This American Robin knows how to beat the heat. It sat in this birdbath cooling off for the longest time. It didn’t splash or move around like the birds usually do while in the birdbath.
The robin just sat and enjoyed the pleasure of being still and cool. It’s a lesson for all of us to stay cool during this prolonged heatwave.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2026
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 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.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2026
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2026
The only Blue Moon of 2026 was set to rise near Harrisonburg, Virginia, at about 8:30 p.m. Saturday, May 30. Officially, it wouldn’t be 100 percent full until 3:45 a.m. Sunday morning.
So, I chose to try to shoot the moon, so to speak, Saturday evening. I wasn’t getting up at 3 in the morning to take a photo of the full moon. I have a hard enough time sleeping as it is. You’ll understand when you hit 78.
Old as I am, I still thrill at the sight of a full moon peeking over the horizon, whether it’s on the land or at sea. Perhaps the only difference is that a moon rising over the ocean casts a spectacular reflection if the water is calm.
A January full moon rising over the Atlantic Ocean left an hourglass reflection. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Since we moved to Virginia’s picturesque Shenandoah Valley from Ohio nine years ago, I’ve learned that the moon evokes just as much magic as it sneaks over the Blue Ridge Mountains, which, in our area, is also Shenandoah National Park.
I checked a website that shows the time and direction of moonrise for any given area. It showed the moon rising in the southeast sky, which made sense as I thought about it. The sun and moon work in tandem. So, with the sun now setting in the northwest, the full moon would rise directly opposite at the same time.
That meant I needed to find a spot with a clear view to the southeast. With all the hills in the valley, that wouldn’t be too hard. However, I also had to account for power lines and cell phone towers. In Virginia, that’s easier said than done.
Unfortunately, I underestimated how far southeast the moon would rise. So, when I spotted its first glow over the park, I needed to drive to a better spot. Even then, I wasn’t clear of the infernal towers and strings of lines.
Nevertheless, I still managed to capture a few frames of the smallest full moon of the year rising above the bucolic valley. Not only was this full moon the only blue moon of the year, but it was also the farthest from the sun, which is appropriately called a micromoon.
As the moon edges over the horizon, whether at sea or on land, it appears bigger than when it is high in the night sky. That is merely an illusion; ironically, science has yet to explain why it occurs.
Dusk is not exactly the best time to photograph objects, especially moving ones. Still, I snap away and enjoy sharing the results with others.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2026
I knew American Robins were nesting in shrubs and trees around our suburban home in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.
Early on, I saw them gathering dried grass for nesting, and dipping it into one of the birdbaths I have set out. This softens the material, making it more pliable. Sometimes, during the same trip, they would sweep the wet grass into the soil around the birdbath and fly off to build their nests.
I never followed them for fear of discouraging them from nesting in the giant holly bush or concolor pine tree. Neither did I want the neighborhood cats, who too often roam my yard, to follow my scent to the trees. I learned the hard way.
When we lived in Ohio’s Amish country, American Robins, Northern Cardinals, and other songbirds would nest in the many shrubs and trees I had planted on our acre and a half. I would often check the nests I could reach to see the progress from eggs to fledglings.
I stopped doing that when I was on my third or fourth round of curiosity. I discovered the eggs or hatchlings were gone. Everything was fine before, so I wondered if my frequent visits allowed feral cats, raccoons, or other animals to follow my tracks to their lunch.
Consequently, I am more than happy to know that the birds are using the greenery around our property without prying into the state of the incubation. I think that strategy is working.
While doing yardwork, I can sneak a peek at the progress without getting too close. In a matter of days, babyblue eggs transform into fuzzballs with begging beaks, and then into chubby babies, and finally into fledglings.
In the case of the robins, that’s when the show begins. Mom brings her surviving babies to the birdbath with the mini-waterfall or to feed beneath the seed-filled feeders for the seeds that sloppy eaters like the Common Grackles drop.
Mother robin shows the pair of juveniles how to peck and scratch for food. She sometimes jabs and overturns the mulch around the flowers and shrubs to uncover insects that provide her youngsters with needed protein.
Though they are nearly the size of their mother, the little buggers beg for food. So, mom obliges until she tires, and flies off to a dense row of evergreens, leaving the young birds to fend for themselves.
They soon learn. I spot them standing in the birdbath, still as a statue, as if they are listening to the musical sound of water upon water. When a grackle suddenly appears, the young robins scamper for cover beneath the thriving peonies until it’s safe to return.
Though they call and call, neither mother nor father answers. The baby robins get the hint and peck away under the feeders or in the flowerbeds, just as their mother had modeled.
Once they complete their growth to adulthood, the spots on their chests will disappear, and they will begin the cycle all over again.
According to Cornell University’s Ornithology Lab, an American Robin can produce three successful broods in one year. On average, though, only 40 percent of nests successfully produce young. Only 25 percent of those fledged young survive to November.
From that point on, about half of the robins alive in any year will make it to the next. Even though a lucky robin can live to be 14 years old, the entire population turns over on average every six years.
I hope the two young robins in my backyard beat the odds and have long, productive lives.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2026
I always take my camera along on my morning walks in our neighborhood. This time of year, I never know what beauty I will encounter.
The morning sunshine brings out the truest colors of the various flowers grown in our housing development. These curbside Phlox caught my attention with the lavender glow.
Then I spotted the yellow spot, which I thought was a Sulphur butterfly hiding in plain sight. Upon closer inspection, the out-of-place color was the winded end of a fallen maple seed.
They are referred to locally as helicopter seeds. Even the slightest breeze propels the twirling seeds across the neighborhood landscape. It’s nature’s way of propagating maple trees and providing fresh, nourishing food for squirrels and other critters.
This particular seed happened to land in a bed of lovely spring flowers that nicely contrasted with the seed’s mode of mobility in the sunlit space.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2026
Sunsets are a favorite subject for my photo shoots. I am mesmerized by the ever-changing colors, the illumination of pinks and blues on clouds from the north, south, east, and west. As the colors transform, so do the shapes and the clouds’ hues.
Living in Virginia’s bucolic Shenandoah Valley gives me plenty of opportunities for sunset shots in all four seasons. I try to capture as many sunsets as I can.
I stopped as soon as I saw this one at the bend of a country road, not a mile from my home. The silhouetted, bare walnut tree stood on the left, its arms reaching out in pure awe and appreciation of the unfolding beauty bathing the northwest sky.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2026
It’s been a week since I took this photo. I participated in a group bird walk, and when I came upon this serene scene, it stopped me in my tracks.
The morning sun highlighted the tall hardwood trees elevated above a bend in the North River. Their leaves were still unfolding. The combination of the green grass and the fresh and tender leaves shouted “greening up,” a term used especially in springtime when landscapes come alive with new growth.
Clearly, in this photo, green is the dominant color, especially in the reflections on the river’s calm water. This is even though this area of Virginia is listed as being in extreme drought.
Now, a week later, all those leaves are completely unfurled. Is it my imagination, or is the “greening up” unfolding more quickly than in the past? In a little more than a week, the landscape has gone from mostly bare trees to full canopies, which seems a bit short.
Regardless, nature does her thing, and we reap the eye-catching rewards.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2026
You know it’s spring when farmers make their first cutting of hay. However, making hay at the end of April is unusual, even for Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.
After a recent overnight rain, the warm temperatures and days of clear weather allowed farmers across the valley to make their first cutting of hay. The windrows of mown alfalfa created the intriguing patterns in the foreground, with Massanutten Mountain looming in the distance.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2026
The key to attracting birds to your backyard is more than providing the food the various species need. Birds also require cover for protection and water to survive.
Choosing what to feed birds is easy. Wildlife stores, hardware stores, and businesses that cater to farming and other agricultural folks sell a variety of seeds, suet, and feeders needed for our feathered friends.
Homeowners are responsible for establishing the necessary habitat for protection, perching, and nesting. Planting a variety of native trees, shrubs, plants, and grasses helps to attract a wide variety of birds.
Too often, however, setting out water is overlooked as a necessary ingredient for birds. Water completes the avian trifecta for attracting birds.
Obviously, birds need water for hydration. And just like people, birds need water to keep themselves clean. Birds bathe often to maintain their feathers, rid themselves of dust and mites, and cool down in hot weather. Most birds prefer ground-level birdbaths, but some come to elevated ones.
Adding a small water pump, fountain, or even a small waterfall increases the likelihood of attracting birds to water, especially songbirds. Birds will hear the trickling sound and take that as an invitation to drink and bathe.
Different species have particular ways of drinking. Blue Jays gulp their water by tipping back their head and chugging it down. Mourning Doves are the opposite. They only dip the end of their beaks into the water and daintily sip until satisfied. Northern Cardinals take their time, seemingly enjoying their refreshing liquid.
Birds even use water to clean their beaks of residue, such as seed shells. American Robins bring nesting material to dampen it, making the straw or dried grass more pliable. But it is critical to keep the water and the birdbath basins filled and clean.
As larger birds like Common Grackles, American Robins, and Blue Jays bathe, they splash water out of the containers with their vigorous movements. It’s important to keep the water level full so the pump won’t burn up.
Birds tend to keep their nests neat. They carry fecal sacks containing their babies’ unwanted excrement. Unfortunately, Common Grackles are known to drop those gross sacks in the birdbaths. So, ensuring the birdbaths are clean and filled with fresh water is critical for keeping birds healthy.
Cleaning birdbaths should be done regularly, following a few easy steps. Discard any water left in the bath. Sprinkle a powdery cleaning compound, such as Comet, around the bowl, and use a soft brush to scrub it around to remove any dirt, algae, or other residue. When finished, rinse that out, and refill the birdbath with clean water.
In addition to establishing bird feeders, providing water enhances birds’ attraction. Adding a small pump surrounded by mostly flat stones to create a gurgling sound also brings birds, both migrating and residents, to feeders and birdbaths. The stones provide perches for the smaller songbirds. If the water slows, the pump will likely need to be cleaned as well.
It’s best to remove the pump during the winter months to avoid freezing. The water can be kept from freezing by adding a birdbath heater.
Placing both feeders and birdbaths in locations easily viewed through a window lets you see the benefits of your efforts. In the end, the birds reap the rewards.
Find instructions for what items are needed to build a birdbath at https://warblerfall.com/.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2026
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
Less Noise. More Meaning
Art is the only way to run away without leaving home. -Twyla Tharp
Writing generated from the rural life
writer. teacher. podcast cohost.
El amor cruza fronteras / Love crosses borders
Roadkill Crossing 
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