The Looming Death of Natural Silence
by John Grossmann
MARCH 31, 2009 TAGS:
Few noticed or mourned the first death, the demise of an office within an office within an agency of federal government. Which is one reason that America is hurtling towards another death, the sad and significant disappearance of an undervalued national resource that its staunchest defender calls “the think tank of the soul.”
Utter the acronym ONAC nowadays and you’ll likely go hoarse before you find somebody who remembers the once vibrant Office of Noise Abatement and Control. But several years following the passage of The Noise Control Act of 1972 (on Nixon’s watch, it’s worth noting), this 60-person bureau, anchoring the middle concern of the EPA’s Office of Air, Noise, and Radiation, was not only flexing some regulatory muscle and protecting Americans from the health impacts of ever-increasing noise levels, but also pursuing loftier goals. The October 1979 issue of The EPA Journal, devoted entirely to noise and the environment, included a poster depicting a deserted dirt road winding through a hardwood forest ablaze with fall color. The poster was titled Quiet: A National Resource.
Two years later, Ronald Reagan strode into the White House and started making good on his promise to cut government. Something had to go at EPA. What went was ONAC. The logo got remade to read Office of Air and Radiation. The feds, for all intents and purposes, got out of the noise business and handed the ball to the states, which quickly fumbled it.
About this time, on the other side of America, a Seattle bike messenger unaware of the short life of ONAC was just embarking on a career as a nature sound recording artist, exploring the vast wilderness regions of his home state for quiet spots in which to capture the pristine sounds of nature. By 1984, Gordon Hempton had identified some 21 remote locations in the state of Washington where he could reliably turn on his tape recorder and expect at least 15 minutes of noise-free recording; that is, purely the sounds of nature. No distant whine of tires on an asphalt highway. No Doppler roar of an overhead jet. No low-frequency hum of a faraway power plant. Such man-made intrusions not only ruined his recordings, they also stole from him something even more precious: the very opportunity to experience the soul-soothing, awe-inspiring wash of natural silence, a visceral link to the world of our most distant human ancestors.
“Silence is not the absence of something, but the presence of everything,” writes Hempton in One Square Inch of Silence: One Man’s Search for Natural Silence in a Noisy World (Free Press). The 55-year-old Hempton, who won an Emmy for his round-the-world recording of the dawn chorus, has for years called natural silence Earth’s most sacred soundtrack, as he’s delved ever deeper into its wonderful, surprising, inspiring melodies.
“I’ve heard more than I can count,” he continues in this new book, which I helped research and write. “Silence is the moonlit song of the coyote signing the air, and the answer of its mate. It is the falling whisper of snow that will later melt with an astonishing reggae rhythm so crisp that you will want to dance to it. It is the sound of pollinating winged insects vibrating soft tunes as they defensively dart in and out of the pine boughs to temporarily escape the breeze, a mix of insect hum and pine sigh that will stick with you all day. Silence is the passing flock of chestnut-backed chickadees and red-breasted nuthatches, chirping and fluttering, reminding you of your own curiosity…
“Silence nurtures our nature, our human nature, and lets us know who we are. Left with a more receptive mind and a more attuned ear, we become better listeners not only to nature but to each other…. But silence cannot be imagined, although most people think so. To experience the soul-swelling wonder of silence, you must hear it.”
Soon that may no longer be possible. Hempton’s list of 21 quiet places has shrunk to three, and the rest of the country, he contends, offers few, if any, naturally silent havens. Sadly, even our crown jewel national parks, charged with preserving our natural soundscapes, do not. The eyes have it, as tunnel-visioned management policies favor scenic vistas. More than 30 years after Congress passed The Grand Canyon National Park Enlargement Act, recognizing “natural quiet as a value or resource in its own right to be protected from significant adverse effect,” 90,000 sightseeing plane and helicopter overflights are still permitted each year. Yellowstone, incredibly, still hasn’t banned snowmobiles. Ambient nighttime noise levels in Yosemite Village rival those in New York City. With diminished public concern a quarter-century after the death of ONAC, noise has ravaged the American landscape as thoroughly as light pollution has blotted out the celestial glory of the night skies.
Hence One Square Inch of Silence, which is not just a book. It’s also a place. And perhaps quiet’s last stand. One Square Inch of Silence is Hempton’s self-proclaimed quiet sanctuary in one of his three remaining, cherished listening spots. His reasoning: If he’s unable to detect man-made noise at his one square inch — designated by a rock of that size atop a massive, moss-covered log 3.2 miles up the Hoh Valley Trail in Olympic National Park — then it will necessarily be quiet for miles and miles around. But even here in this wayward corner of the lower 48 states, commercial air traffic endangers the stunning natural silence. Hempton encourages visitors — respectful, silent visitors — steering them to this acoustically wondrous place with directions at his website (www.onesquareinch.org). And he encourages all comers to share their experiences and insights and thoughts about natural silence by leaving a message in a Jar of Quiet Thoughts.
Back in the days of ONAC, a federal official name David Hales penned his own, prescient quiet thought. In an essay in that October 1979 issue of the EPA Journal with the poster headed Quiet: A National Resource, Hales, then deputy assistant secretary for fish and wildlife and parks in the Department of Interior, wrote this:
“A most appropriate, in fact, necessary role of the National Park Service in years to come will be the preservation of some special places which are not polluted by sound, just as we would not allow them to be polluted by dirty air or water. In these places, the artificial and unnecessary introduction of sound into a natural environment is more than just an irritation caused by what you can hear. It is, in essence, an act of robbery, a theft of those sounds which naturally belong in these environments, and which are part and parcel of the natural and cultural heritage of this nation.”
Indeed, without preservation, without the nation rallying behind Hempton’s innovative, eleventh-hour quiet places preservation campaign, those words might soon appear in an obituary headed Quiet: RIP.
John Grossmann, who has written for such publications as Audubon, Gourmet, The New York Times Magazine, and Sports Illustrated, is co-author of One Square Inch of Silence. He can be reached at jgrossmann@onesquareinch.org.
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Utter the acronym ONAC nowadays and you’ll likely go hoarse before you find somebody who remembers the once vibrant Office of Noise Abatement and Control. But several years following the passage of The Noise Control Act of 1972 (on Nixon’s watch, it’s worth noting), this 60-person bureau, anchoring the middle concern of the EPA’s Office of Air, Noise, and Radiation, was not only flexing some regulatory muscle and protecting Americans from the health impacts of ever-increasing noise levels, but also pursuing loftier goals. The October 1979 issue of The EPA Journal, devoted entirely to noise and the environment, included a poster depicting a deserted dirt road winding through a hardwood forest ablaze with fall color. The poster was titled Quiet: A National Resource. Two years later, Ronald Reagan strode into the White House and started making good on his promise to cut government. Something had to go at EPA. What went was ONAC. The logo got remade to read Office of Air and Radiation. The feds, for all intents and purposes, got out of the noise business and handed the ball to the states, which quickly fumbled it.
About this time, on the other side of America, a Seattle bike messenger unaware of the short life of ONAC was just embarking on a career as a nature sound recording artist, exploring the vast wilderness regions of his home state for quiet spots in which to capture the pristine sounds of nature. By 1984, Gordon Hempton had identified some 21 remote locations in the state of Washington where he could reliably turn on his tape recorder and expect at least 15 minutes of noise-free recording; that is, purely the sounds of nature. No distant whine of tires on an asphalt highway. No Doppler roar of an overhead jet. No low-frequency hum of a faraway power plant. Such man-made intrusions not only ruined his recordings, they also stole from him something even more precious: the very opportunity to experience the soul-soothing, awe-inspiring wash of natural silence, a visceral link to the world of our most distant human ancestors.
“Silence is not the absence of something, but the presence of everything,” writes Hempton in One Square Inch of Silence: One Man’s Search for Natural Silence in a Noisy World (Free Press). The 55-year-old Hempton, who won an Emmy for his round-the-world recording of the dawn chorus, has for years called natural silence Earth’s most sacred soundtrack, as he’s delved ever deeper into its wonderful, surprising, inspiring melodies.
“I’ve heard more than I can count,” he continues in this new book, which I helped research and write. “Silence is the moonlit song of the coyote signing the air, and the answer of its mate. It is the falling whisper of snow that will later melt with an astonishing reggae rhythm so crisp that you will want to dance to it. It is the sound of pollinating winged insects vibrating soft tunes as they defensively dart in and out of the pine boughs to temporarily escape the breeze, a mix of insect hum and pine sigh that will stick with you all day. Silence is the passing flock of chestnut-backed chickadees and red-breasted nuthatches, chirping and fluttering, reminding you of your own curiosity…
“Silence nurtures our nature, our human nature, and lets us know who we are. Left with a more receptive mind and a more attuned ear, we become better listeners not only to nature but to each other…. But silence cannot be imagined, although most people think so. To experience the soul-swelling wonder of silence, you must hear it.” Soon that may no longer be possible. Hempton’s list of 21 quiet places has shrunk to three, and the rest of the country, he contends, offers few, if any, naturally silent havens. Sadly, even our crown jewel national parks, charged with preserving our natural soundscapes, do not. The eyes have it, as tunnel-visioned management policies favor scenic vistas. More than 30 years after Congress passed The Grand Canyon National Park Enlargement Act, recognizing “natural quiet as a value or resource in its own right to be protected from significant adverse effect,” 90,000 sightseeing plane and helicopter overflights are still permitted each year. Yellowstone, incredibly, still hasn’t banned snowmobiles. Ambient nighttime noise levels in Yosemite Village rival those in New York City. With diminished public concern a quarter-century after the death of ONAC, noise has ravaged the American landscape as thoroughly as light pollution has blotted out the celestial glory of the night skies.
Hence One Square Inch of Silence, which is not just a book. It’s also a place. And perhaps quiet’s last stand. One Square Inch of Silence is Hempton’s self-proclaimed quiet sanctuary in one of his three remaining, cherished listening spots. His reasoning: If he’s unable to detect man-made noise at his one square inch — designated by a rock of that size atop a massive, moss-covered log 3.2 miles up the Hoh Valley Trail in Olympic National Park — then it will necessarily be quiet for miles and miles around. But even here in this wayward corner of the lower 48 states, commercial air traffic endangers the stunning natural silence. Hempton encourages visitors — respectful, silent visitors — steering them to this acoustically wondrous place with directions at his website (www.onesquareinch.org). And he encourages all comers to share their experiences and insights and thoughts about natural silence by leaving a message in a Jar of Quiet Thoughts.
Back in the days of ONAC, a federal official name David Hales penned his own, prescient quiet thought. In an essay in that October 1979 issue of the EPA Journal with the poster headed Quiet: A National Resource, Hales, then deputy assistant secretary for fish and wildlife and parks in the Department of Interior, wrote this:
“A most appropriate, in fact, necessary role of the National Park Service in years to come will be the preservation of some special places which are not polluted by sound, just as we would not allow them to be polluted by dirty air or water. In these places, the artificial and unnecessary introduction of sound into a natural environment is more than just an irritation caused by what you can hear. It is, in essence, an act of robbery, a theft of those sounds which naturally belong in these environments, and which are part and parcel of the natural and cultural heritage of this nation.”
Indeed, without preservation, without the nation rallying behind Hempton’s innovative, eleventh-hour quiet places preservation campaign, those words might soon appear in an obituary headed Quiet: RIP.
John Grossmann, who has written for such publications as Audubon, Gourmet, The New York Times Magazine, and Sports Illustrated, is co-author of One Square Inch of Silence. He can be reached at jgrossmann@onesquareinch.org.
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