Hike

McCormick’s Creek

The first thing you notice is the silence. The quiet comes on you almost suddenly. One minute you are surrounded with noise, the next you hear the silence.

First you are oblivious — oblivious to the rush of tires on the highway, indifferent to the sound of doors slamming in the parking area, senseless of the radios that suddenly blast into life as people switch on their cars, preparing to leave.  You hum a bit to the tune that’s stuck itself to you when you turned your own radio off.  Afterward, when you enter the woods, sound begins to recede, although you don’t notice right away.  But the silence comes, before you even know you are ready for it.

Backpack on, boots laced just loosely enough to allow your feet to swell without pinching, you walk. You carry a stick, because that’s what backpackers do. At first, you talk. Great weather for hiking. Aren’t the colors beautiful? Did you see that movie last week? The one with the car chase at the end? It was nothing like the book. Boy, this pack is heavy. How much food are you carrying? Too much, I guess. At least it’ll get lighter after dinner. Backpacker humor.

After the talk dies down – there hadn’t been much to say, anyway – the silence slides in, almost imperceptibly. The hum of car tires, the buzz of electricity, the constant interactions with people, the symbiotic connection with machines – all fade to silence. You hear the squeak of your boots, but you are quiet. And then the forest begins to speak. A rustle of leaves, the gurgle of water in an unseen creek, the hoarse call of a crow, the thump of acorns falling to the forest floor. This is stillness. This is silence. You didn’t know until just now, but this is what you’ve longed for all your life.