Occasional rains and warm temperatures continue to be the norm in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. That combination has led to a continuation of summer’s bright colors.
From landscapes to sky to insects, to animals to flowers, wild and cultivated, a rainbow of colors has filled each day.
Flower gardens
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
More colors around home
Coordinating colors
© Bruce Stambaugh 2025
I was out taking photos of some flowers my energetic wife has cultivated around our home. This patch of Zinnias caught my attention.
Just as I was ready to take the photo, this pretty Variegated Fritillary butterfly landed on a fuchsia-colored Zinnia in the middle of the patch. The lovely photobomb was a welcome addition to these bright flowers and a new focus to the photo.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2025
Summer 2025 colors have not disappointed so far. We are only a month into the summer season in the Northern Hemisphere, and there have been plenty of opportunities to photograph her vibrant palette of hues and tones.
Here are two sets of my favorite representations of this brilliant calidoscope.
Landscapes
Please click on the photos to view them in full size.
Flowers
© Bruce Stambaugh 2025
I love giving and receiving hugs, especially as I age. The fact that my four siblings and I received little physical affection growing up might play a significant role in my desire to be a hugger in my senior years.
There’s nothing better than giving my grandchildren a hearty hug after an athletic event or concert in which they have participated. And too, I melt when they hug me for simply being their grandfather. That momentary embrace says more than any card or note of appreciation.
The same is true for close friends, especially as we endure the aging process with all its expected and unexpected ailments. When we gather in small groups, whether at church or in our homes, the first question often asked is, “How are you?”
My wife and I are in two different small groups of peers, most of whom have Ohio roots like us. We now live in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, close to three of our four grandchildren.
When with other seniors, we chat around a meal or a table of snacks and drinks about our health. Sharing and listening become equivalent hugs, emotional squeezes, if you will. As septuagenarians and octogenarians, we all need those affirmations as we deal with our latest ailments.
However, since we returned from a recent cruise, I’ve had to learn to be happy accepting verbal greetings instead. I cracked three ribs in a freak fall near the end of our trip.
All was going well until our ship approached Halifax, Nova Scotia. Before we left, friends cautioned us not to fall. I had every intention of complying.
As I stepped into the shower, and please don’t try to imagine that, my left foot hit the shower mat just as the ship pitched in the opposite direction. I flew through the air like Superman, only not as gracefully.
My arm stopped my flight by hitting the sink, and I crashed to the floor with a loud thud. Excruciating pain shot through my right side. My wife said I made noises she had never heard before from any creature.
After the initial shock, I composed myself and finished getting ready for the day. However, after breakfast, my ribs pained me greatly. We headed to guest services, and I was immediately wheeled to the ship’s medical center.
The friendly and competent medical staff quizzed me, took my vitals, and gave me medication to ease the pain. X-rays showed a cracked rib, but the doctor wanted me to go ashore to the hospital. Doing so would effectively end our vacation, and I didn’t want that to happen.
Painful as it was, a cracked rib wasn’t a life-or-death situation. We enjoyed Halifax as best we could from our veranda. I checked in the next two mornings for additional shots of pain medication, and we were able to fly home on schedule.
But because I had also hit my head in the crazy fall, we went to our local hospital’s emergency room after we arrived home. CT scans showed not issues with my head, though my wife questioned those results. I did, however, have three cracked ribs, not one.
We took it easy the next few days before I felt like venturing out. Friends who didn’t know about my accident greeted us with the usual hugs, but I politely waved them off and explained.
I have developed a new appreciation for the importance of the rib cage to the rest of the body. I measure my moves and watch my steps. I also recognize that three cracked ribs are insignificant when compared to more consequential diagnosis of cancer and other diseases of friends and family.
I’m still healing and greatly looking forward to when I can once again hug and be hugged without pain. Until then, a fist bump will do.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2025
A produce farmer near where we live in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley has a small self-serve stand where he sells his homegrown sweet corn. My wife and I stopped to get a few ears and saw this confusing pricing.
We just chuckled at the skewed mathematics. When our neighbor, who also buys corn there, told us that he had informed the farmer of his pricing error, the man just shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
We bought four small ears of the “Incredible” sweet corn, placed our dollar bill in the box, and drove home. For the record, the corn was named correctly. It was incredible.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2025
Being at the right place at the right time is an essential part of photography. That’s what happened recently when I went to photograph the sunset from my favorite location, Mole Hill, near Dayton, Virginia.
When I arrived on the west side of Mole Hill, a noted area landmark, I discovered I was not alone. Several cars were stopped ahead of me on the gradual downhill slope. But once the sun sank behind the Allegheny Mountains, the vehicles continued on.
On my way up the road, I noticed a horse-drawn cart with an Old Order Mennonite young woman and two girls sitting on the wooden bench. They were parked beneath a walnut tree, admiring the various colors of the quickly changing landscape.
Imagine my surprise when I heard the clip-clop of horse hooves on the road’s surface. I turned around and saw the cart coming my way. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.
Out of respect to them, I waited until they were well past me before I took the photo. Like the Amish, Old Order Mennonites do not want their pictures taken for religious reasons.
Their little cart, with their yellow caution lights flashing, made this ho-hum sunset spectacular. I’m grateful I was there at the right time to capture the scene.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2025
When I saw the high, thin clouds 30 minutes before sunset, I thought there might be a chance for spring to say farewell in color. As it turned out, it was more about the setting than spectacular sunset colors.
When I arrived at my favorite location to photograph sunsets, I wasn’t alone. Four other cars were ahead of me. However, they soon left, and I had the space all to myself, save for a passing horse-drawn cart with three young Old Order Mennonite ladies aboard.
We exchanged hellos, and I waited for the oranges that usually come when the sky is mostly clear over the Allegheny Mountains to the west. I wasn’t disappointed.
However, it was the big picture of the setting that got my attention. Below the glowing sky, another scene unfolded. The rolling, fertile farmland of western Rockingham County, Virginia, dotted by verdant woodlots, filled the foreground.
Beyond, mist rose from the valleys between forest-covered North Mountain and the higher Shenandoah Mountain. In the twilight, their iconic blue hues created a natural boundary between the golden sky and the farmsteads below.
Spring’s last sunset may have said goodbye, but it also set the stage for the joys of summer.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2025
Flowers, wild or propagated, flourish this time of year. With warmer temperatures, cooler nights, and well-watered fields and forests, floral colors brighten neighborhoods, countrysides, and forest floors.
Here are a few photos of flowers I spotted wherever I went.
Around our house.
Wildflowers.
Cultivated.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2025
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.
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.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2025
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.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2025
Wildlife Photos From The Chesapeake Bay Region
Culture and Communities at the Heart Of India
Artist and nature journalist in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.
Photographer Of Life and moments
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Art is the only way to run away without leaving home. -Twyla Tharp
Writing generated from the rural life
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El amor cruza fronteras / Love crosses borders
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