About this time every summer, a marvel of nature appears in our neighbor’s backyard. A fairy circle or ring appears almost overnight.
The appearance of a lone mushroom is the first sign of the false parasol fungi. By evening, several others have formed an arch. The white caps contrast nicely with the vibrant grass.
Though the fungi seem to be separate ones popping up, they are actually all connected underground. The arch or ring grows as the fungus seeks food underneath the exposed mushrooms, which are not edible.
The fairy rings are naturally occurring and, according to folklore and myth, can bring either good or bad luck. They are also called elf circles or pixie rings. By the time the neighbors mowed their yard, the fungi were the size of dinner plates.
Fairy rings mostly appear in grassy areas, but are also seen in forests. Wherever they show up and in what formation, the fungus is a sight to see.
One of the beaches at Reid State Park, Georgetown, Maine. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Reid State Park lies a mile across the bay from the cottage where we stayed. To get there by car, we drove seven miles.
The park serves as an access to the ocean for the general public. It also stands as a stark reminder of Mainers’ desire to preserve and protect their precious and lovely coastline from too much commercial development.
Diana, our host, wanted us to experience the park the way other visitors do. It was also an opportunity for a wider perspective of the Atlantic Ocean than what we could see from her cottage in the woods across the way.
Young girls braved the waves. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
With the tide high, the waves rolled in to the joy of the water lovers of all ages. Young girls braved the strong waves, trying to stay erect against the crashing force. Their mother stood on alert where the waves turned to foam.
Wanting to try to ride the larger waves ashore, teenagers snagged a driftwood log and walked it bravely into the breakers. I was afraid to watch further.
Ducks also rode the waves close to shore and out of the wind. Gulls perched on rocks or pestered picnickers for any discarded scraps. Song Sparrows darted from scrubs to sea oats in search of proper food. I stood on the giant metamorphic rocks for an elevated view of all the action.
People searched the tide pools in the rocks for any trapped fish and starfish. The park featured no water slides or swimming pools. The purpose was to enjoy all that nature offered, from water-worn boulders, sandy beaches, and birds and butterflies.
When we returned to the cottage, low tide revealed the tidal flats of sweep sand for all to enjoy in the park and beyond.
Low tide expands the park’s “beach” exponentially. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
A cornfield with a view in rural Maine. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Somehow, we left New Hampshire for next-door Maine and ended up in Norway.
We left North Conway, New Hampshire, and the GPS took us on an unexpected route. We drove all country roads on the way to Maine’s capital, Augusta. We passed through one small town after another. Winding roads lined by deciduous and evergreen trees and occasional farm fields connected all the towns to one another.
We drove through Fryeburg, Lovell, Sweden, and Waterford. But we had to stop in Norway. Unlike the other burgs, welcoming storefronts lined Norway’s Main Street. It was lunchtime, so we decided to stop.
The quirky creativity of Norway, Maine.
When we exited our vehicle, music drew us eastward along Main Street. We looked for a restaurant as we went. We found the source of the music in no time. A lone musician played at the town’s weekly farmer’s market across the street.
We checked it out and kept walking. The entrance to the local food coop stopped me in my tracks. Its eclectic entrance earned a photo. A few paces later, I stopped again to take a photo of the Weary Club of Norway Maine.
I had no idea what that was, and they weren’t meeting, so I looked it up. The “wearies” formed their social club 100 years ago. They were “the Shakers and Dealers in cedar shavings, social gossip, political wisdom, and Yankee philosophy.”
The Kennebec Cabin Company. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Not finding a place to eat, we kept moving over the rolling, tree-studded landscape and stopped in Manchester, Maine, at the Maine Cabin Masters gift shop and restaurant. Its official name is the Kennebec Cabin Company.
We ate outdoors in the shade to avoid the extreme heat. The house is the gift shop with the typical tourist offerings and prices.
After lunch, we checked out the striking state capital building and drove to an adjacent town set on the bank of the Kennebec River for some ice cream. It was a refreshing way to end an intriguing day.
The Maine State Capitol Building. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
This is how the famous mountain looked after we completed our round-trip excursion. From the left, the Mt. Washington Hotel, the cog railway, and the peak itself. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
We left our friends’ home in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom for an hour’s drive to the Cog Railway in Bretton Woods, New Hampshire. We arrived in plenty of time and discovered that we could take the 11 o’clock train instead of the noon one.
The other options for getting to the revered mountaintop are to drive up the private road, pay to ride up in a van, or walk up and back via the Appalachian Trail. My wife ruled out the first two, and our age and physical shape ruled out the other.
After receiving the rules for riding the railway, we boarded our car with the biodiesel engine at the rear to push us up the mountain. We followed two other such “trains” up the tracks.
The seats were slanting forward rather than at a 45-degree angle, which was uncomfortable at first. That soon changed as we chugged forward, and our seats felt comfortable as they adjusted to the mountain’s steep incline.
The fastest we clackety-clacked up the cog rails was five miles per hour. So, it took nearly an hour to get to the top.
When we left the station, we could see the mountain’s top with passing clouds. When we arrived atop Mt. Washington, we were in the clouds with only occasional views and a few hints of sunshine.
We had 50 minutes to eat lunch, which we took along, and to explore the historic mountaintop. Sudden bursts of sunshine interrupted my snack lunch. I rushed outside to capture whatever I could see. The view west was a wall of gray.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
I could see east and north, however. I saw the Appalachian Trail, which winds up and down the mountain. Cairns marked its path instead of white blazes on trees. A few hikers trekked amid the cloudy mist.
Having been to that area seven years ago, I could identify the Wildcat Ski area and the scenic New Hampshire Route 16 that runs from Gorham south through Pinkham Notch and down the valley to Conway.
So, the $100-a-piece ride wasn’t a complete bust. However, in the hour it took to return to the base station, the sky had cleared. Mt. Washington stood as handsome as ever above all the other presidential peaks.
Proof we made it to the top. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The iconic view of Stowe, VT, without the fall colors. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Before visiting friends in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom, my wife and I enjoyed the eye-pleasing scenery of the Green Mountain State.
After a stop at Cabot’s Cheese, we visited Stowe, Vermont’s tourist magnet. Despite the excessive heat, we weren’t disappointed. The young lady at the visitor center helped us make the most of our limited time there.
The Little River flows behind the Stowe Community Church. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
We walked through part of the town to photograph the iconic church with its towering steeple and to find the recommended restaurant for a refreshing salad and hydration. We found both.
After lunch, we took the Stowe Hollow self-guiding tour and found some incredible scenes even in summer. I can only imagine these vistas decked out in fall’s brilliant, warm colors.
Even with fifty shades of green all around, we found the countryside surrounding Stowe stunning. From unique barns and homes with views to covered bridges and the Green Mountains as the backdrop, we left Stowe amazed but ready to fellowship with our friends.
This American Robin knows how to beat the heat. It sat in this birdbath cooling off for the longest time. It didn’t splash or move around like the birds usually do while in the birdbath.
The robin just sat and enjoyed the pleasure of being still and cool. It’s a lesson for all of us to stay cool during this prolonged heatwave.
American Robin keeping cool. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Chimney Swifts in flight. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Chimney Swifts are some of my favorite birds. I have adored these magnificent little birds for a long time. Let me count the ways they bring me joy.
More than likely, you’ll hear these gregarious birds before you see them. Their chattering call, while they are furiously flapping their pointy wings, alerts you to their presence.
I find their looping flight patterns intriguing, too. They like to fly overhead, wings furiously flapping, sometimes dipping low, and then back up in a rapid arch.
If you miss them on their first pass, stand still, and they are likely to return, perhaps bringing others with them as they skim the sky for any and all insects. If you have Chimney Swifts in the neighborhood, you likely won’t be bothered much by mosquitoes.
Chimney Swifts are equally at home in cities, suburbs, and rural areas. As long as these chubby-looking birds have a chimney in which to roost, they will make themselves at home.
It’s only appropriate that Chimney Swifts build their nests on the insides of chimneys. Their sooty colored feathers blend perfectly with whatever powdery substances they might pick up as the birds zip in and out of their chosen chimneys.
To clean themselves, Chimney Swifts will zoom over lakes and rivers, suddenly dip into the water’s surface, and then speed off to air-dry themselves.
Before North American colonization, Chimney Swifts originally built their nests in hollowed trees, on cliff faces, and in caves. Once White pioneers built their brick chimneys, the cigar-shaped birds adapted to a new habitat.
They build their nests on the inside of chimneys by using a glue-like saliva secreted from under their tongues. Chimney Swifts use their long claws to cling to the side of chimneys. The birds cannot perch like most other birds.
Some people cap or screen their chimneys to keep birds out. That, coupled with newer chimney designs and sizes, has led to a decline in the Chimney Swift population in recent years.
When we lived in Ohio, our home was built on an Amish farm. We had Chimney Swifts every year, and we lived there for 38 years.
The stubby chimney on our former Ohio home. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I greatly enjoyed the aerial antics of the chattering Chimney Swifts. In the evenings, I would stand and watch as the birds swirled in loops over the house, dropping closer with every pass until they would dive into our short chimney.
Before we added air conditioning to the house, I would sometimes sleep on the couch in the lower level of our bilevel home on hot, humid summer days. There, the temperature was cooler.
We had a wood-burning fireplace, and when the Chimney Swifts had young in their nests, it seemed like they would feed all night long. The force of their powerful wings, helping them to brake once they entered the chimney, rattled the glass fireplace doors.
An adult bird once fell into the fireplace because I hadn’t secured the damper all the way closed. I donned thick gloves, carefully removed the bird, and let it fly free outside again.
During the colder months, I loved to sit on the raised hearth in front of the firebox and enjoy the radiant heat and the aromatic aroma of seasoned wild cherry, oak, and ash firewood blazing away. The warmth penetrated my shirt, soothing my aching back.
Once the Chimney Swifts arrived in April, however, no more fires were built until the birds left in early October. The birds spend the winter in northwestern South America.
They migrate north over Central America to all areas of the United States east of the Rocky Mountains, where they breed and raise their young. Come October, they begin their extended journey back to South America.
Our Virginia home doesn’t have a fireplace, but several of the close neighbors do. Consequently, I can continue to enjoy the chitter-chatter of the helpful Chimney Swifts as they zoom around the neighborhood.
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
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.
It was a simple, mundane task that turned into a celebration of connections.
I needed gasoline for the lawnmower since our granddaughter said she would come the next day to mow our yard. The gas can for the mower was empty, so I drove to the local gas station to fill it and my vehicle, a process I gave little thought to.
A pickup with a huge water tank in the truck’s bed blocked most of the pumps. I was able, however, to back into the one pump that had the non-ethanol fuel I needed.
I went to insert my credit card and noticed a black one had been left in the slot to pay for the gas. I pulled the card out and wondered what I should do with it. The office at the rural station had already closed.
If it were my card, I would want someone to retrieve it and try to contact me. So, I put the card safely in my wallet, turned my attention to paying for gas with my own card, and returned home.
I Googled the lady’s name on the card and quickly found her address and phone numbers, both landline and cell phone. I called the mobile line first and left a message. I tried the landline, but it rang a rapid busy signal, a sign that it was no longer a working number.
I figured I would get a quick response to my message, but I was wrong. When I still hadn’t heard anything by the next day, which was a Saturday, I called the 911 center’s non-emergency number to see what I should do with the card. The dispatcher told me to drop it off at the police station. I decided to wait until Monday to do that and hope the lady would follow up with me before I went.
That’s exactly what happened when shortly before 9 a.m. Monday, the lady called. The number where I had left the message was actually her son’s phone, and he didn’t let her know until just before she called me.
To say she was giddy to know her card was safe would be an understatement. But there was more to it.
The lady explained that when she realized she had misplaced her card, she checked her latest transactions with it online. Purchasing the gas was the last charge.
She drove to the station to see if she could find her card. A truck with a large water container on the back was at the pump. The man driving the truck saw her looking around the pump we had used and asked if she needed help.
“I left my credit card in the pump yesterday,” she explained.
The man asked, “Was it black?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “How did you know?”
“I was here yesterday, and I saw a guy take the card out of the pump,” he said. It was the same man and truck I had seen. He told the woman that he buys a lot of gas there.
“I think he took the card up to the office,” he told her. Of all the details, he got that one wrong.
Then came the real shocker of the phone conversation.
“Are you Maren’s grandfather?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “How did you know?”
“I am Maren’s mentor at church,” she replied. “I recognized your last name because of your daughter.”
I thought, “What a small world.” But that wasn’t all.
The kind woman was a cousin of a dear friend of mine who had recently died unexpectedly. I chuckled to myself about the multiple overlapping connections we had.
Darlene arrived at my home a couple of hours later to retrieve her credit card, which she had put on hold to prevent misuse. In return, she thoughtfully handed me a carton of fresh strawberries.
We stood on the front porch and chatted for a long time about the happenstances that had led to the return of her card and the serendipitous connections we had discovered.
The more we conversed, the more common relationships we discovered. It was a joyous first meeting, and more than a fair trade of strawberries for a wayward credit card.
Roadkill Crossing 
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