Swofford Pond

Day 159: Take a "listening walk" with me along the south side of Swofford Pond. Don't say a word, not a peep. As we leave the parking area, we hear the idle chatter of the shore fishermen, punctuated by the occasional louder phrase when someone gets a bite. We may hear a passing car or the scrape of metal as someone backs a trailer down the concrete boat ramp, but these sounds are lost by the time we've gone a hundred yards along the trail which crosses the wetland. Now we hear the burble of water seeping up from the soil and making its way to the lake. We may or may not see it, covered by grass as it is, but we hear its conversation with the earth. Further on, the buzz of insects rises from a skunk-cabbage bog, but it's too early for mosquitoes, so we assume it's flies and beetles feeding in the decomposing plant matter and helping it along. Entering a forested band, we hear another small creek's patter, its expressions rising from the rocks over which it passes, and somewhere beyond us, an even louder voice becomes apparent. It is Sulphur Creek, relating the stories of its leap from a cliff and subsequent journey through fungus-rich woodlands and maple groves. Let us stand for a few minutes on the wooden bridge crossing it on the flat. We cannot understand its language, but its intentions are made clear: that nothing will obstruct its duties to nature.

Beyond its monologue, we are again in forest where a liquid, long song rises from a brush pile. The flutter of wings draws our eyes to the source: Pacific Wren. The bird's beak opens, and a cascade of ringing notes falls from it, one after another as we marvel at the length of the melody. In the distance, the coarser honk of Canada Geese bells on the water, then the chaos of splash and flutter as the bulky birds take flight. Again, the hum of a beetle burrs in the background, and the "pips" of Juncos tip us off to their presence in an ancient apple tree in an open meadow. A farm dog barks, its alert carrying across the water from the populated side. A cow moos in response or dispute. We also hear the voices of two fishermen in conversation at one of the pull-outs along the country road which follows the north shore. They are too far away to be understood, but the exchange seems friendly and relaxed. Duck quacks pull our eyes back to the near shore where a pair of Mallards are dipping for their breakfast. A Varied Thrush calls, its single-note whistle disguised by some mysterious avian ventriloquy which prevents us from locating the bird. Another small stream bisects our path, and we step across it with a light sucking noise as our boots pull free of its mud. It does not object, this stream. It immediately fills in the dented pocket in the soil and continues talking to itself in a mutter, and if we are the subject of its one-sided discussion, the phrases are said in such a low tone that we cannot make them out.

Eventually, we come to a point where nature denies us any further exploration and the clicks of bark-beetles advise us that we must reverse course. The splash of a rising bass among the lily-pads punctuates the order and we turn back with some regret that this idyll could not go on forever. The "silence," while not perfect, has been as close to natural as it is possible to get in this hurried world. And now I ask you: what have you not heard while on this trail? Aside from the initial clanking, grating, grinding sounds of mechanisms and motors by the boat launch, we have heard no evidence of the industrial world. Combustion engines are prohibited on the pond. Blissful, wasn't it?