Quiet

Have we lost the art of embracing quiet?

I live on a ranch in rural Wyoming, 20 miles from the closest “town” of Baggs, Wyoming, with a population of 407-411 according to Google AI results. Would that range of four make it a transient “town”? Google AI also mentions Baggs as a “quiet, rural town,” so I guess that makes Savery, Wyoming, with a population of 42-73, a “quieter rural town”? And what’s with a 29-person variance according to Google AI? If you’re dealing with so few people, is it that hard to be exact?

Our ranch is 8.5 miles down-valley from the Little Snake River Museum in Savery, on a dirt road that could, one might say, exponentially reduce our “quietness” level per mile. Overall noise and light pollution are essentially absent in our world, except for the summer sounds of chainsaws cutting wood for the upcoming winter, which begins in earnest with the arrival of spring.

A couple of weeks ago, I ventured out into the “real” world. I had work and meetings in southern California, specifically in Orange County. Orange County is stunning in a wealthy California suburb kind of way. The homes are nice, ranging from small to mansion-sized. The area is surrounded by over 8,000 acres of protected wilderness, which is no small feat for a region southeast of Los Angeles. I stayed with a friend in Trabuco Canyon, whose neighborhood borders Whiting Ranch Wilderness Park—2,500 acres of mountain biking and hiking trails with steep inclines and occasional mountain lion sightings. One minute you’re deep in suburbia; the next, you’re in a canyon, scouting trees for lounging mountain lions. Every day I was there, I walked the trails just like I do in Wyoming.

But in California, you’re never truly alone. Mountain bikers zoom past runners and walkers on even the most remote trails. Yet, it remains beautiful, natural, and peaceful—until it’s not. When I walk with my husband and dog in Wyoming, we often have deep conversations. Recently, we’ve replaced these quiet or meaningful talks with redirecting our puppy from chasing birds, deer, eating a variety of scat, and other typical puppy antics. The other day, we noticed that our once-peaceful walks are no longer so quiet.

One morning, while walking in Whiting Ranch and listening to a new audiobook on my AirPods, I heard something cutting through the narrator’s voice.

“What is that?” It sounds like Fox News (or any equally annoying equivalent).

Minutes later, a woman passed me on the trail, listening to her media device at full volume—no headphones.

“Seriously?” I think to myself. I can hear the din of angry voices for minutes later.

As I start making my way up the trail again, that noise. Now, it’s a middle-aged man listening to what appears to be a self-help, be the best you can be podcast. Where are people’s headphones? Does everyone live in such a solipsistic bubble, oblivious to literally everyone around them?

The next day on the trail, it wasn’t unear-phoned podcasts; it was a helicopter. It came across the canyon as I climbed to one of the highest points on the east side of Whiting. It buzzed over me then started circling, then hovered. Were they looking for someone? Was it the mountain lion? The chopper just sat above the canyon, the loud noise permeating throughout the valley. It didn’t move on. Was someone lost, dying, dead? After 20 minutes, I turned around to head back to my friend’s house. I couldn’t take the sound or the wondering. By the time I hit the edge of suburbia, the helicopter had moved on – no valiant rescue, no body retrieval, just noise for half my hike.

By the time I returned to my friend’s place, the painters across the street had arrived and prepared the house for a new coat of paint. The sound of Spanish mixed with laughter and shade thrown back and forth among the workers made me smile. I find comfort in some “noise” – foreign languages and conversations always pique my interest. After living abroad and not speaking the languages, I have learned to watch body language, listen for tone, and catch words I might recognize from time to time to understand the conversation.

What I find stressful is noise for its own sake—people listening to reels, shows, or whatever without headphones, assuming the noise doesn’t seep across planes, waiting rooms, and hiking trails. The worst is doctor’s offices blaring political shows. I’ll drop a doctor if I have to spend 30 seconds in a Newsmax blaring waiting room. All of it is stressful.

Is it so hard to be quiet? If you want to listen to your reels, great, get out those AirPods and go to town. I don’t want to listen to it.

I stayed for a couple of days in Las Vegas at a friend’s, and his roommate woke up and turned on the TV – instantly. No easing into the day, no reflection on the unfolding day, just noise. Are people so lonely that they consider the noise company?

Living in Africa, regardless of the country, is noisy. My sister always laughs when I pass through Germany on my way back from working in Benin. “Stop talking so loudly. This isn’t Africa.” She’s right. My vocal decibel level definitely increases because Africa is loud. People jostling for position in conversations, loud, deep laughter, music, and ear-splitting volumes, with the usual crackle and speaker distortion. For me, being at the team house in Porto Novo, Benin, and lying in bed listening to the chatter and laughter at the outdoor tables below my bedroom window in local languages mixed with French feels musical.

When guests visit us at the ranch, they always remark how they had the best night’s sleep in years and how it was so peaceful. In the mornings, I wake up before dawn to write with the quiet, rhythmic purring of little Jafar on my lap. No music, no noise, just purrrrrr... purrrrr...

I take Baloo out for his morning pee. I stand in the yard listening to the birds, the rushing sound of the spring runoff creek, and the woodpecker drilling a hole high in the tree above. I can even hear Baloo’s sniffing in the flower bed after last night’s rain.

Can we learn to be okay with quiet? If not, please use your headphones for the sake of all of us who value peace.