At night, all is quiet in a way you can’t really comprehend unless you’ve been here. It’s so quiet you can stand out in the forest, look up at the stars twinkling through, and feel like you’re the only one in existence. Sometimes you feel like your normal speaking voice can be heard across the Sound. I’ve never been in a place so quiet at night. The only other thing you hear is the low, distant, almost imperceptible rumble of faraway tankers.
The daytime is just as peaceful. You hear birds chittering and chirping, socializing as though they’re completely unaware of or unconcerned with your presence. You hear the occasional calls of eagles; for such majestic birds, their sounds are ironically puny. For a few days at a time you hear the distant but threatening-sounding rumbles of Growlers as they take off abruptly from Whidbey Island. And then there is that one sound I’d been hearing for years around 9:00 in the morning – a nine o’clock bird? It finally dawned on me – it’s Alyson teaching Zumba at the Oddfellows Hall. Every time she “woOP”s to signal a change in her dance routine, it travels over the water across town to my window! You really can hear someone on the other side! Don’t stop, Alyson. I love my 9 o’clock birdie!
Occasionally you hear the line of cars coming in town from the ferry, but at 25 miles per hour, it’s barely noticeable. And you’ll often hear the FedEx plane coming or going, as well as other small craft. The prettier the day, the more activity there is in the sky.
I’m always astounded on my morning walk that the largest trees I pass are absolutely silent. How can living monuments so large and ever-growing make no sound at all? And the owls – they are noiseless too. If you’re lucky enough to catch sight of their moving wings in front of the arboreal backdrop, you’ll get a treat. If they land near you, not a sound is heard. I enjoyed the rare treat of an owl’s presence the other day as it landed on a nearby post to look for mice. I never would have seen it had I relied on sound alone.
Now that it’s November, we have the wonderful pitter-patter on the skylights. Or if you’re at the library, it’s a cacophanous barrage – their skylights are much bigger. I love it. It’s happening right now as I type and I wish I could stay in this chair for the rest of the day, listening.
That’s one of Orcas Island’s trademarks – the dautingly remarkable peace of hearing what nature has to say, or not. May it stay that way.
