The Snail Kite- Is it Or Isn’t it?

Posted on October 23, 2026October 19, 2026 by Dusty Roads | No Comments

A dark gray raptor hovers above bright blue water with wings fully spread, clutching a large apple snail in its orange talons. The bird's hooked beak is pointed toward the snail, and a white patch is visible near the tail feathers. Water droplets fall from the shell as the bird flies over the wetlands.

Snail Kite – Photo Credit Audubon

Another Day in the Everglades

An airboat carrying several passengers travels across calm water in a marsh. The flat-bottomed boat, topped with a large rear fan and a small orange safety flag, moves through a channel bordered by tall grasses. Scattered aquatic plants float on the water's surface beneath an overcast sky. On one of my many trips to Florida, I was once again poking around the Everglades. I know most people think of it as a swamp, but I love the place. There are creatures there that I would never see anywhere else, and my camera is always busy.

On this particular day, I was on an airboat tour. I take airboat tours quite often, mainly because they’re a good way to get around. You’re not likely to step on an alligator, although they have been known to jump into the boats, and they allow you to see areas the average tourist would never reach on foot.

Some tours are great and others, not so much. I can’t blame the operators. They know their routes and they know when the animals are usually out and about, but they can’t make wildlife appear on command. Nature doesn’t work that way.

A Rare Visitor

A large flock of white pelicans skims low over a wetland marsh, flying above shallow water and tall reeds. A dense line of green trees stretches across the background beneath a pale blue sky with wispy clouds. Several pelicans are just lifting off from the water while others soar in formation, creating a dynamic wildlife scene. We were crossing a fairly open stretch of water and heading toward some tall reeds where the operator thought we might spot a few “gators.” To pass the time, he was filling us in on bits of Everglades lore.

Earlier, we’d watched a large flock of pelicans take off together, which was quite impressive. We’d also seen a few gators tucked away in the vegetation, but nothing cruising the open water.

Suddenly, the operator got very excited and started pointing at the sky. A dark bird of prey glides across a pale blue, lightly clouded sky with wings fully outstretched. The bird is silhouetted against the sky, showing long wings with spread primary feathers and a slightly fanned tail, centered in a wide expanse of open air.

In the distance, I could just make out a dark bird flying toward us. I knew it was well beyond the range of my camera, but I might never get another chance, so I started taking pictures anyway.

The operator kept shouting, “Snail kite! Snail kite!”

I didn’t see any snails or any kites, but I kept snapping away as the bird came closer.

Finally, it veered off, and I watched it disappear into the distance. The operator then told us how lucky we were to have seen such a rare bird.

A dark-and-light raptor in flight against a pale sky, viewed from the side. The bird's broad dark wings are fully extended, while the body, head, and upper wing coverts appear lighter gray. A hooked beak and long tail are visible as the bird glides through open air.

Photographed in the Everglades. The hooked bill, shape, and habitat make me wonder if this is a Snail Kite, but the lighting and distance make the ID tricky. What do you think?

Rediscovering an Old Photograph

Years passed.

As you know, I’ve been digging through my ancient photo archive, looking for pictures I might want to salvage, restore, or delete. Lo and behold, there were those old photos of that dark-colored bird.

A dark bird of prey glides across a pale evening sky with wings fully outstretched. The bird is silhouetted against the fading light, with a small patch of lighter color visible near the tail and a bright reflection at the eye. The image captures the bird in flight from a distance against an uncluttered background.

Just for fun, I tried enlarging and sharpening them. Photo-processing tools have improved dramatically over the years, and as the image cleared up, there it was.

Silhouette of a large bird in flight against a pale sky, wings fully extended in a shallow downward curve. The bird is viewed from the side with its head lowered and hooked beak visible, while long wings and a trailing tail create a dramatic profile against the softly lit background.

My snail kite.

Except it wasn’t.

The Great Misidentification

For all these years, I believed I had photographed this rare bird. I even watched a PBS wildlife special about snail kites, learning how they got their name from their diet of apple snails and how they’re threatened by habitat loss.

But now I’m not so sure.

The tour guide may have misidentified the bird. Then again, maybe he didn’t.

When I recently restored the old photos and enlarged them, I became convinced that the bird wasn’t a snail kite at all. At first glance, it appeared more likely to be a red-shouldered hawk. That seemed to settle the matter.

Then I started comparing my photograph with other images of red-shouldered hawks and found myself having second thoughts. The more photographs I looked at, the less certain I became.

Brown and white raptor perched on a broken wooden stump, facing the camera with its beak open. The bird has barred underparts, patterned wings, and yellow legs, with lush green foliage blurred in the background.

red shouldered hawk

So after all these years, the mystery remains unsolved. The bird may have been a snail kite. It may have been something else entirely. Unfortunately, the original photo was taken at extreme range under less-than-ideal conditions, and there simply isn’t enough detail for a definitive identification.

Still an Everglades Success

Whatever the bird was, I’m still glad I took the picture.

Considering the distance and conditions, the photo came out far better than I expected. More importantly, it preserved a memory from a day spent exploring one of my favorite places on Earth.

So I guess I can chalk this up as a semi-successful Everglades adventure.

After all, not every wildlife story ends with an answer. Sometimes the mystery is what keeps the story alive.

Kancamagus Highway

Posted on October 22, 2026October 17, 2026 by Dusty Roads | 2 Comments

A winding mountain road curves through a dense forest of vibrant autumn foliage, with red, orange, yellow, and green treetops stretching across rolling hills under a partly cloudy sky.

The Kancamagus Highway — A Fall Ride I’ll Never Forget

There are some roads you don’t just drive — you remember. For me, one of those is the Kancamagus Highway, winding through the White Mountains in full October color. Years ago, I rode it on a motorcycle, the air sharp enough to sting my cheeks and the leaves swirling behind me like confetti. It wasn’t just a scenic drive. It was freedom, pure and simple.

Riding the Kanc in Full Fall Color

A motorcycle with two riders leans into a curve on a forested road, motion blur showing their speed as they pass dense green foliage and a yellow road sign. The Kancamagus is made for motorcycles, especially in the fall. No straining to see the colors from inside a car — it’s all wide open. But dress warmly. Leathers are almost a necessity. October is cold anyway, but the mountains add their own bite, and the Kanc sits deep in northern New Hampshire. It’s 35 miles of highway through the White Mountain National Forest, running from Lincoln to Conway.

At its highest point, you reach an elevation of 2,855 feet. It may not tower like the Rockies, but it’s a good, steady rise. There’s a sign marking the summit, and it’s worth stopping for a picture — one of those “just so you can say you were there” moments.

You can drive straight through. It’ll take you two to three hours depending on traffic, and October is prime leaf‑peeping A narrow waterfall flows between tall moss‑covered rock walls in a shaded gorge, with a wooden footbridge above and green forest vegetation surrounding the scene. season. But it’s even better if you stop along the way. One of my favorite waterfalls is Sabbaday Falls. The trail is clearly marked, there’s parking, and a short hike takes you to a multi‑tiered waterfall. Easy enough for a family walk.

I’ve gone moose‑watching in the area and never seen any along the Kanc, but I’m told to beware — moose, deer, and black bear all use the highway, especially around dawn and dusk. It’s bad enough in a car, but you definitely don’t want to meet one of those animals on a motorcycle.

There’s more to see than just the fall colors: Rocky Gorge, Lower Falls, and all the little pull‑offs where the mountains open up in front of you. All in all, the Kanc is one of my favorite drives — a stretch of road that stays with you long after the ride is over.

Fast‑moving river water cascades over rocks, creating white rapids surrounded by smooth stone formations and a dense forest of evergreen and deciduous trees.

A Vacation of Firsts

Posted on October 21, 2026October 21, 2026 by Dusty Roads | No Comments

Red rock formations rise above the town of Sedona, Arizona, with layered sandstone cliffs, green trees, and scattered houses under a clear sky.

⭐ Sedona Firsts — A Walk Down Memory Lane (2008)

Red sandstone cliffs and buttes rise above the town of Sedona, Arizona, with green trees and scattered houses in the foreground under a partly cloudy sky. You all know about my great photo‑tagging project. I’m making good progress, but as if 10,000+ pictures weren’t enough, I discovered a whole stash of older photos that never made it into my media library.

I was searching for a specific shot I knew I took. It wasn’t in the library, so I went digging through my computer’s hard drive. Ta‑da — found it! But then… what are all these other folders? I clicked one at random.

Sedona 2008. Instant time warp.

None of these photos were ever imported, but there were a lot of them — and suddenly I was right back in that trip. 2008 was one of my earlier adventures, full of “firsts,” as you’d expect. So let’s take a walk down memory lane.

🌄 Sedona: Home of the Woo‑Woo

Sedona has a reputation — mystical energy vortexes, UFO sightings, crystal shops, tarot readers. If it’s outside the norm, you’ll probably find it here.

I didn’t partake in any meditations or energy‑raising ceremonies. For me, Sedona is a photographer’s dream:

Two tall red sandstone hoodoos known as the “Two Nuns” rise against a clear blue sky in Sedona, Arizona, with green hills and sparse desert vegetation at their base.

2 Nuns

Red rocks glowing at dawn and dusk
Oak Creek winding between canyon walls
Hawks floating overhead
A photography shop on the main street with local art so beautiful it made my heart hurt

That’s the Sedona I fell in love with.

🚂 First: The Grand Canyon Railway

I drove to Williams, Arizona, where I caught the train to the Grand Canyon. I know I’ve told you before — that first look at the canyon is beyond description.

My mind couldn’t get a grip on it. The canyon is so massive, so colorful, so unreal that I half expected to reach out and touch a mural instead of… nothingness. I don’t think I’ll ever recapture that moment again, and I’ll never forget it.

Expansive view of the Grand Canyon with layered red and orange cliffs, deep valleys, and rugged rock formations stretching toward the horizon under a partly cloudy sky.

🌬️ First: Meteor Crater

Meteor Crater

Traveling east from Williams, I followed I‑40 until I reached Exit 233 — Meteor Crater.

1 mile wide
550 feet deep
50,000 years old

There are four lookout points along the rim, each with telescopes for viewing the floor. The day I visited was windy, and the sound was incredible — like someone blowing across the top of a giant bottle. A deep, resonant WOOOOOOSH rolling across the crater’s rim.

There’s a small space museum, but honestly, the crater itself overwhelmed me so much that I barely went inside.

🐅 First: A Dirt Devil Up Close

Back in Sedona, I headed south toward Camp Verde to visit Out of Africa Wildlife Park. Who expects to find a safari A tall dust devil spirals upward from the desert floor, twisting across a flat, dry landscape with distant mountains under a clear blue sky. park in Arizona? But it was fun — until it became memorable.

I was in the bleachers watching the tigers swimming and playing when a trainer suddenly yelled, “Take cover!” We were outside… cover where?

A dirt devil was forming near the tiger enclosure.

I’d seen plenty of them while driving — harmless little twisters that never last long. Or so I thought.

This one hit the bleachers with force:

The wind nearly knocked me off my feet
Cat toys were flying
Dirt blasted into the air like sandpaper
Anything not covered stung

It only lasted a few minutes, and I wasn’t hurt, but wow — I learned how not harmless those “little” things can be.

🚁 First: My First Helicopter Ride

Another big first: my first helicopter ride.

We flew over the landscape around Sedona in a small helicopter, and I had the perfect seat — window access and a camera in hand. I took photos the entire time and loved every second.

I’ve been on several helicopter rides since, but none were as satisfying. Bigger copters, center seats, someone’s head or arm always in the way. That first ride spoiled me forever.

Wide desert landscape with red rock mesas and buttes in Sedona, Arizona, surrounded by sparse vegetation and green shrubs under a clear blue sky.

❤️ Why I Returned

My first trip to Sedona was a huge success. No wonder I went back a couple of years later. And if time and money allowed, I’d go again.

Maybe next time I’d even see a UFO.

Red rock cliffs and buttes in Sedona, Arizona, rising above sparse desert vegetation under a clear blue sky.

Newport: A Story Written in Salt Air and Stone

Posted on October 16, 2026October 16, 2026 by Dusty Roads | No Comments

Three sailboats race across choppy blue water, each sharply heeling in the wind with sails fully extended. A long bridge stretches across the background above a low strip of land, and the sky is bright and clear. The scene captures the speed and intensity of the America’s Cup in Newport.

Newport: Where History, Glamour, and the Atlantic All Collide

An opulent bedroom decorated for Christmas, featuring a tall, brightly lit tree adorned with colorful ornaments. The room includes a large, elaborately draped bed and rich gold curtains, creating a warm, luxurious holiday atmosphere.

Newport didn’t become America’s summer capital overnight. In the mid‑1800s, it was still a quiet coastal town with colonial bones — whaling ships, weathered shingles, and a salty breeze that never quite left your clothes. But as industrial fortunes exploded, the country’s wealthiest families began looking for a place to escape the heat, the noise, and the social obligations of New York and Boston.

They found Newport.

At first, the arrivals were modest: wooden cottages, seaside porches, simple retreats. But modesty wasn’t a long‑term trait of the Gilded Age. By the 1870s and 1880s, the families who came to Newport weren’t just wealthy — they were dynasties. And they didn’t come to blend in. They came to build monuments.

The Migration of the Millionaires

Newport became a summer migration pattern for America’s elite:

The Astors, guardians of old‑money respectability
The Vanderbilts, railroad titans with something to prove
The Berwinds, coal magnates with European tastes
The Oelrichs, social climbers with flair
The Wetmores, early adopters who set the tone

They arrived with architects, landscapers, imported marble, and a determination to outdo one another. What began as “summer cottages” quickly became palaces — each one larger, grander, and more theatrical than the last.

The Rivalries

Newport’s social season was short — barely eight weeks — but the rivalries were year‑round.

Old money vs. new money. Who threw the best parties. Who had the grandest cottage.

The Breakers became the ultimate symbol — a 70‑room palace that made every other mansion look like a guest house. And Marble House, dripping in gold leaf and French opulence, was Alva Vanderbilt’s declaration that she intended to rewrite the social rules.

A Night in the Gilded Age

Every so often, Newport lets you step right back into that world.

I once attended the Dead of Winter Ball, held in one of the great mansions — the kind with a sweeping staircase and a ballroom built for spectacle. Guests arrived in horse‑drawn carriages, their breath visible in the cold air, just as they would have at the height of the Gilded Age. My friend Joe was my escort, and neither of us cared which mansion it was — the moment the carriage wheels crunched over the gravel, it felt like we’d slipped into another century.

The Cliff Walk — Newport’s Backstage Pass

I’ve walked the Cliff Walk in the summer, when the Atlantic is in a gentler mood and there’s less chance of being swept away by a rogue wave. It’s one of the best ways to see the backside of the mansions — the part the Gilded Age families never meant the public to admire, but which ended up being the most breathtaking view of all.

Drive down Bellevue Avenue and you might catch a glimpse of a mansion or two peeking out from behind high stone walls or over broad lawns. But from the Cliff Walk? It’s a different world. A grand seaside mansion rises above a wide green lawn, viewed from the Cliff Walk. The light‑colored stone building features steep gabled roofs, ornate chimneys, and arched windows under a bright, lightly clouded sky.

The mansions stand wide open to the sea, their terraces and lawns stretching right to the edge of the cliffs. The mighty Atlantic is at your feet the whole time, and the houses rise above you like silent witnesses to a century of summer seasons, scandals, rivalries, and glittering parties.

The America’s Cup — A Day I’ll Never Forget (Though I’ve Tried)

A white sailboat with full sails moves through choppy water, carrying several people and an American flag at the stern. A lighthouse and a few shoreline buildings sit on a rocky point in the background, capturing the classic coastal setting of the America’s Cup in Newport. In the 1980s, Newport was the beating heart of the America’s Cup. For more than a century, America had dominated this iconic sailing race, and Newport was where the world came to watch sleek racing yachts slice through the Atlantic.

I’m not much of a sailor — I’d be utterly lost on a racing yacht — but I do enjoy a day on the ocean with cocktails and good company. So when a friend invited me to an America’s Cup viewing party on his boat, I jumped at the chance.

What they neglect to tell you is that attending an America’s Cup event does not mean calm seas.

The water gets kicked up into a wild, relentless chop from the wakes of dozens of spectator boats all jostling for position. I never found my sea legs. Not once. We were tossed one way, then the other, then back again like a cork in a blender.

I had a very hearty conversation with “Rachel and Ralph” before I was gently escorted to a bunk on the lower level. It was bad enough that the host offered to call the Coast Guard to take me back to land. Mortifying. But no — I stuck it out and tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible so I wouldn’t disturb his other guests.

I wish I could say it was a highlight of my Newport years, being at the America’s Cup. But honestly? It was unforgettable for reasons best forgotten.

The Newport Tower — Mystery, Myth, and My Favorite Version of the Truth

The Newport Tower stands in a grassy park, its round stone structure supported by several archways. Leafless trees surround the site, with a few buildings and a flagpole visible in the background under a bright blue sky. Back on land, there’s one more landmark that is purely Newport, and it’s the one that has always pulled me in: the Newport Tower.

For years, I heard people whisper that it was proof the Vikings made it to New England long before anyone else. They built it, they used it — for what, no one knew. That mystery was half the fun.

But now historians say it’s not Viking at all (bummer). According to them, it’s just an old stone windmill, the wooden parts long since rotted away. Practical. Sensible. Historically tidy.

And absolutely nowhere near as romantic.

Still, the tower stands there in Touro Park, weathered and stubbornly enigmatic. Even with the “official” explanation, I can’t help myself. I’d still rather think of it as the Viking Tower of Newport, a little piece of Old Norse legend tucked into a New England seaside town.

Some places are better when you let the mystery win.

Wrap‑Up

Newport is one of those rare places where every era leaves a footprint — colonial streets, Gilded Age palaces, roaring Atlantic cliffs, and the ghosts of racing yachts skimming across the bay. I’ve danced in its mansions, walked its cliffs, braved its seas, and stood in front of its mysteries.

And every time I go back, Newport feels like it’s waiting to tell me one more story.

Driving the Mohawk Trail

Posted on October 14, 2026October 9, 2026 by Dusty Roads | No Comments

Large bronze elk statue standing behind a black metal fence in Charlemont, Massachusetts, a well‑known roadside landmark along the Mohawk Trail with a house and trees in the background.

“The Elk of Charlemont — guardian of the Mohawk Trail.”

The Mohawk Trail Elk

If you’ve ever driven the Mohawk Trail, you’ve probably met this fellow — the famous elk statue standing watch in Charlemont. He’s been greeting travelers for generations, a quirky landmark from the old roadside‑attraction era. Locals simply call him The Elk, and for many of us, he’s the unofficial mascot of the Mohawk Trail. Seeing him always meant you were on one of New England’s most scenic drives, where the road bends, the hills rise, and the pace finally slows down.

A Fast Life on the Mass Pike

When I first moved to Massachusetts, most weekends were spent racing back and forth to New York where my family lived. I’d rush out of the house, toss an overnight bag in the car, and shoot straight onto the Mass Pike. Then I’d drive like a bat out of… well, let’s just say the posted speed limits and I weren’t always on speaking terms. It became a game — how much faster could I make the trip this week compared to last. I was lucky. Out of all those runs, I only got stopped once.

Breaker Breaker 19: The CB Era

A person in a tan cowboy hat and red shirt sits in the front seat of a moving vehicle, speaking into a CB radio microphone. Behind them, another person with long brown hair looks out the window while brushing their hair back. The blurred scenery outside suggests the vehicle is in motion.

Back in the ’70s, my need for speed had a little helper: the CB radio. Breaker Breaker 19 — any smokies ahead? Sometimes I’d slide into a “rocking chair” between two big rigs and we’d fly down the highway together. But one day, I decided to try something different.

Discovering the Mohawk Trail

Instead of putting the pedal to the metal, I went north on 128, cruised right past the Mass Pike entrance, picked up Route 2/2A near Concord, and headed west. Welcome to the Mohawk Trail.

You don’t take the Mohawk Trail for speed. You take it to enjoy an old‑fashioned, winding two‑lane road. It wanders through tiny villages and hamlets, follows rivers and streams, and even throws a full 180‑degree hairpin curve at you.

hairpin curve on the Mohawk Trail

That’s one turn you definitely don’t want to take at highway speed.

Fall Foliage at Its Finest

In the fall, the scenery is spectacular. Maple trees blaze bright red, and every other tree seems to toss in its own color for emphasis. The road winds through the Berkshires, always curving, always meandering — which makes perfect sense. For centuries, the Mohawk Trail served as a Native American footpath connecting tribes between the Hudson and Connecticut River valleys. Once automobiles arrived, it was only natural that a motor road would follow the same path.

One of America’s Oldest Scenic Byways

Today, the Mohawk Trail is one of the oldest scenic byways in the country, and it rewards anyone willing to slow down. Soak up the atmosphere. Explore the little towns and villages. This is some of the most beautiful country in all of New England. The Mohawk isn’t a route to rush through — it’s meant to be savored.

A Drive Worth Remembering

It’s still one of my favorite drives, even if I don’t get to enjoy it as often as I used to. Maybe that’s why it remains so special to me. So the next time you have a few extra hours and want an old‑fashioned road trip — a true Sunday‑afternoon drive — think of the Mohawk Trail and give it a try. You might be surprised by how much you love it.

Category Archives: Travel