In a thought-provoking article about Rocky Mountain meadows in Bugle Magazine, Scott Stouder makes the observation that “Places where quiet can still be heard are disappearing from our world.”

Man, is he on the mark! More than ever it seems that audio stimulation – noise – is the norm for modern society. Wherever we go, whatever we do, our ears are assaulted by the sounds of progress. Cell phones can ring anywhere, in the Amazon jungle or on Pamola Peak at Mt. Kathadin. Joggers, with their I-Pods stuffed in their ears, miss the early morning songbirds or the rhythm of their Nikes tapping along the asphalt. Soft restaurant conversation is abruptly halted when your dinner companion’s cell phone demands attention.

Broadcasters use the term “dead air.” This is when there is no talk or music, silence on the airwaves. It is to be avoided at all costs, which may explain why a caller who is put on hold is never, ever left in silence. Heaven forbid! Musical interludes are always provided. Whether the music is not to your taste or whether you prefer a silent interlude to gather your thoughts is irrelevant. The decree has come down from a society hooked on relentless stimulation. You must never be left to your own devices or fed “dead air.” It is written.

What are the sounds of quiet? How do we measure them? We know how to measure noise, but, as Stouder observed, we have no universal standard to measure quiet. We joke and even writes songs about the sound of silence. If a tree falls in the woods and there is nobody there to hear it crash to the earth, does it make a sound? Or the sexist variation on this: If a man speaks in the woods and there is no woman there to hear him, is he STILL wrong?

I have some theories about “quiet.” For me, quiet is another name for solitude, and solitude is another name for the outdoors. I don’t know about you but a day spent in a cedar bog waiting for a big buck, or an afternoon of trout fishing on a remote pond is for me more about seeking solitude than taking home a trophy. Am I the typical outdoorsman? Maybe not. But most of the outdoor folks that I have known find something of value, something rewarding about spending quiet moments in the Almighty’s natural cathedral.

The quiet we find out there is not always without sound, however. A few days ago, while ice fishing with my English Setter on a remote Maine lake, I couldn’t help but notice. “By golly,” I said under my breath, “look at her. She is tuning in to the silence just as you are.” The morning sun was inching its way onto the lake, but it was cold, windless and bright. You could hear a pin drop.

And we did, almost.

From out of nowhere a chickadee flitted in and alighted on the handle of the tote sled. We both heard the air passing under its small wings on its way to us. Above the lake on the beech ridge, we heard a raven and the ice-laden branches giving way to the warming sun. Moments later, under the ice, a fat little splake, went for a shiner. When the tipup triggered 20 yards behind us, we heard the flag spring up to the vertical.

The sounds of quiet. I’m not sure about English Setters, but we humans, as contemplative bipods, are meant to find quiet moments for a variety of reasons. You don’t have to be an outdoor type to find think time, but I can’t imagine a life without the outdoor option. Meantime, I worry about my grandkid’s generation. At a time, when our sensory circuits are notoriously overloaded, fewer and fewer American youngsters are being introduced to the sights, the sounds, and the silence that awaits those who spend time in what those of my generation always regarded as the Great Outdoors.

The author is editor of the Northwoods Sporting Journal. He is also a Maine Guide, co-host of a weekly radio program “Maine Outdoors” heard Sundays at 7 p.m. on The Voice of Maine News-Talk Network (WVOM-FM 103.9, WCME-FM 96.7) and former information officer for the Maine Dept. of Fish and Wildlife. His e-mail address is [email protected].