“Sometimes, on Sundays, I heard the bells, the Lincoln, Acton, Bedford, or Concord bell, when the wind was favorable, a faint, sweet, and, as it were, natural melody, worth importing into the wilderness. At a sufficient distance over the woods this sound acquires a certain vibratory hum, as if the pine needles in the horizon were the strings of a harp which it swept. All sound heard at the greatest possible distance produces one and the same effect, a vibration of the universal lyre, just as the intervening atmosphere makes a distant ridge of earth interesting to our eyes by the azure tint it imparts to it. There came to me in this case a melody which the air had strained, and which had conversed with every leaf and needle of the wood, that portion of the sound which the elements had taken up and modulated and echoed from vale to vale. The echo is, to some extent, an original sound, and therein is the magic and charm of it. It is not merely a repetition of what was worth repeating in the bell, but partly the voice of the wood; the same trivial words and notes sung by a wood-nymph” (Thoreau, Walden, 123)
The concept of “soundscape” refers to the constellation of sounds that emanate from landscapes and reach our ears in a given moment. It is credited to R. Murray Schafer who studied the sounds of various habitats and demonstrated that each soundscape uniquely represents a place and time through the combination of its special blend of voices, whether urban, rural, or natural. Most recently, the emerging field of soundscape ecology has challenged ideas that “seeing is believing” and has provided us with new ways to register the ecological health of habitats and to awaken us to the expressivity and creativity of nature.
The idea of this assignment is to encourage us to pay more attention to the sonic identity and makeup of our environments, to the unique gathering of sounds specific to wherever we happen to live. Pick a particular location in the High Country or near your home that includes both natural and man-made sounds. Go to the location, sit and take note of all the sounds that you hear for 20-30 minutes. Write a short (1 page) analysis of the location’s soundscape, why you chose it, how other people or beings might experience it, what happens there, what makes it unique ecologically. Try to be attentive to the extent to which the soundscape reflects the clash, connection, or overlap of natural and built environments. Consider making a 30 second video/audio recording and/or taking photographs to support the claims that you are making in your analysis.
In your analysis, make sure that you include:
- Location (for urban and rural areas as close as possible without identifying exact addresses and private residences; for outdoor locations, e.g a state park or a beach, consider mapping your location and providing the web link in your reflection)
- Specific references to the assigned readings by Thoreau
- The time of the day, season, and date.
- A list of the sounds you heard, e.g. mechanical sounds, biological sounds, geological sounds, unexpected sounds, quiet sounds, loud sounds, slow sounds, fast sounds, ambient sounds, etc. Aim to provide rich description of the sounds themselves, and not just an explanation of what makes the sounds. Before you are tempted to write “I heard cars, birds, or planes”, describe the sound that you heard, and not merely the source of it. Pay close attention to the frequency, pitch, volume, duration, tone, and timbre of the sounds. Reflect on the aural identity, mood, atmosphere or presence of the place. Think about how the layering and mixture of sounds can create a sonic identity as unique as a fingerprint, and how it might shape both the humans and nonhumans that find themselves in such a place.
As you are completing the assignment you might reflect on any of the following questions and themes:
- What kind of sounds are these? What do these sounds say about the place where you heard them?
- What sounds would you describe as the ‘keynote’ sounds? These would be the sounds that, in your experience, contribute most to the acoustic signature of the place. Do you think the acoustics of the location vary over the course of each day or season? How?
- In The Great Animal Orchestra: Finding the Origins of Music in the World’s Wild Places Bernie Krause introduces the term “biophony” to describe the composition of sounds created by living organisms, “geophony” to describe the ambient sounds of wind, rain, thunder, and so on, and “anthrophony” to describe human-generated sounds. Reflect on the distribution of biophony, geophony, and anthrophony in the acoustics of your location. Was any one dominant at the site? Would you describe any of the sounds that you heard as “noise,” “aural litter” or “audible trash?”
- Were you alerted to any sounds that we have usually learned to ignore in our everyday lives? In the context of the profound ecological changes that are taking place on this planet, which of these sounds do we want to encourage, multiply and preserve? Would you identify any of these sounds as harmful or beneficial for ecological well-being?
- Thoreau’s chapter “Sounds” in Walden suggests that music is already an aspect of the environment, which does not need to be translated or represented. He concurs with Krause who encourages us to approach the world as a macrocosmic musical composition. Based upon your listening experience, would you agree or disagree with Thoreau and Krause? Is nature capable of composing music? Is nature a composer? If yes, what difference does it make? Did you register any clearly discernible voices, signatures, or compositions produced by local ecosystems? Did your experience sensitize you to the acoustics of the location as a mode of awareness, as a means of receiving messages from the environment?
Your responses are due by midnight on Sunday, February 22nd. In addition to your written reflection, you are encouraged to upload images or/and recordings of the site that you visited.
SD 3800 Voices in Sustainable Development 
Soundscape Assignment: A Bittersweet Symphony
Heather Adamsky
For this assignment, I went to the Boone Greenway around 9 AM on Thursday, February 19th. It was still the Winter season, but a surprisingly nice day. It had been a really busy, hectic week. I had been in the library until 3 am the previous night and had worked almost 20 hours on top of classes. So, a walk at the Greenway was much needed. There’s a section of the Greenway I particularly enjoy, with tall pine trees. It helps the whole experience feel like more of a real hike, because I wholeheartedly prefer hiking along the parkway, but I don’t always have the time to do that. At the Greenway, there’s a small bridge that leads over to this section with the tall trees that’s been under construction for the past few months. I think that they are trying to expand the bridge, but I’m not really sure. Every time I see this construction, my first thought is how they are preventing any pollution or trash from getting into the river. I’ve put on waders and done trash pickups in this river a few times before, collecting buckets and buckets full of trash. Because the river is so familiar to me, I found myself thinking a lot about the impact of the construction. As stated by Henry David Thoreau in the chapter “Conclusion” from Walden, “The life in us is like the water in the river” (p. 312)
At the end of my walk at the Greenway, I sat in the section with the tall trees for 20 mins, where I could see and hear the bridge construction a few hundred feet away. I heard a very interesting symphony of sounds. I heard a low crinkling noise, of small birds hopping amongst the leaves on the ground. I heard a more high pitched trill come from higher up in the trees that seemed to echo about in the woods, coming from smaller birds perched on the branches of the tall trees. This sound happened with some frequency and I always found myself looking amongst the branches to find its source. I also heard a low pitched, slow, stirring geophony of the wind blowing through the trees. This sound was a constant throughout the 20 minutes I spent sitting there and I would describe it as a keynote sound. I preferred to focus on these noises instead of the anthrophony coming from the construction. From the construction sound, the most prominent voice I heard was that of the front-end loader, which took the form of a low pitched mechanical whirring that was often followed by a higher pitched whine. I also heard a lower pitched, rhythmic, thumping noise. My best guess was that this was part of some device to control the river water and, hopefully, stop construction materials from polluting it. This sound and the sound of the front end loader also lasted the entire duration of my stay, getting slightly annoying at times. I would much rather listen to the birds. Together, the sounds of the construction, the birds, the leaves, the winds, and the trees created a really unique symphony of noise that made me hyper aware of the unnatural and natural instruments. I found myself wondering what the animals thought of the construction, how it might affect their daily lives. Despite the construction, the atmosphere remained calm and soothing, which I was grateful for. I wonder what Henry David Throeau would’ve thought of this environment and this diverse culmination of sounds. During my 20 minutes by the Greenway, while my favorite sound might’ve been the wind in the trees, I also thoroughly enjoyed hearing the birds sing. In his writings, Thoreau describes his love for birds and the beautiful noises they make (specifically owls). In the chapter “Sound” from Walden, Thoreau describes birdsong as “celebrated by the poets of all countries” (p. 120) which I think is a beautiful way of describing it. So, I’m not sure what Thoreau would’ve thought about all of the construction, but I’m sure he would’ve liked the birdsong.
Brynne Dieterle
I sat on a park bench on the Greenway for 20 minutes. I had just finished my run, and normally I would just get right into my car and drive home, but today, February 14th at 11 in the morning, I stayed and I sat listening to everything around me, soaking it all in. I heard many sounds while I sat on that bench. The most common one was of course the other people running, walking, biking, and talking. With it being such a beautiful day it made sense that there were many people on the Greenway as well and this was a sound that stayed consistent throughout my time sitting. Another anthrophonic sound I heard was the driving of cars. While I was in the middle of the Greenway, and seemingly surrounded by nature and paths, I was not far away from the roads at all. There was a constant low and quiet sound coming from the cars driving on the gravel road that was left behind by construction workers. It was not distracting enough away from the other sounds that were a part of the Greenway song, but it needed to be noted because of the bass and background noise that it was. Many times I feel as though I tune out anthrophonic sound because it is always around me, no matter where I am, so choosing to listen to the cars and the people was an unusual part of the activity.
I was lucky that it was a nice day out in the middle of winter, so I was not too chilled, yet there would be times that I could hear the wind sweep through the park. When the wind would blow, maybe for a maximum of 30 seconds at a time, I could hear the plants and dead leaves rustle on the ground, I could hear the swaying of trees and branches, the ripple of the stream rising and falling, and sometimes when the gusts were strong I could also hear a slight high pitch noise of the wind bouncing off of the trunks. With it being sunny out, the wind did not put a damper on the mood of the song that it was singing, instead a dance was created throughout the park. There were not many biophonic noises, just occasionally I would hear a deer walking or eating, but I believe that due to the season there was not much to hear from organisms on the Greenway.
Just from the sound of the wind, I agree that nature is capable of composing music. The wind is capable of creating any object to make a sound, like the rustling of leaves, the slight howl from a gust, and even a branch creaking. The wind can control the movements, composing rests or intense noises, like how in the middle of a large gust everything is moving. This shows that nature is more than just something to walk through and look at, it can also be listened to, creating a new type of respect. I have always loved nature, but actually sitting down in a place I normally walk or run helped me to understand the sung beauty of the Greenway.
In the beginning of Thoreau’s chapter named Sounds he writes “No method nor discipline can supersede the necessity of being forever on the alert. What is a course of history, or philosophy, or poetry, no matter how well selected, or the best society, or the most admirable routine of life compared with the discipline of looking always at what is to be seen? Will you be a reader, a student merely, or a seer?” (Thoreau 187). Taking a break to just listen to the sounds around me made me alert to parts of the environment that I would never have noticed before. Staying stagnant and only reading about the beauties of the environment does not compare to going out and actively searching and listening around. While many of the noises were made by humans, I believe that it can be added together with the natural noises to create a beautiful song. It is a wonderful privilege that humans have to go outside and walk on the grass and break twigs while enjoying the music that has already been created by the ecosystem. Humans can be a part of the duet if we respect the land that has a song already written. The cars tend to distract, but the people can bring something beautiful to the noise.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/12lXI50TI9UVdtLA75pX2mAxIPx0PWlkPSPh0vO78rXY/edit?usp=sharing
David Bass
Phoebe Sorensen
For my soundscape assignment, I chose Hodges creek right next to my apartment. I chose it because it is the place I return to each day and call home. Other people might experience this location as home as well. Others experience it as work, or a place they simply pass by and don’t think twice about. Other beings such as birds might experience it as their small slice of home, trees stretching above a narrow creek. A place to nest ot perch. What happens here is the collision of nature, human life, and human activities. An apartment complex above stores next to a creek and sandwiched between an intersection experiences a unique ecological presence. The creek which formed long before the development of Boone still provides what shelter and habitat it can for the creatures who live here, with a riparian buffer zone consisting of a battle of invasive and native species. Today I do not hear the birds though, and I am unsure if it is because of the cold or the traffic which drones them out.
The time of the day was 3:50-4:20. The season is winter and the date is February 22nd, 2026. I heard the erratic and organic combination of gentle high pitched clinks and tinks of wind chimes. Low-pitched humming which came in waves from the street. These hums at times would break into a higher pitched rumble of an engine. The seemingly constant keynote wooshing of tires on asphalt began to resemble the crashing of waves on a beach. Distant and low at first, then louder, and finally fading away as the next wooshing emerged behind it. Their man-made origin seemed to mimic the melodic rhythm of nature’s force on the beach. While this seemed kind of funny to consider and connect originally, I began to remember that one can never truly seperate themselves from nature because all things man made come from nature, as humans are nature as well. As Thoreau mentions in the chapter Economy from Walden, “What distant and different beings in the various mansions of the universe are contemplating the same one at the same moment! Nature and human life are as various as our several constitutions” (pg 10). To me, Thoreau is expressing how people and beings may be at distances from one another or seperate but are still connected by nature. Back to my soundscape, loud mechanical squeaking and squealing of breaks peirced through the melody of wooshing at times, with occasionally short jolts of robotic-like beeping of car doors locking and ranging voices of people calling out to one another. In Sounds, Thoreau states, “If the snow lies deep, they strap on his snow-shoes, and with the giant plow, plow a furrow from the mountains to the seaboard, in which the cars, like a following drill-barrow, sprinkle all the restless men and floating merchandise in the country for seed” (pg 117). This resonated with me because it reminded me of the business of the intersection outside my apartment. Despite the building of snow on the ground and branches of trees, the constant stream of cars didn’t falter or slow. The overall mood of the space here is calm. Only erratic mechanical disruptions break through, expressing the robust presence of humanity in this corner of the world. I know from personal experience that this mix does not call for good sleep, especially in the summer time when the window is kept open due to a lack of AC and the sounds of humanity wake one up numeros times throughout the night. For the nonhumans, I think that the manmade aspects of the soundscape probably disrupt them as well, as they do not have a window to close to muffle the noise. It is possible that they find it hard to hear one another when they chirp or call out. There are less birds this winter and I wonder to what extent this soundscape plays a role.
Odina Corbin
I chose to sit next to the road in front of my house. I live in Deep Gap, North Carolina, right off Doc and Merle Watson highway. I’ve lived here for almost two years now, and this house has become one of my favorite places. Deep Gap is the type of place where you feel on top of the mountain, where you can see the entire world, but the more you look up the more you realize there still is to see. Nestled in rolling hills, and views hidden behind each corner, Deep Gap holds a magical feeling that made me feel comfortable simply sitting in my front yard and waiting for its melody to expose itself.
In Thoreau’s writing we see a dissertation, speaking of how the sounds of cars and engines bring him out of the musical world he finds in nature. I related to the fact that these sounds propelled him into considering the intention behind them, why they were happening, and why they could not be happening. I experienced something very similar in the way that these “mechanical” sounds forced me out of my environment and into a different one, where I was thinking about the economy and business and travel.
It was February 22, 2026. At 3:30pm I grabbed a chair off my porch and set it in my driveway, right next to the road. My road is not necessarily busy, so I wasn’t worried about too much noise. The sun was shining, and while there was a chill to the steady breeze, I found myself able to enjoy the warmth, the kind of warmth that tells you spring is just right around the corner.
I first heard the cars on the highway, constant and almost unchanging. It sounded almost like waves in the ocean, fighting against each other but almost inadvertently creating harmony with itself. Intense, but calming, and dynamic enough that you couldn’t find a pattern. This sound felt like the background, or bass, to the symphony of this soundscape.
I next noticed the buzzing from the power lines above me. My house is located next to a large electrical grid, and the buzzing of these large power lines is constant. It’s the kind of sound that your mind can easily tune out, but once you notice it you can’t stop hearing it. I spent some time battling the annoyance of this sound, when my neighbor began his metal working. I’m not sure what kind of project was taking place, but it created a similarly annoying buzzing sound, just slightly rougher and heavier. However, I took a breath and began to let these sounds come together in my mind. Between them, they flowed harmoniously and even provided some steadiness in the unpredictable scene that was taking place.
Here and there you would hear a cough, a random car, a dog bark. There were many reminders that I was not alone, and that my location was not a serene, hidden place, where only nature could find me. I found myself craving just that, but as I dug deeper into the story that was unfolding in front of me, I found my own nook of peace.
The sounds of the thrashing vehicles, traveling energy, small businesses and man-made interactions, all served as a reminder of the type of environment I found myself stuck in. My thoughts were constantly penetrated, wondering where the cars were going? Who’s house the energy was powering? It was interesting to be annoyed by things that in the beholders eye are necessary. You must drive to work, you must get your groceries, you must let your dog outside. In many ways I felt privileged just to be able to sit for thirty minutes in such a noisy world.
The beauty was found in the ferocity of this song’s supporting melodies. As I begun to tire from the thrashing road, and the buzzing lines, a bird would suddenly break out in song. It would catch my attention, and I would find an entire musical solo I had been ignoring. The birds were singing to each other, sounding like little wind chimes getting caught by the breeze. I heard mice scurrying in the field next to me, giggling when they found something delightful. The deer up on the hill added their own silent percussions with each step they took. As the wind combed through the hair of the fields tall grass, you could hear it whisper like it had a secret only for you. As many times as I found myself pulled back into the droning bass of this melody, I found myself forced to pay attention to the symphony taking place in front of me, both by the natural sounds and non-natural sounds.
I wouldn’t necessarily label any of these sounds as ‘good’ or ‘bad’. I would say, even, that hearing them contrast against each other gave me a hopefulness I haven’t had for a while. Even in such a busy location as where I am, the ferocity with which nature made its voice heard was magical. I felt blessed to be in a place where I could experience both worlds, a place where even in the dullness of a bustling socioeconomic lifestyle, nature still fought to have its voice heard. A robin flew down and stared at me for a while, almost observing me with the same curiosity as I was it. It chirped to me, and I chirped back. We may feel divided, but we are both of the same world.
Ianna Pfeifer
I chose to do the soundscape activity on Wednesday the 18th, around 12:30pm during a break between my classes. For this assignment, I spent time at Durham Park, the greenspace situated between Rivers Street and Blowing Rock Road. I chose a spot by the creek bed, close to the first bridge. I sat on the slightly wet dirt with my back resting on a big tree. My first year at App, I lived in the dorms directly next to this park, and I walked through it or spent time there almost every day. Because of this, the park feels like a kind of past home to me, making it a meaningful place to sit and listen closely.
At first, all I heard was the persistent wind and the steady afternoon traffic. The wind was strong and loud, moving through the trees above me, creating a whistling sound that rose and fell like a deep sigh. The wind would intensify suddenly, whooshing loudly in my ears, then soften again, repeating. Beneath that, the traffic worked as a constant mechanical layer. This reminded me of how Thoreau in “Sounds” talked about Walden pond. While in the attempt of isolation away from modernity, he still found he couldn’t fully escape it, “The whistle of the locomotive penetrates my woods summer and winter”. I could hear car engines approaching in a dull rumble sound. The noise would fade as they slowed down at the red light, then return as they accelerated again on green. The sound of tires against pavement created a low, gritty hum that blended with the wind. These two sounds together worked as keynotes and the most obvious layer of sound for the park. However, after sitting in my own silence for a few minutes I was able to pick up more.
It was a warm and sunny day, making the park busy with students. Anthrophony sounds like human voices and movements added another layer to the soundscape. A little while away, I could see and hear someone playing a guitar, the musical sound of the strings carried very lightly through the park in short breaks that were broken up by wind and passing cars. Across the creek, a slackline was set up between two trees. Every few minutes when someone eventually lost their balance and fell off, the slackline snapped side to side. This made a quick, vibrating twang, similar to the sound that’s made when playing with a rubber band. Quiet chatting and laughter could be heard from the small groups of students around me. Every few minutes someone would walk past over the bridge and create an dull echoing of their footsteps.
Even though I expected to hear birds, sounds Thoreau extends great time and detail on, their songs were surprisingly hard to identify. However, smaller and subtler biological sounds stood out. I could hear squirrels scrambling up and down making tiny scratching and rustling noises on the bark of the trees, contributing to the biophony. I also could hear the soft trickle of the water from the creek, making a soft murmuring, bubbling noise when you got leaned close enough to hear.
Overall, the soundscape of the park felt like a constant negotiation between natural and human made sounds. Unless you played close attention, the wind, trees, and animals could be drowned out by traffic and people. Still none of these sounds existed entirely on their own, by layering together they created the soundscape.
Kacie Shumate
Almost every time I step outside onto my porch, I try to recall any sounds I might hear to ground myself, which ends up relieving me of some anxiety. That practice has allowed me to be more present in everyday life. A lot of times when I am on my porch I hear animals walking around in the woods or the neighborhood dogs parking, as well as the music coming from the stadium and/or the yelling of the sports teams. Sometimes I think of the loud music and noises coming from the stadium as an inconvenience or become annoyed with it but then I remember the beauty of the environment and place I live in. Those are reminders of hot summer days, football games, and all the things that bring me happiness and solitude so for this soundscape assignment, I chose to sit on my porch. For 30 minutes on February 22, 2026 at 8 PM, as the snow was falling and the wind was blowing, I bundled up and sat outside on my porch. I live off of stadium drive and though it is a convenient spot to choose, I chose my porch because in the summer, fall, and spring, I would sit out there for hours and to just listen to music, read, and/or observe my surroundings in silence. I haven’t sat out there in a while due to the cold weather this winter so this assignment was a good push to find appreciation for my environment despite the weather conditions.
At first I began observing the geophony, the natural sounds such as the wind blowing extremely hard, the trees creaking and swaying, and the faint sound of snow falling. The wind hit the trees hard causing them to sway back and forth, letting out the sounds of creaking making me fearful that they might fall. The wind also swept up the snow that landed on just about everything— the guardrail, tree branches, my car, the stairs. The snow that had recently fallen was blown and followed the wind as it traveled away, whistling.
I then began noticing the mechanical sounds also known as anthrophony. But first I noted the lack of noises that usually occurred. There were no cars passing, no animals, no one using the stadium. It was silent despite the wind and trees. but I heard the sound of my wind chimes and bells. In that moment I felt a sense of peace and familiarity as I remember the wind chimes my Pawpaw has on his porch. My grandmother put them up before she passed and my Pawpaw and father swear that anytime they chime, my grandmother is visiting from heaven. They are still up 27 years later. In those moments, listening to the geophony and anthrophony, I understand the level of security and tranquility the music of the environment can bring.
As Thoreau highlights throughout his book, especially the Sounds chapter, there is music in everything, natural and man-made. Though at times we might not enjoy and optimize manmade, mechanical sounds, we need to remind ourselves of the life and knowledge that comes from those sounds.
On February 24th around 4:30 p.m., I sat in the open field in front of my apartment complex. It’s just a patch of grass below the buildings alongside a small road. I chose this location due to the fact that it was a part of my daily life and is ordinary. As a student within Sustainable Development, I spend a lot of time thinking about forests, conserved land, and outdoor recreation spaces, but this assignment made me realize that most of our lives actually unfold in normal places like this; natural and developed environments that are constantly overlapping.
It was late winter, and you could feel that seasonal shift of the warming weather. The most consistent sound was melting snow. Water dripped from rooftops in uneven intervals. The water made a variety of different sounds as it smacked against a metal gutter, other times a dull, soft tap into wet soil. It felt like a slow metronome marking the end of winter, and was a welcome change to the harsh weather we have experienced recently. The wind moved steadily across the field, brushing through the snow with a whispering sweep. When it picked up, it could be heard hitting against the sides of the buildings and created this faint humming sound.
Birds were the clearest biological presence. Their calls were vibrant and bright,and could be made out clearly between the sounds of wind and distant traffic. One bird repeated a quick three-note phrase over and over, while another answered from farther away in a softer, falling whistle. The rhythm wasn’t organized in a human sense, but it didn’t feel random either. Squirrels added quick bursts of scratching and scrambling, followed by moments of total silence, like someone hitting pause.
The human sounds were impossible to ignore. From a nearby house, construction equipment sent out this low, grinding vibration that seemed to flatten everything else. It wasn’t constant, but when it started up, it dominated the soundscape. Cars passed occasionally, and I could hear them approaching before I saw them. These moments were fragmented and did not last very long as each car continued onward to its destination. Occasionally neighbors’ voices drifted across the field, but at a distance they became more about tone than meaning.
Reading Thoreau’s “Sounds” in Walden, I kept thinking about the passage where he describes church bells blending into the woods until they almost become part of nature. Sitting in this field, I wondered if something similar was happening. The wind definitely changed the construction noise. Distance softened it. But it never fully became “natural.” It still felt intrusive. If anything, the contrast made the birds and water feel more fragile.
If I had to name the keynote sounds or the sounds that defined this place it would have to be the wind and the dripping snowmelt. They gave the field its seasonal identity. In summer, I imagine insects would take over. In fall, dry leaves would amplify the windy mountain weather. Right now, though, the slow thaw and steady breeze felt like the field’s main voice. Thinking about Bernie Krause’s terms, there was a clear mix of biophony (birds and squirrels), geophony (wind and water), and anthrophony (cars, construction, neighbors). None were completely absent, but anthrophony had the most power when it appeared. The machinery wasn’t constant, yet it reshaped the mood of the space every time it started. It made me think about how even occasional human noise can compress the acoustic space animals rely on.
What surprised me most was how many sounds I normally ignore. I don’t usually pay attention to the difference between water hitting metal versus soil, or how wind sounds different against vinyl siding compared to grass. Sitting still for 20–30 minutes made those differences obvious. It also made me think about which sounds I would want to protect. I want more birdsong. More wind in open spaces. More subtle, layered natural tones. The grinding of construction equipment feels like what Schafer might call “aural litter” not because building homes is inherently wrong, but because of how overpowering it can be in small ecosystems.
After this experience, I agree more with Thoreau and with Krause’s idea of the “Great Animal Orchestra.” Nature does compose something. It may not follow human scales or structure, but there’s layering, rhythm, call and response. As someone studying sustainability, this changed how I think about environmental awareness. We often focus on what we see such as land use, development, and conservation boundaries. But listening felt different. The soundscape revealed tension, overlap, adaptation. It made the field feel less like empty space and more like a living system negotiating human presence. The place wasn’t quiet at all. It was active, layered, and constantly communicating. I just don’t usually slow down enough to hear it.
Merrick Semple
On Wednesday, February 25th, around 4:15 p.m., I arrived at Strawberry Hill on my bicycle, while making my way through the full parking lot of the Daniel Boone Gardens I stopped to talk with a few friends before heading up the hill. Even though it sits right in the middle of Boone, Strawberry Hill has always felt like a place that exists slightly outside of town, a pocket of stillness where I go when life feels chaotic and I need to slow down. As I walked up the slope, I noticed tree labels I had somehow never seen before, small details that reminded me how much more there is to notice when I’m paying attention. The soundscape felt disappointing at first. Instead of birds or wind, I heard trucks rolling coal, engines revving, and the constant hum of machinery. I wondered whether nature had gone quiet or whether I simply wasn’t listening closely enough. When I reached the top, I settled into the roots of the giant oak tree, one of my favorite trees in Boone, and leaned my back against its trunk. This tree has become a kind of anchor for me, a place where I can sit and feel held by something older and steadier than myself. As I let my body become still, I began to listen with intention. At first, the anthropogenic noise felt overwhelming, almost intrusive, but as the minutes passed, the soundscape slowly shifted. Crows flew overhead, their calls cutting through the mechanical noise. The wind picked up, rustling the dead leaves still clinging to branches, reminding me of the state this tree once was in and what it is yet to become. High‑pitched bird calls emerged from somewhere I couldn’t see. The natural sounds had been there all along; they were simply quieter, requiring patience and presence to hear.
This experience mirrors Thoreau’s reflections in the “Sounds” chapter of Walden, where he describes how the world reveals itself only when one listens deeply. Thoreau writes about sitting on his cabin doorstep for hours, letting the sounds of the woods, the wind, and even the passing railroad become a kind of language. He never pretends that nature is silent, he acknowledges the intrusion of the railroad, the “devilish iron horse,” yet he listens to it as part of the whole. My experience on Strawberry Hill echoed this coexistence. The trucks didn’t disappear when the birds appeared; instead, the soundscape is muti-layered, revealing the tension between human activity and the natural world. Like Thoreau, I realized that listening is not about eliminating noise but about choosing where to place my attention.
Thoreau often heard animals he never saw, treating sound as a way of knowing the unseen life around him. Sitting under the oak, I felt the same awareness. I couldn’t see the birds making those high, thin calls, but I knew they were there. Sound became a form of ecological knowledge, a reminder that the forest is alive even when it’s not visible. As I listened, I also became more aware of myself: my breath, my presence, and the way every passing truck pulled me back into the human world. Thoreau writes about this same self‑awareness, the way sound can make us conscious of our place in the landscape. I found myself wondering how wildlife experiences this constant hum of human noise. Have they adapted to it? Do they tolerate it? Or does it shape their behavior in ways we rarely consider?
Strawberry Hill, much like Walden Pond, becomes a threshold space, close to town yet capable of transporting me into a deeper awareness of the living world. In both places, listening becomes more than hearing; it becomes a way of belonging, a way of understanding the land, its inhabitants, and my own place among them.
Allison Lehan
Because I remembered to complete this assignment past its due date, finding the motivation to go outside and get it done proved increasingly difficult as more time passed; then the weather got worse. It wasn’t until Saturday, February 28th when Boone had a clear, 60 degree day outside. Needless to say, I made sure to take advantage of it. Around 2:00 p.m. I drove to Clawson-Burnley Park (which is conveniently five minutes from my home) and went for a 30-minute walk on the Greenway Trail. The following description details my auditory experience there.
My first few minutes on the trail were mostly occupied with the sonic evidence of recreational activity. An occasional jogger’s light panting. The distinctive, scattered smacks of hollow balls against pickleball paddles like vibrating ticks of cartoon clocks.
The rumbling of plastic wheels on the weathered sidewalk where a boy pushed his younger brother in a Little Tikes car. Soon enough I arrived at a section of the Greenway overcome with towering pines, their needles blanketing the ground on either side of the paved path. I stopped here to digest my surroundings.
When I paused, anthropogenic sounds were still present but no longer the predominant factors in my awareness. The solid thud of rubber soles meeting pavement ahead and behind me provided an off-kilter sort of rhythm for the varied exchange of bird calls overhead. The day was beautiful, and I think birds and people alike recognized the best place to be was in the open air, talking to one another.
Each call was relatively sharp, commanding my consciousness like when a stranger calls your name — you can’t help but stop and listen, wondering what they’re going to say next. Wind rushed through the pines every handful of minutes but it was brief and welcome, much unlike the endless vocal gusts that forced themselves under my front door all winter long. I heard the stiff offshoots of shrubs rustling amongst themselves every time the wind blew, but when it left and the plants were quiet again, the low and stretched moan of passing cars filled their absence.
In his “Sounds” chapter of Walden, Thoreau emphasizes the importance of observation. He says that maintaining an acute sensitivity to the language of nature (an everpresent language without metaphor) is paramount to becoming a “seer” — someone who sees their “fate” and walks “on into futurity.” By allowing myself this time to stop, think and observe, I caught a small window of insight into what Thoreau meant by being a “seer.” Normally I’ve always got some objective on my mind. I live in my head reflexively, so when I make a conscious effort to actively pay attention to the intricacies of my surroundings (especially through a sense other than sight) I’m astounded by how much I learn about my environment. Perhaps if time wasn’t minced into hours and days of the week like Thoreau notes, it would be easier to naturally fall into a habit of intense observation. Sound can sometimes provide even more information than sight can — it’s understanding what’s not directly in front of you. If I had spent my whole walk obsessing over the chores and assignments waiting for me at home, or the impending tasks of the week ahead, I probably would have never even heard the birds. I don’t think my walk exactly spelled out my future for me, but I do know that every occasion I spend outside, two things happen. One: I feel better about my worries and no longer feel compelled to solve all my perceived problems immediately. Two: I know that whatever I do with my future, I want much of it to be spent outside.