DECEMBER 6, 2020 – Here in the Northwoods, nature’s beauty of longest duration is mostly visual. Extended periods of silence, however, can be just as edifying as the scenery.
When I mention our surrounding quietude, my wife reminds me that these parts aren’t as quiet as they seem. She reminds me of the time on a lazy summer day when we sat in the canoe, paddles resting across our laps, on perfectly still waters and counted the sounds we heard. It didn’t take long to exceed a finger count, both hands—a barking dog down the shore; a fishing boat puttering to better prospects; the carefree chatter of weekenders sunning themselves on a dock in the direction of the barking dog; a couple of birds twittering invisibly among shoreline trees . . . and so on. But that was in high summer on a calm day, when sound travels far over the water. Most of the time when it’s quiet up here, it takes a while to count a single sound.
Naturally—er . . . unnaturally—we have many sounds produced by humankind: boat motors; snowmobiles; chain saws; fireworks; firearms; man’s “best friend.” These are seasonal, occasional, and rarely bothersome (except for the firearms—people in these parts love their guns). Add to these the sound of our own voices, the noise of our tools, and . . . recorded music—in present circumstances, Perlman playing Mozart with the Wiener Philharmoniker.
Nature, of course, is a full orchestra of sound—springtime toads in the marsh (loud enough to be the brass); a pair of mallards (oboists); melliferous songbirds (violins); a mournful loon at dusk (a flute solo); susurrating pine in a strong breeze (the entire winds section); a summer thunderstorm (a series of cymbal crashes); waves pounding the shore (the steady beat of a bass drum); migrating geese (trumpets in syncopation); deer, after stepping on a twig, standing still and eyeing me warily (a violist, having entered a measure early and thinking, Oh, for shame!).
Then there are the voices of smug conductors; the cackle of crows (smartest birds of the realm) and eagles (the most regal in appearance).
But yesterday I experienced the most bizarre sound in nature’s repertoire. While deep in my “tree garden” some distance from the lake, I heard a steadily growing noise like that of a low-flying jet. Unnerved, I looked upward to spot a plane, but nothing appeared. The sound drew closer as I strode down the trail toward the lake. Only upon reaching the shoreline berm did I realize there was no jet, no sound of humankind. The noise was produced by nature’s invisible forces on the newly formed lake ice. While I listened in astonishment, loud sound waves reverberated up and down the shore.
I’d heard winter lake ice groan and whine in short bursts (think whales singing), but I’d never before heard the lake sing with such a sustained, powerful voice.
In these parts, nature’s orchestra is always performing. Accordingly, you’ve always got to be inside nature’s hall to hear everything.
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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
