing as they settled into their nighttime roosting positions.
Such was the case recently when I spied a patchwork of clouds hovering over the Alleghenies. When I arrived at the old church, the sun was nearly hidden behind those old, weathered peaks. Still, I snapped a few shots and then moved lower into the valley to hopefully catch a colorful reflection in a roadside farm pond or the Dry River, which had plenty of running water from recent rains.
The western glow perfectly silhouetted the lines of trees along the river banks. I stopped my vehicle by the cemetery of a historic country church. As I exited my car, my eyes were drawn southeast. I was stunned. The beautiful blues and pinks of a prized sunset flooded the eastern sky. I snapped away from different angles as quickly as possible, knowing the colorful array before me wouldn’t last long.
My first view of the reflective sunset in the east. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Had I not stopped for a photo looking west, I would have missed the glorious beauty as far as I could see north to south. As a photographer, it always pays to look over your shoulder before putting away your camera. Satisfied with the many eastern-facing shots, I turned to the tree line and got my intended but less colorful photos.
The view southeast.The view east.The view northeastAn Old Order Mennonite school south of the church.
Then, I remembered Slab Road, a quarter of a mile away. Rural road names in Virginia are about as practical as they come. Instead of a bridge over the Dry River, the highway department poured a narrow two-lane cement surface over the riverbed since the river was indeed dry more often than wet.
I stopped short of the river and quickly exited to catch the last light of the day reflecting on the water dammed up by the slab. The scene was breathtaking but not nearly as dramatic as the sunset reflected against the eastern clouds over Shenandoah National Park.
The Dry River flows over Slab Road. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
A milk truck with a shiny, 3,000-gallon stainless steel tank forged through the running water over the slab. I followed, hoping to capture one more decent landscape shot. But my prime time was up, and I came away with a bland photo of a farmstead with powerlines running through the sky.
Nevertheless, the evolution of this sunset couldn’t have played out better. My heart overflowed with joy and gratitude for a beautiful ending to another precious day on earth.
The tree line that marks the Dry River. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
A male Canvasback escorts two female Buffleheads on a local lake. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
With the calendar turning from February to March, bird migration has officially begun. True, several bird species had already started the arduous task of returning north from their southerly winter habits.
To account for that, birders divide the seasonal calendar in the Northern Hemisphere much differently than humans do. Bird spring runs in March, April, and May when most migrating birds return to the nesting homelands in the northern United States and Canada.
Surprisingly, summer is the shortest season for birds. It lasts just two months, June and July. It’s prime mating, nesting, egg laying, and hatching time. Once the young are self-sufficient, the first migrating birds begin their long trips south.
The fall season for birds runs from August through November. Different species have more than one brood and migrate on a different schedule based on habitat, food supplies, and other factors. For birds, December, January, and February comprise the winter months.
So, now that March has arrived, birders scout their favorite ponds, lakes, rivers, streams, wetlands, and fields for any early arrivals on their way north. Birders especially prize waterfowl and songbirds to spot and photograph.
Locations where migrating birds frequent are called hot spots. I checked a few on March 1. Though I didn’t find many bird species, I enjoyed seeing and photographing new migrants.
An American Pipit poked its head above the grass just to the left of the Northern Cardinal.
My first stop was one of my favorite locations for birds and sunsets, Silver Lake in Dayton, Virginia. It’s a 12-acre lake built in 1822 for a mill. The shallow lake is perfect for diving and dabbling ducks. I saw only a trio of female Buffleheads and one muskrat this time.
A few miles away is the Cooks Creek Arboretum, tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac. I spotted three birders with binoculars aimed at a hillside farm field. Birders tend to be pleasant people, so I didn’t hesitate to ask what they were seeing.
“About 150 American Pipits are flying and landing in the field,” one of them said. “Unfortunately, they seem to land over the crest of the hill.”
We walked together down the path to get a better look, but with a heavy cloud cover in the late afternoon, the birds were only visible during their short, rapid flights. However, I followed the birds to the flatter, more southern part of the field.
I captured a relatively poor photo of a few of the pipits flying. Patience, though, is a venture for birders. I saw a few birds foraging in the green vegetation of the field. I captured one of the small brown pipits as it began to fly. After wintering in the extreme southern U.S. and Mexico, the pipits were on their way to the far north Arctic tundra.
Please click the photos to enlarge them. Photos by Bruce Stambaugh
Happy seeing these fascinating visitors, I was pleased at my next stop just a few miles east. A local hot spot farm pond held dozens of Green-winged Teals and a handful of Northern Shovelers. Since the pond is on private property, I stood on a knoll across the road from the pond. With the distance of the pond, the chilly wind, and my inability to hold the camera steady, I felt fortunate to get some shots of these lovely birds.
I drove several miles to another farm pond much closer to the road. A lone Blue-winged Teal swam with a pair of Mallards while two Canada Geese watched from the shoreline.
On the way home, I detoured to a local arboretum and quickly found a nesting Great Horned Owl with two owlets in the fork of a sycamore tree. Friends had told me about it the day before.
Though spring doesn’t officially arrive until March 19, the birds are on the wing for spring migration. I intend to catch as much of the birding splendor as I can.
A Great-horned Owl with owlets. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Day hiking the Appalachian Trail in Shenandoah National Park. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I always needed a clarification. I was the marketing coordinator for a continuous care facility 10 miles from home.
Part of my responsibilities included writing a quarterly newsletter that featured people from every aspect of the campus. I interviewed residents in the nursing home, assisted living, independent living, and even employees.
Most residents welcomed me into their living space, gladly answered my questions, and allowed me to photograph them, often with a piece of quilting or carving they had done. It was the reaction of other residents that threw me off. Some declined when I asked them to be interviewed for the newsletter, while others said they were too busy.
I thought to myself, “They’re in a retirement community. How can they be too busy to be interviewed for half an hour?” So, I asked them for an alternative date. Again, they would offer an excuse that I couldn’t come that day because they had a doctor’s appointment, a friend was coming for a visit, a hair appointment, or some other reason at a specific time.
I stayed persistent and said I could come well before or after their appointment. Most declined, saying to pick another day that suited them. It usually was a day they didn’t have anything planned.
Sunrise at the Ohio retirement community where I worked. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
That should have been my first hint. Still, I didn’t quite understand why they couldn’t see me in the morning when they had a late afternoon appointment.
I do now. I held that position 20 years ago. At 76, I am the age of some of the folks I interviewed. I find myself repeating their behavior.
My wife and I retired, but not to a retirement community. We live in a ranch home on a third of an acre. We downsized considerably when moving from our long-time Ohio home to Virginia’s lovely Shenandoah Valley to be close to three of our four grandchildren.
I’m done for the day if I mow the yard, which usually takes about an hour and a half, including trimming. Out of sheer fatigue, I readily turn down opportunities to fill in the rest of the day. The only exception is if one of the grandkids has a concert or baseball or volleyball game.
After an exerting project, I am more than content to sit on my lounge chair on our screened-in back porch and read or relax. Even though I exercise regularly, I need to recharge the next day.
I am even careful about scheduling anything other than a doctor’s appointment on a single day. I have to drive across town to get to the medical office. I always wonder what traffic will be like. Our small city hosts two thriving universities, several non-profits, and many businesses and residences, including many townhouses and condos serving as college student housing. Plus, I have to cross an interstate highway that runs right through the middle of the city, with vehicles entering and exiting. As much as I like to drive, it can be stressful.
So, I confess that I didn’t fully realize the effects of aging. In my 50s, I was still raring to go. In 2024, not so much. I still walk, hike, and do photography, and I am an active bird watcher. Those I can combine in one outing. But not if I have another kind of commitment that day. I spread out the activities in which I partake.
So, to all those former residents in the retirement community, I apologize for shaking my head at your excuses. I now guard my daily schedules like you did all those years ago. Thanks for the life lesson, even though I learned it too late.
The author at Hawksbill Peak in Shenandoah National Park. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I went birding the other day to a couple of small lakes. I was hoping to find a flotilla of waterfowl. But it was not to be. At Silver Lake, I did see a lone male Canvasback swimming with two female Buffleheads.
A male Canvasback and two female Buffleheads. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The offerings at the larger Lake Shenandoah, southeast of Harrisonburg, Virginia, were even less. I scanned the lake with my binoculars and saw nary a bird. I walked the mile-and-a-half path around the lake, hoping to find a few ducks tucked among the cattails out of the wind.
As I reached the midway point, I spotted a diving duck. The little brownish duck didn’t stay long on the surface. After several tries, I finally got a photo of a female Ruddy Duck.
A female Ruddy Duck.
Even though there were few ducks on the ponds, I considered it a successful day of birding.
Of course, baseball buffs know the expression “ducks on the pond” as a euphemism for runners in scoring positions. I like it when my multiple interests overlap.
A Blue Jay scout atop a neighbor’s maple tree. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
We’ve had several chilly, gray-sky mornings lately in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. Consequently, our backyard birdfeeders have been active. The usual suspects frequent the hanging and tray feeders to crack open the tiny black-oil sunflower seeds.
A small flock of American Goldfinches are the most faithful. A small flock of European Starlings are the least wanted. The latter devour nearly any bird food I provide.
Occcasional visitors are Northern Cardinals, Dark-eyed Juncos, a resident Song Sparrow, a pair of Carolina Wrens, and a few White-crowned and White-throated Sparrows. I’m glued to the windows when they all arrive, often simultaneously.
But the bird that usually announces its arrival is the Blue Jay. Of course, they seldom come alone. A group of four to eight brighten my feeders irregularly. They hog down the sunflower seeds, peck at the cracked corn, and sometimes the peanut butter suet.
When I’m out filling the feeders and heated birdbaths, I hear them mimicking other birds in the neighborhood. My favorite imitation is of the Red-shouldered Hawk, which makes occasional low flights over the house in search of a songbird meal.
The intelligent Blue Jays keep a sharp eye out for the Red-shouldered Hawk. They want to keep their feathers intact. Sometimes, I hear the Red-shoulder’s loud, repetitive screeching, meant to scare out hiding songbirds. The call is too close for me not to see the hawk. More often than not, it’s a Blue Jay in an evergreen pretending to be a hawk.
The Blue Jays apparently have observed this mode of attack and use it to their benefit, not to attack other birds, but to frighten them away from the feeders so they have free dibs at the goodies as they dive in like blue and white jet fighters.
Smart as they are, the Blue Jays may keep a sentinel perched high in a neighbor’s tree, listening and watching for any potential predator like a cat, hawk, or human. They take no chances.
I was fortunate to spy a Blue Jay lookout the other morning. It perched quietly for several minutes, turning its head every which way to ensure the coast was clear for breakfast. I turned away and then back again, but the tree was bare.
Sunset over the Allegheny Mountains. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I watch the sky for any hint of a colorful sunset. I have to go outside to do so since our house faces north. The view southwest, where the winter sun disappears, is obstructed by neighboring evergreens and houses.
When I think the potential for a colorful evening sky is favorable, I grab my cameras and head west. Mole Hill, an extinct volcanic core, is one of my favorite spots.
From Mole Hill, I have panoramic views in every direction but east. Recently high, wispy clouds stretched across the sky like fingers from the Allegheny Mountains 30 miles to the west. It looked good for a blazing sunset.
However, by the time I reached Mole Hill, upper-level winds had scattered the clouds, except right over the mountains where the sun would disappear. I waited, nevertheless.
My patience paid dividends. While the sky over the old-age mountains blazed orange behind the stubborn clouds, pinks and mauves blossomed south, southeast, and north. I happily snapped away.
The Moon in a mackerel sky. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh.
I like to walk. Our neighborhood is the perfect place. We have little traffic in our little subdivision west of Harrisonburg, Virginia. Even though there are no sidewalks, the roads are wide and paved.
I walk as often as I can. But I enjoy the many things I see and sense as much as the exercise. The clouds caught my attention as I rounded the corner to our home in the crisp, cold air.
I recognized them right away. Meteorologists classify the high, scalloped clouds as Altocumulus clouds. Oftentimes, these clouds appear with other types of clouds. But on this winter’s day, they sailed the cerulean sky beneath a nearly full moon all alone.
Blue sky and dark blue shadows on snow. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
You don’t need me to tell you that the winter weather has been brutal in the first few weeks of 2024. And yet, it has its serenity, too.
I always loved how the long shadows of winter played across snowy landscapes. Even in suburban settings, the sky, trees, and shadows mark stark but lovely contrasts against the snow.
Such beauty helps us through blizzards, snow drifts, wind chills, and freezing temperatures. Altogether, they help chase away the winter blues.
Roadkill Crossing 
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