Diamondhead at sunset from Waikiki Beach. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
On our last day on Oahu, we signed up for a circle tour of the island. However, thanks to our skilled and knowledgeable bus driver, it was more of an immersion into the Hawaiian culture. We dove in.
A native of Oahu, Lani knew all the places to stop, including a few that weren’t on our official itinerary. She made a lovely tour luscious.
Before we ever boarded the bus, a bright rainbow arched across the early morning sky. It wouldn’t be the last we would see.
Another rainbow to start the day.
Our first stop was an overlook along the main highway, which offered spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean and a stretch of ancient lava coastline. Unfortunately, the waves weren’t big enough to give us a frothy show at the Halona Blowhole.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
However, in a small cove below, a few swimmers braved the steep and rocky descent to a secluded beach, where wave after wave lapped at the small sandy shore. I could have spent hours soaking in the view, the balmy breezes, and the warm sunshine, but Lani had other places to tantalize us.
We drove inland and entered the Valley of the Temples Memorial Gardens. Set against curtains of solid lava adorned with lush greenery, a bank of lacy clouds hovered over the temple grounds.
Located at the base of the Ko’olua Mountains, the non-denominational Buddhist temple was surrounded by abundant vegetation, large and small. A sprawling, immaculate cemetery covered the rolling terrain between the highway and the temple.
Recent heavy rains had muddied the Swan Temple Lake. Still, the setting drew me in, daring me not to take a photo. I happily succumbed. We also rang the giant gong for good luck. I’d say it worked.
The next stop was Ko’olauloa Waimea Falls. I walked up to the falls, where some high school students enjoyed the cascading water. On its way to the ocean, the stream split the ravine, guarded by heavily wooded steep flanks filled with brilliantly colorful flowers and various songbirds I couldn’t identify. It was as if the incredible environment effortlessly drew me up the slope and back down.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
Too soon, it was time to continue our drive along the Kamehameha Highway, which offers beautiful ocean views. We passed multiple local parks, a testament to Hawaii’s commitment to preserving public green spaces. However, due to rising sea levels, shore and beach erosion are ongoing battles.
Along the Kamehameha Highway.
Our next stop was the Dole Plantation retail store. There, people enjoyed the famous Dole Whip while others browsed or shopped. Soon after leaving there, we passed acres and acres of agricultural land, some planted with pineapples.
Agricultural fields near a military base. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Our knowledgeable bus driver wisely took the counterclockwise route on the circle tour of Oahu. While we were returning, most traffic was headed out of Honolulu. Before we hit the city, we stopped at a pass that overlooks the capital.
Overlooking Honolulu on a windy, rainy day.
We had a 180-degree view of Honolulu and the surrounding mountains. Rain pelted one side of the urban setting while the other was dry. We braved strong wind gusts to enjoy the view and feel the rain.
We snaked our way down through neighborhoods of pagodas, apartments, schools, skyscrapers, unkempt houses, and urban parks to reach sea level. The tour was over, but the best was yet to come.
After dinner, our orange dessert was a spectacular sunset on Waikiki Beach. The next day, we flew to the Big Island.
As I sat at my computer, I heard a familiar roar. I grabbed my camera and raced outside. But I was too late for the shot I wanted.
The low-flying DC-3 airplane had already zoomed west and out of range for a photo. However, I had seen this pattern before. I figured the plane was on landing approach to a private airport eight miles southeast of us.
Sure enough, the plane turned south and then southeast into view. I snapped three quick photos, but the aircraft was again out of sight. When I viewed the pictures on my laptop, I was pleased that everything was in focus.
This photo stood out. The dappled, gray clouds seemed to frame the old airplane, and the late afternoon sun reflected off the underside of its fuselage. In a way, it looks like the plane is on fire, but I’m sure it landed safely.
Earlier this fall, my wife and I visited Gettysburg National Military Park with friends from Australia. We used the National Park Service’s free self-guided app to tour the sacred grounds at this tipping point of the American Civil War.
Interestingly, our Auzzie friends were most taken by the 1,300 monuments on the battlefields and beyond. On the other hand, I was amazed at the number of farmsteads overrun by Union and Confederate troops, and often both, as the battles raged. The Park Service has done a magnificent job of restoring them, and that restoration continues today.
Many of the farms where the fighting took place were small by today’s standards, often 50-80 acres. Of course, the buildings from other farms have long disappeared.
The McPherson Farm
The replica fences and the sorghum fields created a feeling of authenticity.The McPherson barn.The Codori farm saw heavy fighting on July 2 and was at the at the center of Picket’s Charge on July 3, 1864.The Phillip Snyder farm. Note the location of the outhouse. Big Round Top is the most prominent hill in the background.The Bushman farmstead. Note Little Round Top above the farmhouse.
Tree angles of the Trostle farm.
The Klingel farm on the east side of Emmitsburg Road.
The Sherfy farm on Emmitsburg Road. The 50-acre farm included the Peach Orchard, Big and Little Round Top, and Devil’s Den. The original barn burned during the battle.
The Eisenhower farms on the southwestern edge of the battlefields.
Time did not permit me to explore the history of each farm in-depth, but that’s another reason to return to this hallowed ground.
The top photo of grandson Teddy, age 2.5, was taken this fall. The photo of the two ghosts and their sister pumpkin was taken on October 31, 2009. They are now 18, 15, and 20.
September’s first sunset. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
We had another quenching and satisfying rainstorm yesterday afternoon and evening. After the front had passed, I checked the rain gauge in the backyard. The setting sun illuminated the backside of the storm clouds racing east. A brilliant orange and a bright but stubby rainbow caught my eye.
I looked to the west and discovered a striated sky of tangerine streaks. I grabbed my camera and headed for a nearby pasture that afforded a better view to the west before the colors faded.
Though not the most colorful of my photos, I liked this scene and all its rich ingredients: the farm lane with remnants of the rain’s runoff, the silhouetted trees, Mole Hill, an ancient local landmark, and the Allegheny Mountains beyond.
The Upper Falls at Letchworth State Park in New York.
My wife and I love to travel the country’s backroads. There are many positive reasons for our preference for highways other than interstates and expressways.
Engineers design and build multi-lane thoroughfares to save time by avoiding small towns, winding mountainous roads, lower speed limits, and often slower traffic. When you are retired, those reasons play second fiddle to scenery, wildlife, and plain old country charm.
The secondary roads hold surprises along the way. We find sleepy towns with impressive century-old homes, cozy diners and restaurants, locally owned and operated cafes, and shops we would miss on the superhighways. We discover fascinating state parks and cascading streams that play tag with the roads. We enter canopy tunnels of giant oaks and maples, flashy sycamores, and towering tulip poplar trees.
We also see too many storefronts shuttered in once-thriving downtown business districts. In the country, we pass abandoned houses far too often. They remind us of our younger years and serve as a reality check for the 21st century.
Of course, driving the roads less traveled has its drawbacks. Traffic comes to a crawl behind agricultural equipment, traveling at a snail’s pace from one farm to another. Semi-trucks delivering goods to local businesses block traffic flow for minutes while they attempt to squeeze into awkward and narrow loading docks. We feel the driver’s frustration.
Occasionally, traffic halts completely as cowboys on ATVs round up a herd of wayward cattle. I’ve even had to pull the car off the road to let them pass. Others might consider these situations as inconveniences. Rather than despair, I accept them as a part of everyday rural living.
Our latest trip to visit our son and his family in upstate New York, nearly 500 miles from our home in Virginia’s lovely Shenandoah Valley, offered similar experiences.
The ancient Allegheny Mountains bend northeast across Pennsylvania, making a direct route north impossible. So, we have learned to divide the trip into two days, taking alternate routes each time. Traveling with patience allows us to observe and appreciate whatever we see along the state and county roads that deliver us to our destination.
An Amish couple along the Susquehanna River in central Pennsylvania. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
With the folded forested mountains on either side of us, the roads hugged and crossed the Susquehanna River with its many rapids and occasional islands. We stay the night in small cities like Williamsport, Pennsylvania, or Corning, New York.
We stop at overlooks to view the Susquehanna, tour the famous glass factory, or visit an old-fashioned country store and still arrive at our appointed time relaxed and stress-free. It’s a win-win situation.
A hobbyist’s backyard in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
We headed south after our joyous visit with our son, his wife, and their curious two-year-old son. However, a last-minute decision turned our car west toward New York’s Letchworth State Park. It was time well spent.
Avid birder that I am, I stopped at several overlooks to view the impressive Genesee River Gorge and scout for birds. At one spot, a pair of Scarlet Tanagers foraged in an old oak tree, its leaves still not completely unfurled. A Summer Tanager landed nearby, but I was too slow with my camera. I savored the image of the bright red bird with a light-colored beak and was happier still that my wife got to see it, too.
The cheery songs of migrating songbirds resounded, but we had to keep moving since we were already taking the slow way home. Soon, we arrived at the lookouts to view the river’s inspiring trio of falls that cut the deep gorge a millennia ago.
I parked beside a vehicle identical in every way to our midsized SUV. The occupants exited their car just as we did, ecstatic about the fate of two metallic bronze Subarus parked side by side. I caught the stranger’s infectious joy and soaked in the three roaring falls.
I set the GPS for Altoona and noted that we would travel unexplored territory en route to the hotel. For most of the way, it was all state and county roads.
I knew we had hit the jackpot when we turned onto Short Track Road, a narrow county highway built to convenience locals. It wasn’t long until we began passing white homes with fading red barns. That combination meant one thing: Amish. Those farmsteads reminded us of our nearly four decades in Ohio’s Amish country, where we daily viewed similar scenes.
The hand-painted signs with mismatched upper and lowercase letters advertising cottage industries of hand-stitched quilts, local honey, brown eggs, and sawmill services brought familiarity. However, as is often the case with the Amish, they tweaked their clothing and buggies slightly different from their home communities in Ohio and Pennsylvania.
We noted that the crown of men’s black felt hats tapered from the brim to a flat top. The buggies were styled more plainly, equipped with different lighting and reflective tape, and displayed no orange, slow-moving triangle on the back. It was a sign of both their independence and connectedness to one another.
The blue bridge. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
We crossed the fast-running headwaters of the Susquehanna on a decades-old, baby-blue iron bridge. Our car tires hummed over the meshed steel grating. Soon, we passed a white-brick country church that caused me to double-take. Its marque read, “Forget hope. Attend church.” Even though it was a Sunday, we kept driving.
We passed the entrance to yet another state park that looked immaculate. The road quickly turned and began a winding, steady climb up a low mountain. The rushing white waters of a roadside stream beckoned, but with no pullouts, we couldn’t stop to enjoy it fully.
The box turtle. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
On the downslope, the road straightened and eventually flattened out, with pasturelands on one side and wetlands on the other. I spotted a box turtle crossing the road. With little to no traffic, I stopped and carried it across. It was the least I could do.
Our journey continued the next day with similar effects. We visited the Paw Paw Tunnel Towpath Trail near Old Town, Maryland. As we left the car, birdsong and butterflies filled the air.
Walking from the parking lot to the old Chesapeake and Ohio Canal tunnel, the sights and sounds only improved. Baltimore and Orchard Orioles chattered competing calls from adjacent trees. A pair of Eastern Phoebes fed their young in a nest built on the canal’s old stone retaining wall. Blackburnian Warblers and Warbling Vireos serenaded us hidden among the leaves.
Black and Tiger Swallowtails, Pipevine, Dusky Wings, and Cabbage butterflies danced from wildflower to wildflower. Some gathered nutrients from puddles on the trail.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
We exchanged greetings with other hikers and bikers as we strolled along. The graveled trail’s dappled light, filtered by a mix of deciduous trees, big and small, cooled the hot day.
Satisfied and ready to be home, we crossed the Potomac River into West Virginia and steered south. Though arriving home tired, our drive on the backroads proved more refreshing than this septuagenarian could have imagined. That’s why we take them.
An overview of the Flight 93 crash site with some of the trees planted in honor of those who died.
Each time we visit our grandson and his parents in upstate New York, we try to stop at a new place on the way up or back, sometimes both. Returning home on our latest trip, we decided to visit the Flight 93 National Memorial near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.
I had been to the Flight 93 crash site about a year after the September 11, 2001 attacks on the U.S. There wasn’t much to see back then. Visitors were required to view the crash site from afar. Consequently, you couldn’t see much.
A short chain link fence held memorials to the 40 victims and first responders. A firefighter’s turnout coat and helmet were the most apparent objects. Relatives and friends had attached photos of the deceased and fresh and plastic flowers that hung askew from the woven wire fence.
A photo taken seconds after Flight 93 crashed near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.
A long, single wooden bench sat tangent to the makeshift memorial fence. It served as both a resting place and a reminder not to go any farther. The plane had crashed into an old strip mine, which appeared to have been haphazardly reclaimed. You entered the area from the west on the old dirt pit road formerly used by coal trucks and excavating equipment. A small graveled parking lot had been developed north of the temporary memorial area.
I remember standing there in silence out of respect for these brave folks who deserved to be recognized and honored better than this. The desolate setting seemed to mock the tragedy. An abandoned rusting steam shovel sat overlooking it all. The starkness of the scene shocked me.
This visit was much different, however. The Flight 93 National Memorial was established in 2005 as a tribute to the passengers and crew of the fateful flight. The federal government bought up the land around the sacred site, which the National Park Service maintains. Creating the national memorial was a coordinated public-private effort that included the Families of Flight 93, Friends of Flight 93, the National Park Foundation, and the National Park Service.
We drove in and out of rain showers on our way to the site. The entrance is now off U.S. 30, the Lincoln Highway. A black-topped roadway winds three miles to the Visitors Center Complex. The road’s length allows visitors to respectfully transition from the present time back to that fateful day. The Visitors Center is located on a rise overlooking the crash site near the old parking lot. Exhibits recap the unfolding events of that terrible day through videos, photographs, newspaper clippings, and maps. The building itself is plain, unremarkable in design, and positioned to mark the final path of the flight.
The entrance sign and the Tower of Voices to the left.
The Wall of Names.
The Ceremonial Gate.
The black path leading to the debris field.
The Visitors Center overlooks the Wall of Names.
The 17-ton boulder that marks the crash site.
Red-spotted Newts were everywhere on the Memorial Plaza.
A few of the 40 Memorial Groves of trees and the Visitors Center.
The Tower of Voices.
The center also includes a bookstore, a viewing window, the Flight Path Walkway, and an Overlook. Since the crash left nothing more than a crater, a 17-ton bolder from the property was moved to mark the spot of the debris field. Visitors can walk or drive to the Memorial Plaza, located just north of the impact area. A Wall of Names points to the victims’ final resting place.
My wife and I arrived right after a school group did. Ranger Greg gave the youngsters and their chaperones an overview as we walked by them. Soon, they caught up to us in the exhibition room. We couldn’t help but hear Ranger Greg’s booming voice as we viewed the different displays. He certainly had the students’ attention as he told the story of Flight 93. He caught ours when he mentioned that the plane had veered off its scheduled path by abruptly turning southeast-bound over Canton, Ohio. My wife and I were both born in that blue-collar city. We walked closer to the group and listened as he told one aspect of the story after the other, most of which we had never heard before.
We drove to the Memorial Plaza, and volunteer ambassadors welcomed us. The rain intensity increased as Neva and I walked together quietly under a small blue umbrella, a fitting color for the place and mood. We stopped in front of the Wall of Names, an alphabetical listing of the flight’s crew and passengers. As I had experienced at the chain link fence two decades ago, memorial items had been left at some of the names. A wooden angel, fresh flowers, and a wine corkscrew rested beneath the first name on the black walkway. A volunteer explained why.
Christian Adams, a German citizen, worked for a German wine association. He was on his way to a wine convention in California that morning. The corkscrew served as yet another poignant symbol.
Items left at the Wall of Names in memory of Christian Adams
The dark walkway tiles represent the many cedar trees burned by the explosion and ensuing fire when Flight 93 dove into the ground upside down. A ceremonial gate of hewn cedar planks marks the way to the flight’s demise and the final resting place of those on board.
The radical changes I experienced gripped me. The 40 groves of 40 oak and maple trees planted in honor of the brave passengers and crew added a splash of russet to the fading fall landscape. Other volunteer trees sprouted from seeds planted by squirrels or blue jays or after lying dormant in the spoils of the old strip mine field. Today, they also serve as living memorials to the souls who lost their lives on that pleasant September day that turned so horrid.
We left with a new appreciation and a deeper understanding of what transpired on and to Flight 93. More than that, I was grateful for the simple, appropriate memorial that honored those brave, doomed souls.
The Visitors Center as viewed from Memorial Plaza.
The pastor led in a final prayer of the private ceremony.
I stood at the back of the small group of relatives and friends of the deceased man I was about to help bury. It was my first experience covering the ashes of a person laid to rest in our church’s Memory Garden.
The day was hot and sticky, as many have been here in the Shenandoah Valley this summer. Earlier, I had helped the pastor set up the canopy to provide shade for the mourners. The giant pin oak tree in the center of this solemn place also helped scatter the sun’s blistering rays.
After setting up the canopy, I turned to dig the hole that would contain the cremated remains of this distinguished and much-loved man.
The summer heat and humidity spawned frequent scattered afternoon thunderstorms. This made the digging easy compared to the only other cremation hole I had dug before the rains came.
The small garden shovel easily sliced into the dirt. The top layers came out in clumps. When I switched to a hand trowel a foot below the surface, the moist earth crumbled as I tried to make the temporary incursion as close to round as possible.
I placed the clumpy clods on a sheet of transparent plastic between my excavation and the limestone wall that served as a solid privacy barrier to the memorial sanctuary. The garden is meant to be a place of rest and solitude for the living and the dead.
The man’s widow, three sons, and other family members arrived before either the pastor or me, and we were both early. They sat on padded chairs beneath the canopy as the pastor said a brief homily that clearly moved the small group of mourners.
I stood behind them, respectfully observing. After the final prayer, the pastor opened the urn and carefully poured the ashes into the hole.
I walked to the front and stepped onto the raised garden covered with newly planted myrtle sprigs. A few violet blossoms already appeared on the young plants.
I had never done this before and wanted to be as inconspicuous and respectful as possible. Though I didn’t look up, I sensed all eyes were on me.
I took the hand trowel and carefully scattered dirt to cover the powdery remains of this honorable man. I dutifully and diligently refilled the hole as compassionately as possible. I wanted my simple efforts to mirror their love for the husband, father, and grandfather.
When I reached the bigger clods of dirt that had been the first to be removed, I switched to the garden shovel. The hole was soon refilled. Without looking up, I used the hand trowel to softly scrape the remaining marbles of soil onto the top of this man’s resting place. I shook the finite remnants from the plastic as a final ceremonial blessing and quietly returned to my designated spot behind the mourners, tools and plastic in hand.
The pastor dismissed the mourners to the church for a light meal, but no one moved except to wipe away tears. The love for their husband, father, and grandfather hung heavy in the air, though sweetly, silently.
After the family finally retreated to the coolness of the church, I broke up the bigger clods of dirt, hoping they would settle more quickly over this learned man’s final resting place. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
The view from the top of the “Finger building” at Mathildenhohe, Darmstadt, Germany.
My wife and I had never been to Europe before. Happily, we can no longer say that. We most certainly want to return to spend more time in places where we only touched the surface.
Given the state of the world, however, we are not sure when that will be. We do realize that time is running out. That’s my first reflection on our trip.
We should have gone 20 years ago when we were younger, more agile, and had much more energy. But hindsight is so much easier than foresight. I will spend my days thankful for this trip, even if it is the only one we ever make to Europe. I pray that it won’t be.
Europe is far ahead of the U.S. in being “green.” I mean green in every sense of the word. The wide use of solar and wind energy was apparent in cities and countrysides alike. In addition, the importance of preserving farmlands and forests truly impressed me. Cities, towns, and rural villages all seemed well-planned, allowing fertile soils to be used for crops. The farms we saw were pristine. Another green aspect was the extensive use of public transit, especially trains and hiking and biking paths that stretched far into the countryside and mountains. We found flower and vegetable gardens everywhere we went.
We were impressed how clean everything was. Litter was almost non-existent, except for cigarette butts.
We were rather surprised how casual Austria, Germany, and Switzerland were about Covid-19. Before we left, we had been advised that Europe was very strict and that we would need to show our Covid-19 vaccination cards to enter public places with large gatherings. That never happened. Most servers in restaurants didn’t wear masks. We all tested negative before boarding our return flight. However, 10 of our group of 39 tested positive for Covid-19 soon after arriving back in the states. Several took days to finally test negative. Consequently, my wife and I will likely not travel abroad until Covid-19 dies down further.
I was greatly impressed with the infrastructure in Europe. The highways were smooth, well-maintained, well-marked, and easy to navigate. The number of tunnels also caught my attention. They, too, were well-kept and free of fumes. I suspected that tunnels also kept the integrity of the scenic landscape, instead of cutting huge gouges in hillsides and mountainsides, like is too often done in the U.S.
We were surprised to see so little snow on the Alps. We were there in the middle of May. In checking with locals, I understood that snowfall was well below normal last winter.
As humbling and haunting as it was, we were glad for the opportunity to visit the Dachau Concentration Camp. To say that time was a black mark on the human race is an understatement. We hope and pray it never happens again.
People were friendly and patient with us everywhere we went, not counting the Frankfurt Airport. I have always liked visiting new places, and meeting new friends. It was especially nice for a follower of this blog and her husband to graciously show us around the UNESCO World Heritage Site of Mathildenhohe in Darmstadt, Germany. It was a great way to finish up our whirlwind trip.
Speaking of people, the 39 members of our tour group came from eight different states and one Canadian province. It’s fair to say that most didn’t know one another very well or at all before the trip. But the camaraderie and cooperation were exceptional throughout the trip, especially for the size of the group.
Our bus driver Ivo, and our on-bus guide Sandra were excellent. The group applauded several times when Ivo made it around some very tight corners. Sandra was most helpful in making sure our mostly senior groups had the necessary rest stops. She was 78 herself. Lastly, our tour organizer Ed kept his calm even in the most chaotic situations. His faithful leadership was most appreciated.
My wife and I loved our first taste of Europe. We are also glad to be home safe and sound. I’ll fill you in on future blog posts about what we have been doing post-trip.
Thanks for reading and following along on our European Adventure.
Roadkill Crossing 
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