Say hello to silence

When I left the house this morning I was enveloped by silence. The early morning air was still cool and few people were about. The silence is welcome and, as I'm sure I've said before, it's one of the things I like best about living here. I hear only my footsteps on the path, the scrape of a stone on my shoe.

A woman walking two dogs crosses in front of me at the corner, and I think she must be training the younger one, for I repeatedly hear "heel! heel" and constant clucking, as though she were urging on a horse. I'm happy when she continues up the opposite side of the road, and now I can hear the twittering of unseen birds and the lonesome call of a dove.

Despite the busyness of the summer season here and the influx of tourists, its still possible to enjoy the silence, and I think of all those living in cities who must forego this luxury. I like cities myself, I enjoy the busyness, the sense of doing and accomplishment that goes with the hum and squawk of traffic and the sound of many feet hitting the pavement. Even when you have nothing of importance to do, just being surrounded by all that hustle-bustle can make you feel that your "nothing" has value. Even so, I'm glad I no longer live in a city.

As my walk grows in length and the hour gets later, more traffic appears. Early-service church goers pull into parking lots, tourists in overstuffed cars head up the pass, and cyclists breeze past on their way to the mountain's challenge. Silence gives way to daily life. I meet two other walkers, neither of whom speaks when I offer my casual "g-morning." I mark them down as tourists, for locals, even when strangers, inevitably speak; sometimes even stopping to comment on the weather or some other mutually satisfying occurrence. It's the advantage of a small town, and I like it.

That was also one of the things I liked about living in France; unless you were in the midst of a crowd, everyone said "bon jour" or "bon soir" when you crossed paths. I missed it on our return and decided that I would carry on the tradition. A few weeks ago I came up behind an older man slowly walking a bicycle. He was clearly a traveler, but clean and neatly dressed. He wore a blue backpack on which he had scrawled, in bold white lettering, "Danger. Do Not Talk to Me! followed by a skull and crossbones. I read that sign and without giving it too much thought decided that a "good morning" didn't count as talk. So when I passed him I spoke. I was surprised to hear him reply with a cheerful "Good morning" and then, "Beautiful day isn't it?" I turned and raised my arms. "Gorgeous," I declared. And then I turned back and walked on, wondering what it was about talk that he didn't like.

Maybe he just prefers the ringing in his ears to the empty chatter of others. Or maybe, like me, he just can't get enough of silence.

Walks 'n rides

A friend in Denmark wondered if I was finding good places to walk. Those of you who've been reading this for a few years know that I try to walk three miles every morning, or at least six days a week. I started this habit when we lived in France, where a narrow country road passed a few feet from our door and wandered uphill past vineyards and fodder fields to another tiny village. From there I could continue uphill, which I sometimes did, or turn back toward home.

The road back was a bit wider but there was seldom traffic, a tractor maybe, a few cyclists, a lost tourist, the bread lady. This track edged similar fields. About a quarter mile from home I turned onto the main road where, again, traffic was negligible. There were often horses to visit with along this stretch and in summer, colts. To describe it as bucolic is accurate but that word doesn't acknowledge the abundant wildflowers, the friendly waves, the smelly sheep, or the rugged mountains that surrounded our little valley.

As you might imagine I missed that experience whenever we left, and after we sold the house and returned to the U.S. I was pretty sure I'd lost those peaceful walks forever. Fortunately, I was wrong. Sisters is small and rural and though my walk here lacks old-world charm and has a little more traffic, it makes up for it with grandiose scenery and plenty of tall, red ponderosa pines.

The first half of my walk takes me past fields of those pines, some of them huge and humbling. I often say hello. The Three Sisters, volcanic peaks a little over 10,000 feet high, are behind me most of the way but when I turn my head to look, or turn right at the end of the longest stretch, there they are, dominating the landscape, impossible to miss or resist.

That longest stretch is also state highway 242, which travels through U.S. forest land and crosses McKenzie pass about 15 miles out of town. Since the pass is closed due to snow about nine months of the year there's little-to-no traffic. Once it opens to autos (next week) tourists will be heading up, because the views of spreading lava and towering peaks are spectacular.

This route is a popular bicycling challenge (I'm often passed by cyclists) and in fact Ray rode to the top (14.1 miles, a 2,231 foot climb, part of it a 7.7% grade) a few days ago, soon after the road was plowed from the gate to the top of the pass. The roadside snow towered over him and a Bulletin photographer snapped his photo. If I can get a copy I'll post it. The opening of the pass is a big deal for cyclists and tourists. We've known it to stay closed into July.

Back to my walk: After I turn right and greet the mountains I go one short block and turn left and touch the edge of town before turning back along a different, more commercial route. It's not bucolic or even beautiful but there are still those trees, and this is a short stretch. Soon I'm back onto quiet neighborhood paths and then home again.

It isn't rural France, which will always be my standard, but it's pretty darn good. So your answer, Annette, is "Yes!"

***

A friend in England wrote to say that after reading my review (5/6/12) she borrowed Half the Sky from the library and is reading it now ("emotionally exhausting," she said, and I have to agree). Several others have promised to read it too, and this makes me happy. Yes, it is a tough book. But if those women can live it, you can read it.