Mountain Laurel blossoms. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I went for the birds and the blossoms, but forgot about the bugs. They didn’t deter me, however.
My neighbor had told me that the Mountain Laurel bushes were blooming at various locations in Shenandoah National Park, just a short drive from my home. The laurel blooms from late May into mid-June, depending on elevation.
Of course, I had to see for myself. I fixed a hiker’s lunch, packed my binoculars, camera, and a couple of jackets, and headed out. It’s often 10 degrees or more cooler in the mountains than in the Shenandoah Valley, where I live.
I didn’t need to bother with the jackets. The temperature was 70 degrees when I arrived, and it was humid, with little to no breeze. It was 79 when I left.
A small black bear cub greeted me not long after I entered the park. Fortunately, it scampered back off the old stone wall away from the road and into the forest.
I soon reached my first destination. Just a short distance off Skyline Drive, I reached the Appalachian Trail, which crossed a fire road. I didn’t see any Mountain Laurel, but songbirds were plentiful. So were the knats and mosquitoes.
A male Eastern Towhee. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I strolled along the AT, swatting at the pesky bugs and trying to locate the many warblers I was hearing and recording on my smartphone’s birding app. Singing its unmistakable “drink your tea” melody, a male Eastern Towhee posed for a photo on a limb hanging right over the trail.
I met a lone through-hiker from South Carolina. She hoped to reach Mt. Kadadhin in Maine by mid-September. She told me she had passed many stands of Mountain Laurel on her hike so far, which began at the Appalachian Trail’s traditional starting point, Springer Mountain, in Georgia.
She headed north while I retraced my steps to my vehicle. The birdsong was terrific, but the forest’s full foliage made it challenging for this old guy to spot the warblers as they flitted from one branch to another, munching on their insect smorgasbord.
Besides, my main goal was to photograph the blooming Mountain Laurel. I followed my neighbor’s directions to another section of the AT, where the Mountain Laurel was so prolific that it formed a floral tunnel.
The laurels were in all stages of blooming, from tight pink buds to hexagonal flowers in full bloom. In places, the sun filtered through the forest canopy, highlighting the beauty before me.
The laurel blooms offered no fragrance, and I never saw an insect of any kind on any of the hundreds of blossoms. There was a good reason for that. As pretty as the prized flowers are, they are poisonous to any living creature. Every part of the plant is toxic.
So, if someone offers you Mountain Laurel honey, politely decline. Merely enjoy the flowers with their evergreen leaves. If you go, make sure you take your favorite bug spray.
Mountain Laurel grows along the Skyline Drive in several locations. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Appalachian Blackberry blossoms. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
On a recent day hike on the Appalachian Trail in Shenandoah National Park, I came upon these lovely flowers. They are the blooms that, in a month or so, will turn into Appalachian Blackberries. With all the birds and black bears around, they likely won’t last long.
After an 8 a.m. doctor’s appointment, I took a long and much-needed walk in the woods. It happened that the doctor’s office was adjacent to one of my favorite places in the Shenandoah Valley.
The Edith J. Carrier Arboretum on the James Madison University campus in Harrisonburg, Virginia, is a life-giving oasis among 21st-century din. There, birdsong, blossoms, and the verdant forest provide a temporary sanctuary from life’s bustling and boisterous busyness.
To be sure, you still hear the sirens, the traffic’s hum on the interstate that cuts the campus and town in half, the train horns, even the airliners cruising into airports two hours away.
The forest canopy covers you with its sacred, healing goodness. It’s life’s true purpose. Use your senses to enjoy the rapturous unfolding.
A late-migrating Wilson’s Warbler flits and feeds on insects deep in the recesses of dense elderberry bushes. Wood Thrushes sing their multiphased cheery song in the shadows of the mixed deciduous woodlots. American Robins scold one another as they defend their nesting territory.
A Wood Thrust sheltered in the shade of a hickory tree. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
A slight mist rises from the forest floor, beckoned by the strengthening morning light. White-breasted Nuthatches, Eastern Wood-Pewees, Tufted Titmice, Northern Cardinals, Carolina Wrens, and Song Sparrows fill the wooded ravine with glorious, variegated tunes. A Red-bellied Woodpecker’s vocalization echoes deep from the hillside woodlot while an American Crow sails through the trees, cawing from one perch to the other.
Each in their own way, joggers, birders, parents with toddlers, grandparents, and college students enjoy this preserved paradise. Time in the arboretum is an equal opportunity home with a smorgasbord of enjoyment. Some are passing through. Some are exploring the flora and fauna. Others simply sit, look, listen, and smile.
A lone rhododendron holds onto its precious purple blossoms along a wood-chipped path in the shade of the congregation of hardwoods. Here and there, morning light filters through the giants’ canopy, speckling the forest floor.
The broad leaves of huge hosta plants invite you to explore, hike, relax, reflect, listen, and admire all that nature has to offer. A well-located bench beckons you to sit a spell and breathe in the cool freshness before summer’s heat and humidity arrive.
My only shot of a reclusive male Wilson’s Warbler. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
My wife and I enjoyed a walk around the Genesee Country Village and Museum on Mother’s Day with our son, his wife, and their three-year-old grandson. Jess’s family also joined us on the lovely Sunday.
With wide open spaces and many attractions to investigate, several of us scattered to do our own thing. That’s when I spotted this gentleman, dressed in 19th-century attire, basking in the late-morning sunshine. His obedient dog did the same. Along with the setting and their positioning, they made the perfect composition that fit the setting.
Earth Day in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley dawned with a steely gray overcast sky. It remained that way for the entire day. Still, I ventured out to celebrate the day set to honor Mother Earth.
Recently diagnosed with some unsettling health issues, I spontaneously decided to join the celebration. I hoped doing so would calm my nerves and help me settle my emotions.
I usually plan my daytrips so I’m ready to go at the crack of dawn. Consequently, I lost valuable time in the morning packing my lunch, birding equipment, and attire for the mountains. My destination was Reddish Knob, a peak on the front range of the Allegheny Mountains on the border of Virginia and West Virginia.
With reports of migrating shorebirds and songbirds returning, I wanted to see what I could find. Even though I have been birding for most of my life, I consider myself an average birder. As I age, my hearing has diminished, so I can no longer hear the higher-toned decibels of many songbirds.
I’m grateful for the birding apps on my smartphone. I especially like the Merlin app for identifying bird calls. It’s not always accurate, but it gets the job done for me. Better birders than I, most of whom are younger, are proficient in naming birds upon hearing and seeing them. It’s reason enough to bird in a small group of experienced birders.
A Song Sparrow sang before I left home. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
However, today, I chose to go it alone. I needed the solitude and the solace. I did so, knowing that other birders would likely be out searching in the same areas. But it wasn’t to be. I spent the day on my own.
Before I even left, a Song Sparrow sang from a tree across the street. My first stop was a nearby lake renowned for its bird-watching and fishing opportunities. Wind-felled trees provided cover and roosting areas for birds and reptiles.
I spotted movement in the shadows along the shallow end of the lake’s shoreline. Beyond a downed tree where turtles rested, a Solitary Sandpiper stealthily stalked its prey. Closer to me, a pair of Spotted Sandpipers waded gingerly among the lily pads, reeds, and downed branches, searching for breakfast.
The lake is a hotspot for migrating ducks and other waterfowl, but there were none today. Above the spillway, however, a pair of Black-crowned Night Herons occupied separate branches on a giant sycamore tree. Soon, a stately-looking Osprey joined them. All eyes were on the lake.
A few miles away, I stopped at a marsh in a farmer’s pasture that allows visibility from the public highway. I heard the familiar calls of Killdeer, and a pair soon landed among the grasses sprouting from the marsh’s muck. Red-winged Blackbirds trilled while Black Vultures sailed silently overhead.
Killdeer at the marsh’s edge. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I passed through the rural burg of Briery Branch, and onto Reddish Knob Road. I drove at a snail’s pace with the windows and moonroof open. I turned on the Merlin birding app to listen for calls. When a Louisiana Waterthrush and Blue-headed Vireo popped up, I pulled off the narrow road, turned off the car, grabbed my binoculars, and scanned the tender, emerging leaves for birds. Though they continued to call, I couldn’t find them. The gray sky proved a harsh backdrop.
I continued the slow climb up the mountain. The valley gave way to steep forested hillsides, split by a rushing stream, as I drove higher and higher into the Allegheny Mountains. I stopped whenever a pull-off presented itself and scanned the trees and bushes for birds.
On the right, a recent controlled burn had left the landscape blackened. The underbrush was singed brown, and the needles of young pines hung yellow from the heat. The smell of the fire lingered in the air. Still, I found a Brown Thrasher perched in a tree singing its melodious song high above the scorched earth below.
Brown Thrasher singing. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Just up the road, I reached my destination, the intersection of Reddish Knob Road and a US Forest Service fire road, which is a mix of dirt and gravel. As I pulled over to park, a small flock of Red Crossbills flew up in front of my vehicle. Those were the birds I had hoped to see and photograph.
I parked my vehicle a few feet away, excitedly exited with my camera, and the birds returned to the same spot on the side of the road. These beautiful birds were what I call “graveling.” Why do these lovely, social birds ingest grit and minerals along roadsides? The pebbles and dirt help them digest the pinecone seeds they eat.
The Red Crossbills gathering grit. Photos by Bruce Stambaugh
The birds settled in as I stayed as still as possible. I captured several photos of these magnificent birds gathering grit. The females are a yellowish-green, while the males are mostly a fire-engine red with dark wings. They can be found year-round in a small geographical area along the front range of the Alleghenies. They are scarce in most other regions of the US except the Rocky Mountains.
All the while, Common Ravens flew back and forth above the ridgeline. Blackburnian and Black-throated Green Warblers sang in the tree tops as they foraged for insects. Ovenbirds, Blue-headed Vireos, and Eastern Towhees joined the chorus.
The budding pastels.High in the treetops.Help me find the bird.Can you find and ID the warbler?
Please click on the photos to view them in full size.
On my retreat down the mountain, I stopped at a camping area adjacent to a gurgling mountain stream. I heard many warblers, but saw only a few. I could have used other pairs of eyes to help spot the birds high in the emerging canopies.
Still, it was a fulfilling and satisfying Earth Day for this septuagenarian. I surrendered to my surroundings, the fresh air, the towering evergreens, and the budding deciduous trees. Bird calls replaced motor vehicle and lawnmower noises, and clear mountain streams rushed their way to the valley floor.
Thanks to the bird song choruses, inspiring mountain views, and the singing brooks, nature’s peace enveloped me. Isn’t that one of the goals of Earth Day?
An Amish farmstead near Mt. Hope, Ohio. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I recently visited my old stomping grounds in Holmes County, Ohio, home to the world’s largest Amish population. Remnants of snow still covered part of the ground, contrasting with the barren, fallow fields.
I enjoyed finding a few Amish farms, like the one pictured, remaining amid the rapidly expanding tourist businesses scattered throughout the once pristine countryside.
Barns have always intrigued me. The various sizes, shapes, colors, conditions, purposes, and settings combine to make photogenic captures. Wintertime is no exception.
My wife and I moved to Virginia’s lovely Shenandoah Valley seven and a half years ago. We wanted to be close to our three grandchildren, who were approaching their active teen years. We thought watching them play soccer, baseball, and volleyball and perform in concerts and recitals would be fun—and it has been.
But the weather has been irregular, to say the least. Now, our Virginia home is no farther south than Cincinnati, Ohio. So, we knew winters would be cold and snowy from time to time, but usually, the snow didn’t last long. The valley would get six inches of snow, and it would be gone in two days, thanks to the clear blue skies and warmer temperatures.
For the most part, that is what the winters have been like until this year. We might as well have stayed in Ohio, where we sometimes received lake effect snow from strong northerly winds blowing off Lake Erie even though we lived 75 miles south of Cleveland.
The winter here has produced multiple snowstorms that deposited snow ranging from one inch to seven inches. Some areas in the county had even more. We have also had two rounds of freezing rain that brought down large tree limbs and closed schools and businesses. And there’s still more winter weather to come.
Mind you, I am not complaining. I am just stating facts and perhaps a little frustration. Still, I greatly enjoy the beauty the blankets of snow create. I hope that joy is reflected in the photos.
Given this weather, though, we could have visited Upstate New York to play with our fourth grandchild, Teddy, a very curious two-and-a-half-year-old. I think we’ve had more snow than Teddy.
At least the birds have beenfaithful in visiting our birdfeeders and birdbaths.
Hawaii preserves its lush vegetation with city, county, and state parks. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Turquoise waters, large, rolling waves crashing into coves with hidden pristine beaches, majestic palms, and friendly, inclusive residents who love their history and land are reasons enough to visit Hawaii.
However, our 50th state’s flora and fauna also stand out, as I discovered on a recent trip there. The vegetation, flowers, and wildlife ignited my senses, and I snapped over 1,200 photos. It was that beautiful, and I only visited three islands: Oahu, Kona, and Maui.
You don’t need to be a botanist to appreciate the abundance of lush plants, trees, and flowers on the 132 Hawaiian islands. Hawaii’s wildlife thrives in these varied tropical habitats.
As an avid but amateur birder, I focused on birds. However, since I was on a group tour, my opportunities to do much bird watching were limited. I listened to and looked for birds as much as possible in my free time at the various stops on every excursion.
I was most impressed with how Hawaiians honor sacred lands by caring for them through public parks, wildlife preserves, and national parks. The lack of trash along roadsides, sidewalks, beaches, and in rainforests proved this point.
In the capital city of Honolulu, flowers were ubiquitous. They bloomed in neatly manicured flowerbeds, bushes, hedges, and trees, and native flowers filled vases inside nearly every building we entered.
However, the countryside was where the flora and fauna ruled. Thanks to frequent tropical rains, dense rainforests grew on the windward sides of these mountainous islands. Since the clouds had spent their moisture, only scrubby trees, bushes, and grasses grew on the leeward slopes. There was that much difference in the annual rainfall.
The transition between lush and barren was usually pronounced. However, in some rural locations, ranchers fenced off large, sloping pastures dotted with scrubby trees where cattle, cows, and horses congregated.
Ancient and recent lava flowed to the sea down the mountainsides, disrupting most plant growth. Still, grasses poked through, helping to break down the rock with assistance from winds and rain.
Lush foliage covered steep, sharp mountains while a half mile to the coast, shorebirds waded for any morsel they could snag. That’s the natural consequence of life on the tip of a submerged volcano that would tower over all land-based mountains, including Mount Everest. Animals and birds flourished all around Hawaii Volcanos National Park.
As the vegetation types changed, so did the animal life. In the adjacent ocean waters, manta rays cruised the shorelines for food, and giant Green Sea Turtles basked on sunny beaches to warm themselves.
At a historical coffee plantation, songbirds darted from tree to tree, singing and calling high above the shaded coffee bushes. Years ago, I experienced similar scenes multiple times in Honduran coffee farms.
The last full day on Maui proved the most thrilling for scenery and fauna. Driving the Road to Hana and back will do that. Steep mountainsides filled with 50 shades of green surrounded majestic waterfalls, and sharp-angled cliffs dove into inviting waters.
Hidden coves with fine black or white sand beaches held their secrets. Crashing waves instantly transformed into a brilliant white froth that quickly disappeared.
I spied a colony of terns that spend most of the year out to sea fishing. They claimed an old, rugged lava rock that protruded above the sea’s surface, providing a handy, protected nesting sight. Behind me, a small flock of finches waddled through the park’s manicured grasses.
I would be negligent not to mention the free-range hens and roosters roaming the islands. Like many other island animals and plants, they are not native but are now part of the culture.
In my few days in this island paradise, nature’s flora and fauna overwhelmed me with joy. Surrounded by such enchanting environments, who wouldn’t be?
A black sand beach along the Road to Hana. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The Park at CityCenter, Washington, D.C. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The man sat on the little padded bench in the entrance to the cafe where my family and I had lunch. He was one of dozens of homeless people we had seen during our extended holiday weekend gathering in Washington, D.C.
He sat there silently, bent over from age, the biting cold, and the exhaustion of living on the streets. His hair, scraggly full beard, and disheveled clothes told that tale. I kept glancing at this poor fellow as we waited in line to order.
Our family has established a tradition of meeting in our nation’s capital for the holidays. Our son, his wife, and their toddler son fly in from Upstate New York while our daughter, her family, my wife, and I each drive the two hours to Washington, D.C.
It’s a joyous time together, especially since we see our youngest grandson infrequently. We gather at a hotel and plan out our long weekend together. We try to accommodate everyone in the places we visit and activities we do.
If weather permits, we like to walk to our destinations. If it’s too far or too cold, we ride the Metro.
As we walk, I enjoy observing the people we pass. Everyone always seems to be in a rush, hurriedly stepping along. Several are on their phones, perhaps chatting with spouses, friends, or coworkers.
Others use earbuds to tune out the sounds of the city, the sirens, and the traffic, listening to music, news, or podcasts. Their desire is escape, and they avoid any personal interaction with others.
Then there are the many homeless people, some squatting on cold sidewalks, begging for any amount of money. Some held hand-made signs that were hard to read, scratched onto any piece of cardboard they could find. I seldom saw passersby drop even coins into their containers.
I usually stroll right by them without any acknowledgment that they exist. I do, however, tend to look at them, and most of them notice, hoping I’ll stop with a dollar or two. I prejudicially rationalize that I don’t know what they’ll do with the money.
Still, I don’t feel good about not helping, but there are so many. I can’t help them all. My guilt fades as I walk farther away until I encounter the next one and the next.
Now, here was this lone man. He and I were in the same space. How could I help him? Was this my chance to make a fleeting, spontaneous, compassionate gesture?
My son nudged me back into the moment. I ordered a cup of soup for my wife and a bowl for myself, took my number to our table, and waited for the food. I poured two cups of water from the jug’s spigot near our table. While we waited, I told my wife about the man in the doorway.
The soups soon arrived with a bonus I didn’t expect. A delectable-looking roll accompanied our steaming soups. As soon as I saw that tantalizing butter-glaze, brown-crusted dinner roll, I thought of the man. My innate empathy kicked in.
I hoped he was still there. I grabbed the roll on its napkin and hurried to the entrance across the black-and-white checkered tile floor. I fixed my eyes on the door.
There he still sat, frozen in the same hunched position. Only this time, I indeed saw him for the human he was. His left pant leg hung loose and empty, and a metal crutch slung over what remained of his left thigh. That new insight had me wondering even more about this man. How did he lose the leg? Was he in Vietnam?
I bent down and eased the roll forward into his blank stare. He looked up, and we locked eyes.
“Do you want some food?” I asked.
“Are you sure?” he queried, his voice quivering. Surprised at this response, I merely nodded my head in affirmation.
The man reached out and took the offering with his right hand. He immediately extended his left hand with a $5 bill threaded through his grimy fingers. I surmised someone had recently given him the currency without considering that the money might be his. Plus, he could have purchased more than a roll for that amount.
Stunned, I waved off his humble offer, backed away, and retreated to my table without asking him if he needed anything else. I didn’t even ask his name.
Giving up the roll was not a great sacrifice. Since I am gluten-intolerant, I couldn’t eat it anyway, so it was a small act of kindness, nothing more. Empath that I am, I would have given him the roll even if I could eat gluten.
Still, I felt unsettled for not engaging with him more. I also wished I had offered the man something to drink, even a tiny glass of the cool, clear water.
Only then would our fleeting communion have been complete.
Roadkill Crossing 
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