Sounds of Silence

Sunrise over Sprague Lake in the Winter

Simon and Garfunkel sang about the “Sounds of Silence” in their 1964 hit. It was a thought-provoking protest song about the perils of remaining silent. Years later I realized that in contrast to the song’s original intent, sounds of silence is a quiet alternative to the cacophony and commotion in my world. The older I get, the more I appreciate silence in my life. As with all things, it is a balance. I seek silence in the outdoors.

Two events in my life shaped my affinity for tranquility and the sounds of silence. The first was in the mid 1970’s when I moved to Minneapolis for graduate school having lived on a farm, in a relatively small college town, and on the outskirts of a small Iowa farming community my whole life. I realized my first day that the city was NEVER quiet and adjusting to its constant buzz was a challenge. I thought the city noises would drive me crazy because of the incessant hum. After a couple weeks, however, I got used to them most of the time and chided myself for adapting so quickly to something I really did not like. My only solution was to get away from the city and into the country as often as possible, even in subzero weather.

My second profound encounter with silence in the early 1990’s was on a trip to New Zealand. My friend Deb and I were doing some professional work in Christchurch and had a day off. A poster downtown advertised a day long ski trip in the mountains including transportation into the backcountry, lunch, and equipment and a guided tour to cross-country ski.

We stood on a street corner downtown at 6:30 am waiting for our ride, expecting a freshly washed van with company advertising on the side. Instead, a dirty old VW bus stopped, and a youngish, bearded man asked if we were the Henderson party. We weren’t sure where we were going but enjoyed the chat for over an hour as we drove higher into the mountains. We stopped at his home where his wife offered us coffee and packed our lunches. The couple chatted enthusiastically about skiing, their farmstead, and growing up in sheep country.

With our skis fitted we transferred into an old jeep and took off across a field on a rutted road headed uphill. It was a clear blue-sky day with the sun coming over the horizon and high wispy ice clouds visible to the south. After several minutes, the jeep trail became completely covered with snow, so we stopped. We put on our skis and attached the skins that we would use for traction going uphill. I had never heard of skins before as my cross-country experience was on skinny skis on the rolling hills of Minnesota and Wisconsin.

As we moved along, I became aware of how quiet it was. We stopped for a bit and sat on some rocks. It was the first time I had ever noticed almost total silence. No hums, no wind, only occasional rustling of our clothing. I heard way off in the distance the sound of “baaing” at a distant sheep station, but otherwise it was sheer silence. I think of that day often and how it changed my aural life.

I am aware of my inclination for silence and continue to seek natural sounds as well as the hush of the outdoors. This calmness happens most often for me in the winter in the mountains. Some people are concerned about sound pollution and how remote outdoor areas can provide respite from a noisy world.  I enjoy the sounds of people’s laughter and chatter, genres of music, and animal voices. As time goes on, however, I appreciate stillness. I need natural harmonies as well as the sounds of silence to feed my soul.