Silence and Sound
Trip Report – New Hampshire White Mountain National Park
Hancocks / Franconia Brook – February, 2026
John Cage (20th century composer) has written a number of wonderful, eerie, and esoteric works. He has played with ideas of chance in writing music, manipulation of piano strings for new and different sounds, and often uses non-Western scales to offer a collection of sounds and harmonies that most Western audiences are not used to hearing. Perhaps his most favorite works is 4’33” (four minutes and thirty-three seconds). It is a work that can be divided into three different movements totaling 4’33” of silence. When this piece is “played” the performer would close the lid to the piano, or put the bassoon on a stand (which is what I did when I performed it) and let the silence of the piece be the music. I have a recording of Frank Zappa performing this work and it is almost perfect.
A point that Cage is trying to make through this piece is that there is always music around us. The music may be the sound that is produced by the audience, by barking dogs and chirping birds, by lawn mowers and power tools, by nearby traffic, and anything else that produces a sound. All “noise” is part of the music of our lives. Who are we to say that a noise is or is not music? Hence, the silence of the performer creates a space for the music of everyone else in that time and space (when this piece is performed the audience usually makes a lot of noise shifting in uncomfortable ways, not sure how to respond). It is one of those pieces that is supposed to make you think.
I was thinking about this work on a February evening in New Hampshire in the White Mountain National Forest. It was evening and I was settling in after a long and challenging day of snowshoeing through the forest. I was anything but silent. My poles and snowshoes made plenty of noise as I worked through the crust of ice and snow. I was breathing heavy and often cursing at spruce traps that pulled me into the snow up to my waist and uncut trails that were not easy to find. At the campsite I made plenty of noise setting up my tent, removing wet clothes and putting on my camp clothes, cooking, and doing all of the usual errands around the camp before the sun set and the temperature dropped. I was noisy. There was a moment when everything was settled, when I had eaten and was enjoying my hot cocoa (an essential for winter camping) that I was still. Usually, while eating and drinking there is still a constant noise. My stove is working to boil water for the evening so that I would have something to keep me warm through the night and so that I would not wake up with frozen bottles of water. But for various reasons there was a moment when my stove was not on, when all my water was set for the moment, and I could be still. It was likely the first time in the day that I did not have to think about the next thing, that I did not have to think about the next task to do, and that I could be completely still. I decided to turn off my headlamp and to just sit with my cocoa and be in the moment.
It was completely silent.
Maybe you have had this experience in the winter. Maybe you have had the opportunity to wake up the morning after a snowstorm, before the power generators start going, before the snow blowers start working, before all of the noises of the neighborhood are going and you notice the silence. There is something about a winter silence, especially after a fresh snow, that feels unlike anything else. I have encountered similar silence in the desert on a cold night, but it feels different in the winter. It may be the way that everything is covered, is impacted by the snow. It may the lack of fauna; no insects making noise, no birds chirping, and even the scurry of mice and chipmunks is silenced by the soft snow. It is a powerful, overwhelming silence. This is what I encountered that night. A stillness magnified by the cold, by the surrounding snow, by the darkness. The moon was not out. The stars were hidden by the canopy of tree branches over me. It was dark and quiet. I sat in the silence for about five minutes but then needed to break it. The silence was too much. It was overwhelming.
The following night I hiked to a different location, not far from a moving stream. I could hear the stream from my tent, offering constant interruption from the silence. A storm was moving in that day, and in the evening more than a couple of inches of snow had already fallen while I worked through my meal, boiled my water, and did everything else that I needed to do. As the sun set the wind picked up, whistling through the branches and creating the foreboding creak of trees swaying back and forth. It was anything but a quiet night. That night, as I listened to the sound of the snow falling upon my tent and the trees creaking around me I had to tell myself that my tent was not going to collapse and that I was not under any “widowmakers” (branches or trees that could fall in a heavy wind). I had to assure myself that I was going to be ok. I had to stop listening to the noises and try to get some sleep amidst all the noise.
It was striking that in the span of 24 hours I encountered two very different soundscapes in the winter wilderness. One night I encountered an overwhelming silence in the void of noise and presence. The other night was overwhelming with all of the noise and the possibilities of what might happen.
I often see people hiking with headphones (or with music blasting through a Bluetooth speaker which is in very poor taste). I know that many long-distance hikers will listen to podcasts or audio books while hiking. I once meet a woman listening to Dune while hiking the Arizona trail. A little on the nose. I can understand the desire to listen to books or music or almost anything while hiking. It can get very boring. The sounds start to all be the same and the trees all start to blend together and it can be boring. Hiking can be boring because you are basically doing the same thing again and again. You are seeing the same things again and again. You are hearing the same thing again and again. It can be boring. But that can be good. It can be good to let our minds wander and notice what may be small things. It can be good to notice that the plants are all leaning in one direction or that the frogs seem to be louder in the morning than the evening. It can be good to notice the noise of the forest or the silence and to wonder. When we push past the anxiety of boredom we can have some amazing moments of wondering. The wondering might be external or it might be internal. I might wonder why I am hearing certain noises in various places or in different times of year. Or I might wonder why it is that I am uncomfortable in the still silence. In the wondering we are not looking for an answer but more being aware of the moment, the question, and all that is happening externally and internally.
I am constantly trying to consider my relationship with the wilderness; in that I mean that I am trying to be honest about how I am in relationship with the wilderness when I am in it. I am trying to move from a place of dominance to one of co-habitation. I am trying to move out of a place of claiming that the space is mine and all the noise that occurs is because I deem it so. Instead I am trying to listen. I am trying to consider how I might blend in or impact or be part of the noises that I encounter in the wilderness. Like a chamber musician in a trio or quartet, I am trying to listen and offer my music with a keen sensitivity to how it might impact others and how it might be impacted by others. Perhaps I was not sure how to participate in the silence of that first night in the White Mountains. I did not know what kind of music to offer. Next time I’ll start with John Cage’s infamous work knowing that by even being in the space I am impacting the sounds that occur. I’ll listen and let my listening add to the symphony of sounds, the powerful silence in the rests, and add to the applause in response to what is always a masterpiece.