An occasional essay on issues pertaining to the Western landscape
Sounds of the Wilderness
Frederick H. Swanson
Frederick H. Swanson
For an old backpacker like myself, the first few steps on a wilderness trail bring familiar and comforting sensations. With the car out of sight and the weight of the pack settling into my shoulders, I know that once again I’m headed into country where the internal combustion engine does not reign. My eyes take in the soft greens and browns of lodgepole pine and forest duff, their gentle fragrance filling the air. Warm sunlight on my face alternates with cool cloud-shadow. The sounds I hear are, with few exceptions, not of human creation.
On this trip my wife and I are heading for a small lake in the Uinta Mountains east of where we live. We arrive late in the afternoon, tired from the walk but inspired by the surroundings, which would fit an Albert Bierstadt canvas. Cliffs of purple-gray quartzite erupt from talus slopes beyond the lake, reaching toward peaks named for nineteenth-century explorers and naturalists. A fringe of hardy subalpine fir and spruce stretch from lakeshore up into the crags. But apart from the Alpine aspect to the view, simply being here satisfies a deep need. We make a pilgrimage like this three or four times each summer, hoping to reconnect with a world that seems much older, and in some ways wiser, than the one we humans ordinarily inhabit. That such a world exists—and I believe it still does, despite what the academics say--seems to me sufficient reason to set aside areas of wilderness.
On this trip my wife and I are heading for a small lake in the Uinta Mountains east of where we live. We arrive late in the afternoon, tired from the walk but inspired by the surroundings, which would fit an Albert Bierstadt canvas. Cliffs of purple-gray quartzite erupt from talus slopes beyond the lake, reaching toward peaks named for nineteenth-century explorers and naturalists. A fringe of hardy subalpine fir and spruce stretch from lakeshore up into the crags. But apart from the Alpine aspect to the view, simply being here satisfies a deep need. We make a pilgrimage like this three or four times each summer, hoping to reconnect with a world that seems much older, and in some ways wiser, than the one we humans ordinarily inhabit. That such a world exists—and I believe it still does, despite what the academics say--seems to me sufficient reason to set aside areas of wilderness.
There’s no denying the scenic allure of the West’s wilderness mountain ranges, but there’s a deeper purpose such places fulfill. These are among the last strongholds of silence in our country. Once past the wilderness boundary sign, one leaves behind the noise and hurry of our frenzied, achievement-crazed culture. To me, the profound quiet one encounters away from the roads is what makes wilderness so valuable. Wherever one cannot travel by mechanized means, a different world emerges—and it is in these places where we begin to see how we might better fit our needs to the requirements of living on this Earth.
Wilderness recreation covers an ever-growing spectrum of activities, from climbing sheer cliffs and descending wild rivers to more sedate encounters such as my wife and I enjoy. Any of these pursuits can bring us closer to the nonhuman world, depending on the attitude we bring with us. When I venture into such country I’m seeking a corrective to my city-bred consciousness, a state of mind that is shaped by constant interaction with technology. The adjustment begins as soon as we step away from the car and let a different panoply of sensations stream into our brains. It continues as we reach our lake, set up camp, finish dinner, and for the first time in the day, really relax.
My wife is a watercolor artist, so after dinner she heads off to sketch. To her, nature presents a canvas filled with form, line, and color—especially the latter. She can see hues and tints in a cloud or rock face where I can make out only shades of gray. For me, the wilderness offers a rich sonic environment. Wandering among the glacier-polished slabs above the lake, I listen to birds call from hidden perches, notice wind gusts swirling among the crags, hear the odd rock clatter down a cliff. Miles from any highway, away from the ATV and dirt bike trails which crisscross the lower forest slopes, a subtle gradation of sounds is possible to make out, all of which occur against a background of deep quiet.
All these sounds signify natural processes operating on a schedule wholly unlike our own. From the gradual weathering of the mountain peaks above the lake to the diurnal rhythm of life in this small cirque, they count out a time signature that takes time to comprehend, at least for one who normally lives by a clock. Being out here allows a subversive thought to enter my head: the realization that a world of living creatures are going about their business here, irrespective of any of us. They are not ours to control. They do not fit our purposes; any meaning they possess is their own. Whatever claims the forest and its creatures make on our attention and affection, their self-generated lives remain obscure.
Wilderness recreation covers an ever-growing spectrum of activities, from climbing sheer cliffs and descending wild rivers to more sedate encounters such as my wife and I enjoy. Any of these pursuits can bring us closer to the nonhuman world, depending on the attitude we bring with us. When I venture into such country I’m seeking a corrective to my city-bred consciousness, a state of mind that is shaped by constant interaction with technology. The adjustment begins as soon as we step away from the car and let a different panoply of sensations stream into our brains. It continues as we reach our lake, set up camp, finish dinner, and for the first time in the day, really relax.
My wife is a watercolor artist, so after dinner she heads off to sketch. To her, nature presents a canvas filled with form, line, and color—especially the latter. She can see hues and tints in a cloud or rock face where I can make out only shades of gray. For me, the wilderness offers a rich sonic environment. Wandering among the glacier-polished slabs above the lake, I listen to birds call from hidden perches, notice wind gusts swirling among the crags, hear the odd rock clatter down a cliff. Miles from any highway, away from the ATV and dirt bike trails which crisscross the lower forest slopes, a subtle gradation of sounds is possible to make out, all of which occur against a background of deep quiet.
All these sounds signify natural processes operating on a schedule wholly unlike our own. From the gradual weathering of the mountain peaks above the lake to the diurnal rhythm of life in this small cirque, they count out a time signature that takes time to comprehend, at least for one who normally lives by a clock. Being out here allows a subversive thought to enter my head: the realization that a world of living creatures are going about their business here, irrespective of any of us. They are not ours to control. They do not fit our purposes; any meaning they possess is their own. Whatever claims the forest and its creatures make on our attention and affection, their self-generated lives remain obscure.
Sometimes when I sit for a while in a quiet place in the forest, mountains or desert, the immensity of the life around me becomes clear. The world seems large once again as I recapture some of the wonder I knew as a child. What are all these beings doing out here? I ask myself. I’m no biologist or botanist, and can name at most a dozen species that live by this lake, but the mere fact of their existence is deeply satisfying. During this comfortable post-dinner hour, I feel neither insignificant nor overwhelmed by nature. I take pleasure in knowing that there’s nothing I need to do to keep things running. I could fall off a cliff and all this would continue. That’s what I mean by a subversive notion. We are simply not important here, and that strikes a small blow against the whole foundation of modern existence.
*
To step away from the ethos of control, if only briefly, is a prime benefit of walking far from roads. It seems easier to let go of the reins when my legs have carried me some distance and my body is suffused with a pleasant fatigue. I try to enjoy the feeling, fleeting as it often is. For there’s an additional load on my shoulders which remains even after I’ve shed my backpack: a sense of foreboding that the trees, flowers and other creatures the two of us enjoy seeing and hearing are in trouble. Wild environments are in steady retreat across the western U.S., stressed from the effluvia we’ve pumped into the atmosphere and the many ways in which we’ve interfered with terrestrial biologic processes. Remote as this mountain valley appears, it has seen more than a century of hunting, predator control, livestock grazing and fire suppression. When the higher reaches of this mountain range were designated as a wilderness area in 1984, those uses were specifically allowed to continue. Lacking a robust population of keystone predators such as wolves, grizzly bears or wolverines, these mountains cannot be said to be fully wild.
Moreover, the cold light of the Anthropocene paints our lake in a different color. Knowing that we’ve very likely corrupted global environmental systems beyond their ability to recover makes even a brief stay in this wild spot as poignant as a visit with a dying relative. How long we can sustain a feeling of wonder for this green Earth if we accept that it is lost? To counter such feelings, I take note of the tenacity of the plants and animals which have adapted to this harsh environment. Subalpine firs cling to pockets of soil high up on the cliffs; Douglas squirrels, ever in motion, search the treetops for seed cones; lichens grip glacial boulders, setting in motion the whole process of ecological succession. I tell myself they deserve a chance to live no less than we humans.
I’ve come here to witness a constellation of living, breathing, respiring beings which have evolved along with their inanimate surroundings since the last ice age. When a Clark’s nutcracker alights on the tree near me, or a rock crashes down from the cliff, I’m seeing ancient processes at work—actions that don’t depend on any human presence. Why, then, is our collective existence on this Earth so inimical to the things I hold dear? Like all of my friends, I struggle to find a means of escaping the frantic overreach of modern lifeways. I wish it were feasible to be in environments like this without spending two hours burning fossil fuel in my car.
To step away from the ethos of control, if only briefly, is a prime benefit of walking far from roads. It seems easier to let go of the reins when my legs have carried me some distance and my body is suffused with a pleasant fatigue. I try to enjoy the feeling, fleeting as it often is. For there’s an additional load on my shoulders which remains even after I’ve shed my backpack: a sense of foreboding that the trees, flowers and other creatures the two of us enjoy seeing and hearing are in trouble. Wild environments are in steady retreat across the western U.S., stressed from the effluvia we’ve pumped into the atmosphere and the many ways in which we’ve interfered with terrestrial biologic processes. Remote as this mountain valley appears, it has seen more than a century of hunting, predator control, livestock grazing and fire suppression. When the higher reaches of this mountain range were designated as a wilderness area in 1984, those uses were specifically allowed to continue. Lacking a robust population of keystone predators such as wolves, grizzly bears or wolverines, these mountains cannot be said to be fully wild.
Moreover, the cold light of the Anthropocene paints our lake in a different color. Knowing that we’ve very likely corrupted global environmental systems beyond their ability to recover makes even a brief stay in this wild spot as poignant as a visit with a dying relative. How long we can sustain a feeling of wonder for this green Earth if we accept that it is lost? To counter such feelings, I take note of the tenacity of the plants and animals which have adapted to this harsh environment. Subalpine firs cling to pockets of soil high up on the cliffs; Douglas squirrels, ever in motion, search the treetops for seed cones; lichens grip glacial boulders, setting in motion the whole process of ecological succession. I tell myself they deserve a chance to live no less than we humans.
I’ve come here to witness a constellation of living, breathing, respiring beings which have evolved along with their inanimate surroundings since the last ice age. When a Clark’s nutcracker alights on the tree near me, or a rock crashes down from the cliff, I’m seeing ancient processes at work—actions that don’t depend on any human presence. Why, then, is our collective existence on this Earth so inimical to the things I hold dear? Like all of my friends, I struggle to find a means of escaping the frantic overreach of modern lifeways. I wish it were feasible to be in environments like this without spending two hours burning fossil fuel in my car.
Solutions to our dilemma will necessarily involve how we farm, how we live in cities, how we get around and how we manage forest- and rangelands—every aspect of what are called working landscapes. Setting aside wilderness and parks, while necessary, cannot undo the damage we've done to inhabited places. Preserved places are little more than an indulgence unless we also learn to take good care of the lands we use and live on.
To me, though, wild country will continue to play a key role in defining a forward path. I see undeveloped, unmanaged landscapes much as Thoreau, Muir and their followers did--as an absolutely essential counterpart to civilized life. Like Rachel Carson, I look to nature for a sense of wonder. I hope, along with E. O. Wilson, that it might be possible to retract our controlling influence from much more of the Earth than currently lies in parks, wilderness, and other conservation lands.
The wild needs to be at our doorstep. We need to encounter it at the margins of our villages and along all of our rivers. We need to know that there is life out there that does not answer to us. This need cannot be understood purely in practical terms, for although wild places may provide us with clean water and useful plants, it exists for purposes that are greater than our own. The wilderness must survive because we need to recapture humility.
The unfortunate truth is that after a century and a half of reaching into the grab-bag of natural resources that constitute the western United States, we have pushed the wild into a few corners of our more isolated mountain ranges. It would be far better if undomesticated plant and animal life could flourish right where we live, in and around our towns, farms and cities, but that is no longer the case. So we need the wilderness boundary, the protected reserve, all the places where we stay our hand.
*
To me, though, wild country will continue to play a key role in defining a forward path. I see undeveloped, unmanaged landscapes much as Thoreau, Muir and their followers did--as an absolutely essential counterpart to civilized life. Like Rachel Carson, I look to nature for a sense of wonder. I hope, along with E. O. Wilson, that it might be possible to retract our controlling influence from much more of the Earth than currently lies in parks, wilderness, and other conservation lands.
The wild needs to be at our doorstep. We need to encounter it at the margins of our villages and along all of our rivers. We need to know that there is life out there that does not answer to us. This need cannot be understood purely in practical terms, for although wild places may provide us with clean water and useful plants, it exists for purposes that are greater than our own. The wilderness must survive because we need to recapture humility.
The unfortunate truth is that after a century and a half of reaching into the grab-bag of natural resources that constitute the western United States, we have pushed the wild into a few corners of our more isolated mountain ranges. It would be far better if undomesticated plant and animal life could flourish right where we live, in and around our towns, farms and cities, but that is no longer the case. So we need the wilderness boundary, the protected reserve, all the places where we stay our hand.
*
One of the simplest indications that a place is wild is quiet. For it is only in environments where our noises do not predominate that we can make out the everyday sounds of a forest, a lake or a mountainside. The attention we pay to our wild surroundings probably derives from some buried, ancestral part of us, left over from the Pleistocene when careful listening was critical to survival. In contrast, the level of sound in any American city assaults the mind and keeps one from concentrating. Out here, the daily chatter of birds and animals against the backdrop of wind and rippling water seem to permit a different and more welcome focus.
Not everyone is comfortable in the woods or the desert, and the absence of human life and sound is, for some, unnerving. Many people find urban noise to their liking, at least the kind that signifies people having fun. I remember visiting the ancient city of Tarragona in Spain, a place infused with Roman, Hispanic and Jewish history, where dozens of street cafes contributed to the lively, engaging ambience. People were riding motorbikes and a couple of teenagers were roving around tossing firecrackers for no apparent reason, yet overall there seemed to be a limit to the mechanized sounds, with pedestrians outnumbering cars in many places. There’s a lesson here: since most of us have to live in cities, we might as well make them livable. Maybe then we’ll have less need to take to the mountains and lakeshore every weekend.
We can be sociable out of doors, too, but the quietude of wild places balances our urban lives, giving us a better understanding of what supports our existence. My parents grew up on farms and in rural towns before the advent of the automobile, a time when life was filled with the sounds of animals (mostly domestic) and the ever-present Midwestern wind. But not far from their homes they could hear frogs croak in a pond or fish splash the river’s surface. The buzz of cicadas accompanied their summer nights. Their lives were richer for these sounds, which form the indelible stuff of memory. Vestiges of this sonic environment persisted into my boyhood, much of which I spent exploring disused pastures and fields at the edge of the small city where my parents lived as adults.
Not everyone is comfortable in the woods or the desert, and the absence of human life and sound is, for some, unnerving. Many people find urban noise to their liking, at least the kind that signifies people having fun. I remember visiting the ancient city of Tarragona in Spain, a place infused with Roman, Hispanic and Jewish history, where dozens of street cafes contributed to the lively, engaging ambience. People were riding motorbikes and a couple of teenagers were roving around tossing firecrackers for no apparent reason, yet overall there seemed to be a limit to the mechanized sounds, with pedestrians outnumbering cars in many places. There’s a lesson here: since most of us have to live in cities, we might as well make them livable. Maybe then we’ll have less need to take to the mountains and lakeshore every weekend.
We can be sociable out of doors, too, but the quietude of wild places balances our urban lives, giving us a better understanding of what supports our existence. My parents grew up on farms and in rural towns before the advent of the automobile, a time when life was filled with the sounds of animals (mostly domestic) and the ever-present Midwestern wind. But not far from their homes they could hear frogs croak in a pond or fish splash the river’s surface. The buzz of cicadas accompanied their summer nights. Their lives were richer for these sounds, which form the indelible stuff of memory. Vestiges of this sonic environment persisted into my boyhood, much of which I spent exploring disused pastures and fields at the edge of the small city where my parents lived as adults.
In most of western America, the sound of the internal-combustion engine has long since replaced the clop of horses’ hooves or the rattle of wagon cart. When I lie awake on a summer’s night at home, I mostly hear motorcycles and hotrods on the nearby road. I've come to view these as the manifestations of dominance and control, which many if not most of us seem loathe to let go.
These days, true quiet can be found only in wilderness areas and some parts of our national parks—and even there it can be hard to find, as flightseeing tours and helicopter-assisted recreation become ever more popular. Sonic researcher Gordon Hempton famously narrowed his search for the quietest place in America to a square inch of rainforest in a remote part of Washington’s Olympic Peninsula. Protected within a national park, it symbolizes the vanishing natural soundscape in which we evolved.
Sound affects more than sensitive humans, however. When we bring our industrial-strength noises into wild creatures’ environments, we alter their behavior. Gordon Hempton writes of listening to a pair of cardinals in an Eastern forest, close to a highway where trucks frequently passed by. Their roar not only interrupted his enjoyment of the birds, it distracted them as well. “With each passing of a truck, the birds stopped communicating with each other. Noise pollution affects all living things in some way."
We forget that the wilderness is there for other beings’ sake. At my mountain lake this means the Clark’s nutcrackers and Steller jays which announce their presence from the trees, the pikas calling from the talus, and the trout jumping for insects, to name only the most visible and audible creatures. All these, plus the myriad life forms we do not see or hear, are exquisitely adapted to this place. Witnessing the lives of other beings, however briefly and superficially, reminds us of what it means to adapt rather than to conquer. If we look deeper, we see symbiosis and cooperation rather than dominance, lives lived within constraints in contrast to our efforts to overcome and exceed bounds. To cherish quiet--to take part for a short time in the watchful silence of the wilderness--expands our sense of kinship. When we sharply assert our presence in the wilderness, on the other hand, it’s an admission that we’re uncomfortable there, no less so than the fellow with the loudest voice at a party.
These are not small lessons to take away from a brief sojourn in the wilderness. How we might apply them to the places where we live is anyone’s guess. What will it take to retract our overbearing presence on this planet, to accept our being part of our surroundings rather than its overlord? One has to think hard to imagine a world without the internal combustion engine, without people ceaselessly driving everywhere, without airplanes. Hardest of all to envision is a world where humans spend less time restlessly seeking something they probably lost long ago—a deep connection to the living planet. Still, whatever course we will have to follow to get there, whatever dislocations it may require, the first steps will involve listening to the life that is found in quiet places.
These days, true quiet can be found only in wilderness areas and some parts of our national parks—and even there it can be hard to find, as flightseeing tours and helicopter-assisted recreation become ever more popular. Sonic researcher Gordon Hempton famously narrowed his search for the quietest place in America to a square inch of rainforest in a remote part of Washington’s Olympic Peninsula. Protected within a national park, it symbolizes the vanishing natural soundscape in which we evolved.
Sound affects more than sensitive humans, however. When we bring our industrial-strength noises into wild creatures’ environments, we alter their behavior. Gordon Hempton writes of listening to a pair of cardinals in an Eastern forest, close to a highway where trucks frequently passed by. Their roar not only interrupted his enjoyment of the birds, it distracted them as well. “With each passing of a truck, the birds stopped communicating with each other. Noise pollution affects all living things in some way."
We forget that the wilderness is there for other beings’ sake. At my mountain lake this means the Clark’s nutcrackers and Steller jays which announce their presence from the trees, the pikas calling from the talus, and the trout jumping for insects, to name only the most visible and audible creatures. All these, plus the myriad life forms we do not see or hear, are exquisitely adapted to this place. Witnessing the lives of other beings, however briefly and superficially, reminds us of what it means to adapt rather than to conquer. If we look deeper, we see symbiosis and cooperation rather than dominance, lives lived within constraints in contrast to our efforts to overcome and exceed bounds. To cherish quiet--to take part for a short time in the watchful silence of the wilderness--expands our sense of kinship. When we sharply assert our presence in the wilderness, on the other hand, it’s an admission that we’re uncomfortable there, no less so than the fellow with the loudest voice at a party.
These are not small lessons to take away from a brief sojourn in the wilderness. How we might apply them to the places where we live is anyone’s guess. What will it take to retract our overbearing presence on this planet, to accept our being part of our surroundings rather than its overlord? One has to think hard to imagine a world without the internal combustion engine, without people ceaselessly driving everywhere, without airplanes. Hardest of all to envision is a world where humans spend less time restlessly seeking something they probably lost long ago—a deep connection to the living planet. Still, whatever course we will have to follow to get there, whatever dislocations it may require, the first steps will involve listening to the life that is found in quiet places.