Recently I accepted an invitation to help a friend insulate his cabin, which was situated on 35 acres of wooded property in southern Colorado. At first sight, the land was beautiful and I looked forward to taking breaks from the work to hike around, drink camp coffee, listen to the birds and enjoy the wildness of the place.
My host kept remarking to me how quiet it was there—and it was. I wondered why he mentioned that people didn’t hunt here anymore. It was really quiet. In fact, I took silent note that I didn’t hear any birds, and although I did see one chipmunk—that was the only animal I noticed during my two-day stay.
On my last morning I wanted to take some quiet time to do yoga outside and sit and listen to the sounds of silence. My host recommended I visit Yoga Rock, a nice flat rock at the edge of the property, perched atop a cliff that dropped down to the dirt approach road.
As I navigated through pinion and brush, I noticed a hum. It became more and more noticeable as I approached Yoga Rock. My curiosity was piqued. I kept wondering what it could be that would make a constant sound like that way out here in the hinterlands. Looking down from yoga rock I saw an ugly concrete pad with a few metal buildings, and learned later that it was a gas well. In fact, I learned that my host had allowed two wells to be fracked on his property for a sum of money.
Then I knew why there was no wildlife there. The eerie quiet (sans birdsong and would-be crackling of twigs made by scurrying wild creatures) was due to the constant humming and vibration from the wells. I’m not going to berate my host for his decision to sell out, but I have to say that I had no desire to stay there ever again.
This experience underscored my decision to take the summer-long trip I’d been planning for nearly a year. Our wildest, most beautiful places won’t go away, but they are changing. I want to see them while the birds are still singing.
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