Category Archives: Nature

Migratory birds begin arriving for seasonal stay in the mountains

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A hummingbird visits a feeder on my deck.

The first hummingbird of spring visited my deck on Thursday, two days ago, and today, Saturday, April 11, I finally got a photo of one.

The visitor I got a blurry photo of traveled to Cherokee County, North Carolina, from Central America. Like most of his fellow travelers, he is a ruby-throated hummingbird — the primary species we have in this part of the country.

According to researchers at North Carolina State, millions of hummingbirds make the trip back and forth from North Carolina to Central America.

The males arrive first, some as early as late March and others in early- to mid-April. The females are not far behind. The small birds are like many of our part-time residents — here for the season, where they will nest, mate and breed.

But before the weather turns too cold in the fall, they’ll head south again, many of them traveling across the Gulf of Mexico to warmer climates in Southern Mexico, Belize, or Guatemala. Some travel as far south as Panama.

By mid-October, most if not all of the tiny, colorful critters will be gone to spend the winter in the warmer south. While many travel overland through Texas and Mexico, others map a more direct route, flying straight across the Gulf of Mexico and into Central America.

Photo from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. The small birds can beat their wings as many as 60 times per second, an astonishing feat that demands lots of oxygen.

To beef-up for the 1,500- to 2,000-mile trip, hummingbirds will gain roughly from 25 percent to 50 percent of their regular weight — and occasionally up to 100 percent — from 3 grams to 6 grams.

Even so, estimates are that nearly half the migrating population may not survive the trip. And for some species, the trip is much longer than 2,000 miles. Rufous hummingbirds, for example, migrate from their winter habitats in Western Mexico and follow the Pacific flyway north into California and then on to Alaska where they nest and breed over the summer.

Those who survive make it to Alaska by May, and by July have had their families, and are heading south again to take advantage of late blooming alpine flowers.

Migration isn’t the only danger these tiny specialized nectarivores. Some species have lost half their numbers to pesticide use and other environmental degredations of the modern era. But they also are highly adaptable.

There are now more than 330 recognized hummingbird species, but UC Berkeley herpetologist Jimmy McGuire believes that number could double in the next several million years. “We are not close to being at the maximum number of hummingbird species,” McGuire says.

Across the Great Divide

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Georgia State Road 197 intersects U.S. 76 between Hiawassee and Clayton, Georgia, plunging south through Moccasin Creek State Park and the mountains of the Chattahoochee National Forest until it dumps Helen-bound motorcyclists onto Georgia State Road 356.

From there you’ll follow the scenic, twisting two-lane through the valleys and mountains, past Unicoi State Park, and into Helen, a Bavarian-style, wannabe Alpine tourist trap cut through by the picturesque Chattahoochee River.

Outside Unicoi State Park in north central Georgia.

Weekend seasonal traffic is always bumper to bumper through Helen — it’s less than 100 miles from Atlanta, after all — but it’s a tiny village and being stuck in slow-moving traffic for five or six blocks can afford some prime people watching as folks parade by on the nearby sidewalks. So, relax.

Customer at a fast food stop in Helen, Georgia, with a “Jesus is My Big Homie” T-shirt. Probably a Southern thing. I didn’t ask. The front of her shirt said, “Godgang.” I got the picture.

If you’re on a motorcycle you’ll have plenty of two-wheel company. At one main-drag beer joint I passed on Sunday, March 22, there seemed to be 90- to 100 Harleys (mostly) jockeying for a parking space, and another 70 or so already parked.

Lots of motorcycles.

But if you happen to live like a teetotaling frickin’ monk, as I have been these past 10 years or so, you won’t be tempted by beer anyway, so keep going.

At the Hogpen Gap overlook on the Russell Scenic Highway in Georgia.

From my cabin, following the route I took on this trip, it’s possible to make a pleasant 140 mile loop through Helen and onto the Richard B. Russell Scenic Highway — often praised as one of the most beautiful drives in north Georgia — and back to Cherokee County, North Carolina, without seeing the same scenery twice.

It’s an enjoyable bike ride, and the mid- to high- 70-degree weather we had Sunday made it a real pleasure.

Russell, by the way, was a racist Georgia governor and U.S. Senator who was one of the key figures in filibustering civil rights legislation in the 1960s, along with Mississippi’s John Cornelius Stennis, James Oliver Eastland, and a host of other bigoted, duck-dicked, discriminatory throwbacks to a Rebel yesteryear that is, sadly, enjoying something of an injudicious revival among numb-nuts on the far-right of American and other nation’s politics — a revival sparked in no small part by Donald The Dickless Duck Trump.

A selfie at the Hogpen Gap overlook. The Appalachian Trial crosses the road at this point.

Speaking of dicks and Trump, it’s easy to imagine he has a wee detachable penis similar to the orb spider, and, also, similarly, to imagine he was left a eunuch a few years back — as are all mating male orb spiders — when reportedly attempting to force his tiny member into the mouth of a 13 year old, who (again, reportedly) bit him on his little thingamajig, prompting the indignant U.S. president to slug her in the head.

This is mentioned in the Epstein Files. Just something we’ve all heard about President Jackass, an ignorant rotted snotball of a man.

Makes one wonder about those who voted for this amoral manchild creature — many of whom voted for him twice. Twice. Dear god. Think about that. Twice.

Dear Lord Odin, our beloved Allfather, guide us from this wicked, wanton, wallowing, witless wilderness, we humbly pray in thy exalted name. Now, damnit. Get us out now! Amen.

Anywho, onward.

First Day of Spring, 2026

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Two days of cloudy cold weather packed up, bundled up, and trundled up the mountain paths and out of western North Carolina just in time for spring, 2026, which arrived today with sunshine and temperatures that stretched to 72 degrees.

Tomorrow, the weather god, Freyr, promises even more sunny warmth. Word is he’ll push the mercury to 78 degrees under this March sun.

Harley in the backcountry
Spring has come to the Mountains.

To celebrate Spring’s arrival, I took the Harley out of the basement and onto the mountain roads in Cherokee County, North Carolina, and Union County, Georgia.

But first, Hazel and I took the truck over the mountains to Franklin, North Carolina, to deliver samples of some of my body fluids so that the VA can test them for still more diseases and disorders that plague us elderly folk — and that’s all I’ll say about that.

Anyway, I took the photo above somewhere along the Georgia-North Carolina boundary on my much more pleasant motorcycle ride.

If you remember, back in 2024, Spring came on March 19 — a day or so early, the earliest in the U.S. since 1896.

You’ll recall from Elementary School that every year divisible by 4 is a leap year, in which a 29th day is added to February to account for the little white lie that we tell ourselves about our 365-day years. To be precise, of course, our years are not 365 days long, but 365.2422 days long. The Earth’s 574,395,530-mile annual orbit of the sun really takes a wee bit longer than 365 days.

The adjustment of days in 2024 — a leap year — led to the early Spring.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t also add that you can always tell when Spring arrives in Murphy, N.C., because of the re-opening of the Sweet Tooth, an ice cream shop downtown on Andrews Street.

The popular shop closes every year for the winter on Labor Day.

Now put your books away and let’s go riding.

70-degrees and rising

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It may be a strange combination of businesses, but common enough in north Georgia. This is in downtown McCaysville.

The Ides of March marked misfortune and doom for the ancient Romans, but in 2026, the month didn’t start out that way in the North Carolina mountains.

March 1 marked sunny, beautiful motorcycle weather in the western mountains.

You take what you can get. The thermometer eventually reached 73 at mid-afternoon.

Today I rode over the mountains to Mineral Bluff, Georgia, hooked a right and motored to McCaysville, Georgia, which shares a main street — Toccoa Avenue — with Copperhill, Tennessee.

The side-by-side towns are popular with tourists, and the sun had brought them out today in plentiful abundance to visit the shops that line the streets here.

Alongside U.S. 64 at Ducktown, Tennessee.

The Toccoa River flows 56 miles from the south into McCaysville where it loses its name, but not it’s identity. It becomes the Ocoee River just after  it passes under the wood-floored truss bridge on Grand Street, continuing for another 37 miles into Tennessee and the Ocoee Gorge.

The bridge, known as a “camelback truss,” was built in the early 1900s, probably in 1928, though some date it to 1911. There is a more modern bridge across the river a block to the south at Blue Ridge Drive.
The state line is a few feet north of the older bridge, and that’s where the Toccoa becomes the Ocoee River.
On the Georgia stretch, the Toccoa is lined by tubing outfitters that will open for business as the weather warms, but in Tennessee, especially in the Gorge, the river is primarily a kayaking destination.
After touring the towns, I turned north and headed to U.S. 64 at Ducktown, Tennessee, making a full loop of some 80 miles back to the cabin outside Murphy — but not before I paused for a photo at the North Carolina state line.
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Snowmageddon, they’re callin’ it

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My Toyota Tacoma after the snowstorm.

Snow started falling over the Maryland peninsula on Sunday, and it didn’t stop until Monday afternoon by which time the sky gods had dumped as much as 15 inches of the stuff on anything that stood or lay in its path.

To be correct, of course — and why not? — this is the Delaware, Maryland, Virginia peninsula. All three states claim a part of this area of the Chesapeake Bay.

It’s an area of chicken “factories” and fishing fleets, of crab cakes and casinos. There are enough Trump morons in these parts to stock a decent Mississippi county jail, and enough Democrat leaning voters to give you hope.

The most popular restaurant is a convenience store chain known as Royal Farms, which sells fried chicken by the bucket load and gasoline by the gallon. The chicken gets rave reviews from the locals.

I’ve been here cat-sitting for the past two weeks. It’s a yearly chore. Five cats. Hazel helps me keep them in line.

Anyhow, we made it through the storm without any damage other than a yard full of. broken tree limbs. And, of course, snow. Tons and tons of snow.

Throughout the neighborhood trees were down and government road crews were busy with big snow plows, snow blowers and other imposing implements that more northern locals clearly keep in ready supply for just such emergencies as we have here over the past few days.

And despite what one might think from the photo above, my truck didn’t have a scratch — at least one that I could see beyond the ordinary dings of 10-years and 180,000 miles of frequent use.

The gods smile on the Toyota Motor Car Co.

On the Road Again

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Nottely River TVA dam, Christmas Eve, 2025

Like much of the rest of the country we’ve had unseasonable weather over the winter holidays, and that good fortune remains with us through today when the temperature is expected to reach 70- or more degrees.

As you know, that’s nearly perfect motorcycle weather.

So the bike has gotten out of the stable a bit — on Christmas Eve I rode a loop through the Georgia mountains and across TVA’s dam on the Nottely River, where I took the selfie you see here.

Today, while a pot of slow-cooking venison roast simmers on the cabin counter, I plan for go into Cherokee and onto the route through the Smoky Mountain Park, where I hope to get a photo of the elk you can sometimes see grazing there.

Here’s wishing myself some luck on the elk . . . Stay tuned.

Maryland shore moonrise

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DECEMBER MOON

A dozen or more autos gathered in the Ocean City inlet parking lot on Dec. 4, 2025, ferrying occupants to the beach to watch the final full moonrise of the year, a supermoon at that, and one also known as the Cold Moon.

And cold it was, made even colder by a stiff wind out of the northeast, though not as cold as it might soon be — a snow storm is making its way cross country and should arrive in our area tomorrow.

After the moonrise, LLT, JE and I went back to Ocean Pines for Thanksgiving leftovers, some of them in a turkey pot pie John had made before we left for the beach.

Tomorrow he and LLT head to Baltimore for a reunion with some of JE’s old college pals. Yours truly will be cat-sitting, with Hazel’s help of course.

Maryland shore sunrise

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SUNRISE FISHING

Thunderstorms had departed our region of the East Coast leaving clear skies for Wednesday’s sunrise.

But only a handful of cars were in the lot for the celestial show at the Ocean City, Maryland, inlet.

More’s the pity for them.

Of course, truth be told, even Hazel was more interested in the sea birds than the sunrise. She kept a wary eye on a noisy flock as she did her business in a ragged strip of seaweed and leaves at the edge of the sand along the municipal parking lot — largely empty this time of year.

The Old Stovall Mill

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The old Stovall Mill Covered Bridge at Sautee Junction, Georgia. Click on any of the images for an expanded view.

Fog wrapped the taller mountains in a soggy embrace along the Russell Scenic Highway as I made my way to the historic old covered bridge near Sautee Junction, roughly another 30 miles away.

This area of Georgia is part of the Russell-Brasstown Scenic Byway, which itself is part of our National Scenic Byways that dot this big country of ours. All told, there are 184 National Scenic Byways scattered throughout 48 states.

This one is in the beautiful Chattahoochee-Oconee National Forest. Brasstown Bald is somewhere off to my left.

The bridge is a popular spot for graffiti and seems especially popular for young lovers who need to declare their affinity for each other in chalk. The river is scenic here as it is elsewhere.

I have on a long-sleeve summer sun shirt, a T-shirt over that and then a leather vest — all topped off with a blue jean jacket. It’s border line enough clothing for motorcycling at these elevations and beneath this overcast, foggy sky.

But the sun returned as I reached the turn-off to Helen, Georgia, a tourist trap along the Chattahoochee River, which many people mistakenly believe is the river from the movie “Deliverance.” But, no, that’s the  Chattooga River.

And while on “Deliverance” trivia, the rundown town in the movie wasn’t actually in Georgia at all. Those scenes were filmed in Sylva, North Carolina. Same thing with the movie, “Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Montana” — another cinematic wonder also filmed in Sylva.

Anyhow, the Stovall Covered Bridge isn’t much to look at.

There are picnic tables at the bridge along the beautiful Chattahoochee though, and it’s a nice stop for a snack and a break from the saddle — especially for motorcycle riders, who need more butt-rests than auto travelers might.

I had bought a root beer and a chocolate bar at the Old Sautee Store a few miles back, so I sat at one of the tables, snacked, and enjoyed the view for awhile along with the mid 70-degree day. The chill of the higher mountains long gone.

On the day I visited the mill fiber optic cable was coiled on the ground ready for stringing by crews hoisting it to poles.

The Old Sautee Store and Market make for an interesting if not critical stop for sightseers. There was a father with his two-month-old baby sitting on the porch during my visit. The little boy, wide eyed and smooth skinned as wee ones his age are, worked his month like a guppie and waved his arms like a sea amoeba as I walked by him.

Which gets to my sole bit of advice for the day: Never trust anyone who can walk by a new-to-the-world child like that one was without smiling.

I’m unsure why we always smile at seeing the very young, perhaps as a small way of rejoicing at the world renewing itself, replacing us wrinkled and mostly worn out old versions with new ones.