Our first look at the ocean from the cottage where we stayed in Maine. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Without realizing it, my wife and I drove through rural Maine toward our destination on the road we needed to take to our friend’s cottage. We had the road’s name but not the state route number.
We needed to stop at a grocery store to pick up butter and eggs. Since the country highway went through no towns, there were no stores to be found.
I was shocked when we came to US 1, the highway that runs southwest to northeast, essentially paralleling the Maine coast. We headed into Bath to buy the needed foodstuffs. It’s a 30-minute drive from the cottage to the closest grocery store in Bath. So, our stop was required.
Heightened anticipation propelled the drive south to the island. The ubiquitous birches, maples, and evergreens line the gently winding road to the cottage, only interrupted by bridges across inlets and streams, and marshes and ponds where Great Egrets and Snowy Egrets probed among the reeds and rushes.
When we turned onto the narrow road to the cottage, fiddlehead ferns, balsams, and birches welcomed us. So did our host when we finally arrived.
The refreshing ocean breezes, the roar of the waves, the scent of the pines, and the familiar birdsongs offered a welcoming chorus, too. Never had settling in been so easy.
An hour later, we stood on the dock at Five Islands, Maine, for the annual blessing of the boats. The name comes from the five islands in the harbor. A local pastor said a patriotic prayer for safety and a successful lobster season, and the lobstermen and their friends and families gathered on their boats. Other moored boats provided picturesque opportunities.
As soon as a memorial wreath had been tossed into the water in remembrance of those hardy fishermen who had passed on, we found a picnic table that sheltered us from the stiff wind and enjoyed our sack lunches.
Most lobstermen powered up their boats and headed out to ply their well-hewn skills. Others, on bigger boats, stayed to party the afternoon away.
Teenagers separated the luscious lobster meat from its hard gray shell. They provided the crucial step between the marine crustacean and the delicious $30 lobster rolls. I hoped they were paid well.
Soon, a box truck backed onto the dock, and a 450-pound Bluefin Tuna was hauled up, prepared for market, and trucked off. It was fascinating to watch the efficiency and cooperation of people who knew what they were doing and were doing it well.
As we walked back to the car, I couldn’t help but notice the orange lichens painting the rock retaining walls by the steep embankments. The wood-shingled cottages sat askew overlooking the harbor.
By the time we returned to the cottage, the low tide had revealed the sandy beach hidden by the ocean at high tide. The sand expanded wider and wider as it approached the receding Atlantic.
It drew me down like a moth to a porch light. I was mesmerized by the giant granite boulders that line the embankment in front of the cottage. I stepped lightly, making sure this septuagenarian didn’t allow his curiosity to override his common sense.
I explored the broadness of the sand and photographed other cottages hanging high above the temporary beach. Three hours later, the sea once again filled the bay, and the sound of the waves crashing and the cool onshore breeze ensured a night of restful, undisturbed sleep.
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
The Ellis River at Jackson, New Hampshire. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
There’s a lot to like about driving on Pinkham Notch Road, which is New Hampshire Route 16. We wanted to revisit some of the places we had seen seven years ago, when we initially visited the area.
After leaving the Mt. Washington area, we took the long way around to our hotel in Gorham, New Hampshire. We headed southeast to Pinkham Notch Road.
Our first stop was Jackson, a sleepy resort town on the Ellis River. The historic Honeymoon Covered Bridge, built in 1876, spans the river and is the village’s icon. Jackson also houses cute cottages, tourist businesses, and country inns.
The road basically follows the flow of the Ellis River, whose headwaters begin on Mt. Washington. The Glen Ellis Falls crash down 64 feet in a rock-filled narrow gorge a few miles north of Jackson.
To access the falls, you have to cross through a pedestrian tunnel under Route 16 and wind your way along the river, down rocky steps, and on a trail that’s occasionally muddy in spots. The trek is well worth it, however. Amid a forest of birch trees and evergreens, the rushing waters crash against giant, jagged boulders before falling and continuing down the mountainside.
Just up the road is the AMC Pinkham Notch visitor center. It’s the place for serious hikers to check in, rest, and shower. The Appalachian Trail that descends from Mt. Washington slides behind the center and crosses the road at Pinkham Notch.
The Pinkham Notch visitor center. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
A little farther up the highway is the entrance to the Wildcat Mountain ski area. If you’re up for it, the auto road to Mt. Washington is right across the road.
If you enjoy the outdoors in any season, the Pinkham Notch area in New Hampshire offers activities for everyone.
Glen Ellis Falls, Gorham, New Hampshire. Video 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.
The world’s tallest filing cabinet, Burlington, Vermont. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
When friends in Ohio learned we would be staying overnight in Burlington, Vermont, they suggested we check out an oddity.
After a smooth drive from the Pocomos to Burlington, my wife and I went looking for a good place for dinner. Our Ohio friends said we should check out the world’s tallest file cabinet. So we did.
I’m not sure how they knew about this unusual landmark, because no signs mark the way to it like other touristy places. There’s not even a sign explaining why, how, or when this “monument” was installed.
Thanks to Google Maps, we found it with ease. This amazing structure stands like an unmarked grave in the corner of the parking lot of a nondescript local business.
Best of all, the restaurant we chose was right next door. I enjoyed my monster smash burger and Vermont maple lemonade to wash it down.
My wife and I are in the last leg of our vacation. Yes, retired people take holidays, too.
We started our two-week trip off with a bang. We gathered with our son and his family, our daughter and her husband, and our granddaughter in a cottage on a lake in Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountain region on July 4.
The community where we stayed shot off its fireworks display from the dam of the lake we stayed on. Of course, neighbors around the lake preempted the real show with their mini-pyrotechnic displays. They couldn’t hold a candle to the sponsored ones, however.
At 9:45 p.m., the fireworks began despite the overcast skies and intermittent drizzle. The show must go on, especially on the country’s 250th celebration of independence.
I stood back and captured our families watching the fireworks. With the low clouds and the misty haze, the sparkly colors echoed off of the atmospheric elements.
In this photo, the brief time-lapse created a glowing red glow all around just as the second burst flashed brilliantly white with a double boom. It was a great way to initiate our time with family and friends on our jaunt into New England.
Fireworks in the Poconos. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
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.
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.
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