travel – Page 3 – Roadkill Crossing

Serenity on Moores Mill Road

On Moores Mill Road. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

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

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

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

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

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

A Dickcissel on a fence wire. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

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

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

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

The Baltimore Oriole. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eastern Kingbird. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

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

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

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

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

A Dickcissel singing. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Here’s Looking at You

One of the main reasons I enjoy birding is that I see so much more than birds. This curious steer is one example.

I love being outdoors with nature, absorbing all that she has to offer. I love clouds, farms, trees, mountains, valleys, landscapes, sunrises, and sunsets.

Being one with nature requires paying attention. Quite often, I am astonished at what I see, even though I may have viewed the same scene before. That doesn’t mean it’s the same as last time. Life is full of surprises and continual change.

Lastly, I love to tell about what I have seen, heard, and touched because it has touched me. Consequently, I love to share what I have discovered with all of you. Even a curious cow.

In Search of Warblers, Finding an Eagle

Where the birds were. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

My wife and I spent the morning of our 55th wedding anniversary birding. That’s about as exciting as it gets for septegenarian celebrations.

Though spring bird migration had been ongoing for a month, the early warblers were only now beginning to be seen and heard in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. I wanted to see and literally hear those lovely, high-pitched songs. I know the term “literally” is overused, but this was my first bird outing with hearing aids.

I’m a very curious person, and I wanted to hear what I was missing in my latter years. Previously, I had to depend on the ears of younger birders to know, for example, that a Cape May Warbler was near. The bird’s thin, high-pitched “see, see, see, see” call was beyond my perception.

I knew March 27 was too early for the Cape May. But equipped with my hearing aids, perhaps I could catch the calls of other early-arriving warblers. So, off we went to a noted birding hotspot in Augusta County, Virginia, Bells Lane.

My wife occasionally accompanies me on my birding adventures, but she wouldn’t call herself an avid birder. I appreciate her company and enjoy showing her a particular species when I spot one.

Even though Bells Lane is in the city limits of Staunton, its geography and topography shout country. The narrow road meanders up, down, and around hills and valleys from a US highway to a state road. From its zenith, traffic buzzes north and south along I-81, though the noise barely reaches the beloved birding location.

With its proximity to the city, people use Bells Lane for other reasons. With only a handful of residents along its winding two-mile stretch, the narrow pavement is a safe place to jog, bike, or walk your dog, in addition to birdwatching.

When I pulled off the main highway onto Bells Lane, I opened the moon roof and lowered the windows, and drove at a snail’s pace. The air was cool, but fresh with the scent of apple blossoms and birdsong. I smiled with great pleasure at hearing multiple birds singing, and used the popular Merlin app on my iPhone to confirm my suspicions.

Birders are happy with such technological advances that can affirm or alert you to nearby birds. However, the combination of common sense and location tempers emotions when a rare bird is indicated.

Using their amazing ability to imitate other birds, Northern Mockingbirds are notorious for setting off frenzied searches for birds that aren’t there. I almost got caught doing that this time.

In the thicket of blooming redbuds and serviceberry bushes and old-growth trees, I caught a quick glimpse of a yellow and black bird zipping through the understory. An oriole, I thought, but which one? I didn’t see it long enough to identify it.

Much later on at the summit of Bells Lane, Merlin showed a Scott’s Oriole. I had never seen one, and wondered if that’s what I saw a half hour ago. That was unlikely, since a Scott’s Oriole’s territory is the southwestern United States.

One of several Northern Mockingbirds we saw. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Then I saw it. A Northern Mockingbird sat atop a fence post, demonstrating its wide repertoire of songs. I immediately discounted the Scott’s Oriole sighting, but wondered how in the world the mockingbird knew the oriole’s song if it had never heard it.

We saw several Northern Mockingbirds as we wound our way along the bumpy road, with horse and cattle farms dominating the rolling landscape. At one stop, I could only see the top of what appeared to be a rather large house, well situated behind a wooded hillside.

Between the road and the house, birdsongs rang out as clear as day. I stood in awe and joy at being present in that moment, finally able to hear those glorious songs so well.

The underrated Field Sparrows dominated the avian chorus. Unfortunately, I couldn’t locate even one of the birds, though they had to be close to me. That’s the disadvantage of birding alone. My wife enjoyed the bird cacophony while reading in the SUV.

The low, gray clouds made photographing birds difficult.

Several times, I parked the vehicle and walked along the roadway. I met another birder who advised me that a flock of Ruby-Crowned Kinglets was foraging for insects 50 yards ahead on the left side of the road, where the underbrush thickened.

I quickened my pace, only to be stopped by the luxurious liquid sound of an Eastern Towhee. It was a male. The black hood with rusty sides and a white streak down its chest provided protective camouflage as it kicked and scratched among the dead leaves on the forest floor. I finally got a clear shot of it.

Farther up the road, I must have found a stray of the Ruby-crowned Kinglets. The lone bird flitted from limb to limb over my head, devouring insects.

Merlin showed a Pine Warbler calling, but I couldn’t find it. Pine Warblers are often among the first of their species to migrate back north after overwintering in the warmer southern states.

The young Bald Eagle on its perch. Photos by Bruce Stambaugh

As we reached the halfway point, we were at the summit of the ridge. A line of black Angus steers lumbered away from a small red barn down the pasture toward the road.

A snag of a tree stood just beyond the barn, and at the highest perch was a subadult Bald Eagle. Patches of white feathers against black revealed its age. It wasn’t a warbler, but I was thrilled to see it. The proud bird sat perfectly still, overseeing the valleys to its east and west.

Notorious for roosting in one location for hours on end, the young Eagle seemed oblivious to the cattle, the American Crows flying in the distance, and to me. I snapped away before retreating to my SUV.

The forecasted rain began to fall, gently at first and then more steadily. Our morning of birding had come to an end with perfect timing.

We headed back into town for lunch, having heard and or seen 43 bird species in a little over two hours. I anticipated warblers, but saw an eagle instead. It was an unexpected gift on our anniversary morning.

Two curious American Robins checked out the young Bald Eagle. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Tree Swallows Have Returned!

A Tree Swallow. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Tree Swallows are back! They are usually the first of the swallow family to return north.

With the spring migration in full swing, it’s a joy to see these beautiful, acrobatic birds once again coursing over fields and ponds in Virginia.

Tree Swallows benefit humankind by devouring thousands of insects as they dive and dart over farm fields and wetlands alike. Not only that, their iridescent deep-blue backs and clean, creamy front and undersides make them gorgeous to look at.

These aerolists twist and turn, chasing flying insects. They nest in tree hollows and nest boxes usually meant for Eastern Bluebirds.

Don’t let their beauty or their sweet, chirping sound deceive you. When nesting, Tree Swallows will divebomb anyone who comes close to a box where they are nesting. I can speak from experience.

While searching a local marsh with bluebird boxes fixed to roadside fence posts, I unintentionally got too close to one. Soon, a pair of Tree Swallows took turns buzzing my head. I quickly realized my mistake and moved away.

Tree Swallows are fiercely competitive, too. I once saw a pair of males battling over a hole in an old snag by a canal. The two birds faced off, screeching noisily as their wings flapped frantically.

Soon, one bird forced the other one down toward the canal’s surface, but didn’t stop there. The bird on top forced the upside-down bird underwater, drowning it in less than a minute.

Tree Swallows perch in small to large groups on telephone wires and fence wires. From that perch, they launch into an attack on unseen prey.

During haymaking times, Tree Swallows join Barn Swallows in swooping high and low in circles around the farmer’s mowing machine. They feast on the fleeing insects as the farmer cuts the alfalfa or mows a pasture field.

Come June, Tree Swallows will have taken up nesting from the midsouthern states to near the Arctic tundras. They winter along the southern and western coastlines in the United States and throughout Central America.

So, take heart. If the flashy Tree Swallows haven’t reached your area yet, be patient. Migration continues through early June.

A Tree Swallow preening. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Stop and Go!

I was intrigued by this toilet sitting along a curb in China Grove, North Carolina. I have no idea why someone had set it beside the street.

Nevertheless, I thought it made an appropriate photo for April Fool’s Day.

Palm Sunday!

Another Wedding Anniversary

Tomorrow is our 55th wedding anniversary. I am most grateful to my lovely and loving wife, our son and daughter, and their spouses, to our extended families, and to our many friends we have made over all those years.

Neva and I wouldn’t be where we are today without their wonderful advice, support, and love. Happy 55th, Neva!

Neva, along the Kancamagus Highway in New Hampshire. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

First Daffodil

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

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

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

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

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

Snow on Shenandoah Mountain

Shenandoah Mountain as seen from the rolling valley. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

On Shenandoah Mountain, a miles’ long ridge that marks the boundary between Virginia and West Virginia, the snow glistened in the bright sunshine of a recent morning.

Far below, a majority of the snow cover in Rockingham County in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley had melted into the moisture-starved landscape. A few days later, it snowed again.

In the eight and a half years my wife and I have lived here, the serene winter scenery has drawn my admiration. Too often, though, snow still clung to the winding, switchback road to Shenandoah’s summit. So, I admired from a distance.

However, I took advantage of the glorious day and ventured out, hoping that days after the heavy snow fell, US 33 would be bone dry all the way to the West Virginia line. That’s just the way I found it.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

Shenandoah Mountain is a much-revered landmark to locals on either side of the famed mountain. The mountain is actually an entire range that runs southwest to northeast for 73 miles. The undulating ridge ranges from 3,500 to 4,397 feet in altitude at Elliott Knob.

Not to be confused with Shenandoah National Park at the eastern end of Rockingham County, Shenandoah Mountain serves as the eastern front of the Appalachian Mountains. It is a substantial part of the George Washington National Forest in both Virginia and West Virginia. Its extensive biodiversity includes alpine vegetation, flowers, and wildlife, which attract hikers and birders from afar.

In the wintertime, I marvel at the contrast between the snow and the charcoal-colored stands of forest, dotted occasionally by the dark green of tall, twisted pines. The storied mountain draws me like a magnet.

As I drove up the curvy highway, the snow depth increased as I climbed higher and higher. I noted safe places to pull off for photos on the way back down. Though the sun shone brightly, the wind blew steadily. It was 29 degrees when I started the climb, and 19 at the peak. I was surprised that the wind rustling through the bare trees made the only sound I heard.

Switzer Lake viewed from US 33. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I expected more snow as I looked at the multiple mountain ranges of the Appalachians in the Mountain State’s interior. But apparently, this latest storm dumped an upslope snow, meaning most of the snow fell on the western slopes of the mountains as the winds blew eastward.

On the way back down to the valley, I stopped a few times where the state had made short breaks in the guardrails. At those spots, I pulled my vehicle completely off the road to capture a few photos. One man even slowed, lowered his window, and asked if I needed help. I thanked him and assured him I was fine.

Surrounded by all this beauty and quietude, how could I be otherwise?

The Appalachian Mountains in West Virginia, viewed from Shenandoah Mountain.
Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Red Barn, White Mountain

Only a skiff of snow dusted the central Shenandoah Valley in Virginia, while the coastal cities and communities got hammered with blizzard-blown feet of snow.

The mountains surrounding the valley, however, received their fair share of snow. The snow highlighted the forest-covered slopes.

The Massanutten Range, which splits the valley from Front Royal at the north to Harrisonburg at the south terminus, especially stood out with its fresh snowpack.

By the next afternoon, the dusting of snow in the valley had melted. Massanutten Mountain, however, showed its snow. The difference between the valley and the forest-studded mountain was not only obvious but also stunning.

This photo was taken near Weyers Cave, Virginia, looking north to Massanutten.