Sound check: the quietest place in the U.S

I had a wonderful experience of Pure Silence at Muir Woods. I happened to be there near closing time on a weekday and there weren't many people. There is a little bend in the Hillside Trail near Bridge 4 (https://www.google.ca/maps/@37.8999375,-122.5802347,18z) with a bench and a sign to keep quiet. I sat down there, closed my eyes and just listened.

It was eerily quiet - I couldn't hear any people, cars or anything. Pretty soon I was able to start picking up the smallest sounds, like the occasional far-away chirp, leaves rustling. I started hearing my own heart beat very clearly and the quiet became so overwhelming it felt like I was in a sensory isolation tank rather than the forest. It was quite lovely.

After reading this I'm thinking people need to get out more. Never stopped to hear crickets or rain or stand in a forest and listen? Maybe I'm the oddball because I grew up in a state with more cows than people.

Nature is awesome, get out and get a way, unplug and you'll see how nice an afternoon can be. If you can survive 3-5 days in the wilderness with a backpack and a few good friends you can really forget about the world - so much that walking back into a bathroom with running water and electricity seems amazing.

As I read the title of this, my mind jumped to a stunning experience of total silence I had ... on the Olympic Peninsula as well. I wasn't in the Hoh, was probably south of there, on one of my weekend day-trips to anywhere that wasn't Tumwater. Driving my truck, something had led me a dozen miles or so out an old logging road and into the interior. It's surprising to find how on the Peninsula one can get 40, 50 miles from the nearest human, yet be in a place just a few hours from Seattle. I stopped to stretch my legs, parked in the middle of the road, and walked ahead, leaving the ticking truck behind. A few minutes later I paused to look into the woods and turn around, and it hit me. Abso-fucking-lute silence. Nothing. As I remember it there weren't even bug noises. Or wind. I froze in wonder, realizing what it was that I was experiencing and how otherworldly it was. Silence doesn't happen to hearing people in everyday life, and when it's finally encountered, it hits like a brick.

I recall one other such incident, that time while sitting down for a rest while hiking high in the mountains northeast of Sacramento. More recently I've discovered an approximation, a local sonic minimum, while biking the Columbia Plateau trail SW of Spokane WA. It's well worth the efforts to get to these places, the only word I can think of to describe the experiences is "transcendental". For me, the feeling has been that of the “self” diminishing towards nothing, towards becoming just part of the background, while the world around becomes strikingly more vivid and clear and detailed. I'm not one who meditates, one of the “mindful”, or an “in-the-moment” person, but I do wonder if this is what they seek?

The quietest nature place I've experienced is the Sonoran Desert in mid summer mid afternoon.

With the temperature approaching 120F nothing stirs (wildlife and insects are all hiding from the sun waiting for it to cool a bit). If you are out far away from the city and no plane is overhead it is dead dead silent. A weird silent.

Although I did enjoy the article, I was thinking it was going to be about literal noise levels. So I did a quick search and found a map of that:

http://www.nature.nps.gov/sound/soundmap.cfm

My personal opinion is that outside is the quietest when it is snowing, windless, and the trees are holding a few inches of snow. You can hear snowflakes landing on your jacket.

I've also experienced extreme quiet deep within a cave when by myself. Turn off your light and it doesn't take long to start picking what you think are your companions out of the silence but it really turns out to be nothing.

From the title, I thought this was going to be about the anechoic chamber in Minnesota. (http://www.bbc.com/travel/story/20121022-the-quietest-place-...)

In a previous career I was a Park Ranger, working in Yellowstone National Park.

During my final tour in the park (this is early 2000s), at one point I had some time off coming that wasn't for other uses. Normally on my days off I would drive the 1.5 hours into Jackson, Wyoming to do some grocery shopping and hit the library. Check out a few books and borrow a computer for a little bit to check my email or browse the Internet. The ranger station only had dialup that could only be used in the evenings.

Anyways, this time, I was blessed with two days off back to back with nothing planned, so I booked a backcountry campsite clear on the other side of the park in the Cache Creek area. If you look at a map of Yellowstone, it's in the far upper right corner.

I got up early before dawn and drove the ~3 hours up to the trailhead. It wasn't a bad hike. Beautiful day, clear and sunny. I seem to recall it was about 5 miles in to the campsite, a bit strenuous near the beginning but easier once you got into the valley. I took my time. Set up camp about dinner time, made some mac and cheese and enjoyed nature. Didn't say a word. Just ate in silence.

The sun set, and the illumination I had was provided by my flashlight and a small battery powered lantern. I read some by lantern. It was chilly - yes, even in the summer Yellowstone gets a bit cold after sunset. Before going to bed, I turned the lantern off and just sat. Not doing anything but just sitting, looking and listening.

Stars.

So many stars.

One of the few times in my life I was ever able to see the band of the Milky Way was that night in Cache Creek. It was beautiful, but that wasn't the most amazing part.

The absolute quiet of the area allowed you to hear every single little sound and the darkness seemed to amplify them. You could hear even a slight breeze rustle everything around you.

And I could swear I heard wolves howling.

Sitting there beneath that huge blanket of stars surrounded by nothing more than the sounds of nature, I couldn't help but think that I'm looking at the same things, hearing the same things, that the Native Americans and early trappers in the area heard and saw, unspoiled by the modern world.

That hike gave me a deep appreciation for the need to protect these spaces. Not just as parks for everyone to visit, although that is important, but the importance of preserving the backcountry experience in as pristine and natural a condition as possible. At one point while I was working at YNP one of the other rangers told me that 90% of the visitors to YNP never venture more than 200 yards from the road. But for those who can make the hike out into the backcountry, the experience is more than worth it.

Also, as a side note, if you're interested in the National Parks and the (incredible) story of how we're protecting these places, I highly recommend Ken Burns' The National Parks: America's Best Idea. [0]

[0] http://www.pbs.org/nationalparks/

They say it's quiet by describing the sounds? Try camping in petrified forest national park and get back to me. You will hear your own heart beat all night long.