#SOL18 3-14-18 The Sound of Silence

     “Get up and get dressed, we’re going for a ride,” wasn’t an unusual way for a weekend to begin when I was a kid. I rarely knew where we were going exactly. Dad loved to surprise my mom and me, but I think he also wanted to keep his options open. We lived in the Denver area, so often we would head west to the mountains. Driving along enjoying the fresh mountain air, the aspens and pines, the beautiful vistas, he would suddenly jerk the steering wheel and off onto the shoulder we would go...sometimes there would be a parking lot, often not. He would jump out and start unpacking the trunk.

     “Really? We’re stopping here?!” I would whine. “But there’s nothing!”

     Grabbing his fishing pole and tackle box, hopping into his hip waders, Dad never tried to convince me this was a good idea. He never said, “It won’t be long” or “I’ll take you someplace special later.” He never explained that being bored would be good for me, or told me to just try to enjoy it.

     “How long will we be here?”
      “Until I’m done.”

     I’d whine and complain briefly, then settle in. My mom would pull out her lawn chair and her book, then we’d head down close to the inevitable river, and I’d be on my own. There was no conversation--that would scare the fish.

    Colorado mountain rivers are narrow, fast, and cold. The chatter of the river easily drowns out any noise coming from the road. The temperature drops noticeably as you approach, the air is perpetually fresh from the movement of the current, and your lungs fill with the cleansing cool pine.

    Sitting on the bank, staring intently into the water, I would try to catch a glimpse of the fish Dad was always after: rainbow trout and German browns. The water in the center of the river splashed over and against boulders and river rock smoothed from eons of polishing current, but at the edges miniature tides of crystal clear snow-melt lapped gently. As soon as I thought I’d caught sight of a fish, it was gone. Wandering along the bank, the water and birds created their own symphony. Rough bark and sticky yellow sap made finding a boulder to sit on preferable to leaning against a tree. Even better, a sun-dappled boulder, warm and comfy, an ideal place to close your eyes and breathe it all in.

      As an adult, when I need calm I listen to the recordings of Gordon Hempton, an acoustic ecologist, and the author of One Square Inch of Silence: One Man's Search for Natural Silence in a Noisy World. Today I tried again to share his natural sounds with students rather than the ambient or classical music they’re used to. Year after year, there are always a few students who react so negatively, we have to switch back to music before long. When this happened again today, I decided to try to write about when I learned to love this kind of natural silence. When I listen to Gordon Hempton, all of those the early mornings and evenings I spent by the river come back to me and settle my soul. Those hours taught me to crave a kind of peace that I still long for and find in the forest.