The Sounds of Camping, in Time Lapse

Our yearly lakeside camping trip to the rather remote Northeast Kingdom of Vermont is over, but the memories are still ringing in my ears.  

And that’s a good thing.  Because we returned with photographs to see, fresh cheese to taste, souvenirs to touch, and the lingering smell of campfire smoke on my floppy wide brim hat.   The fifth sense though - hearing - that’s where I’m lacking physical post-camping mementos.    

But if I could bottle the sounds, if I could burn a cd from the gray matter hard drive in my skull, here’s what I’d bring home:

5:46 a.m. - It’s very quiet.  So quiet, you can almost hear the backlight fog tendrils rising ghostlike from the geometrically flat lake.  Not a single ripple lapping the boulder strewn shore, just still water giving rise to wisps of vapor.   

6:51 a.m. - The clank of a cast iron pan in the distance – breakfast undoubtedly underway from afar.  

7:29 a.m. - Rustling from inside our pop-up camper.  Then, a giggle.  Then, a sleeping bag unzipping.  Murmurs as our two oldest kids begin chatting about the day to come while the youngest babbles.  Plans for a perfect summer day are drawn.

9:16 a.m. - A loon calls -- one of my favorite sounds of nature and one I will miss when I get back home.  It’s an aptly named bird, with cries similar to that of a raving lunatic.  

10:42 a.m. -  The sound of an axe slicing air followed by a whack as a birch log falls to the ground in two.  Later that evening the same log, fed a spark and plenty of oxygen, will toast a marshmallow to golden perfection under the watchful eye of a sweet toothed kid.   

11:18 a.m. - No longer still, the water surface is a cacophony of the sounds of summer fun.  Kayaks paddling, fishing boats trolling, wakeboarders fighting gravity and celebrating inertia, kids hooting and hollering from the beach across the lake.  

11:37 a.m. – Closer still, the sound of splashing, unbridled laughter, and calls from our kids for Mommy and Daddy to join them in the lake.  We hurry the chores so we can live the moment too.  

12:42 p.m. - The sound of a beer can in my left hand being opened by the right.  Because it’s after 5 p.m. somewhere.

1:08 p.m. - A neighbor yells at his kids, warning them they can’t go in the water until they finish their lunches.  Something about the cost of food these days, and needy kids starving in a third world country. The kids call him mean. I call him a kindred spirit.  

2:41 p.m. - At the next campsite over, country western music emanates from tinny speakers.  The lyrics warn of lonely, drunken, and cash strapped days ahead.  Damn it.  Seems even camping you can’t pick your neighbors. 

4:08 p.m. - The Mrs. and I welcome friends and family over to cocktail hour.  Dips are opened, chips are shared, and lips converse.  I dial up some pub music on the iPod. The noises are just enough to drown out the depressing Toby Keith musical sermon playing next door.

6:24 p.m. - Our dinner triangle clangs, signaling the arrival of camp chow.  The sight of grilled hamburgers and hotdogs brings universal cheer.  The grilled asparagus, however, invokes a loud and sustained dinner table mutiny from those under eight years of age.

7:48 p.m. - The neighbor with the penchant for country western music is also a Red Sox fan.  Over the AM airwaves, faintly, I can make out the pitch - a slider that lands in the dirt.  Dustin Pedroia easily steals second and I am openly happy our neighbor prefers baseball over his musical tastes.   

9:28 p.m. - Scary tales are read in the orange flickering glow of a campfire. Kids listen intently. A creepy rustling in the woods turns out to be nothing more than a mischievous uncle, who will be nowhere around when my middle child wakes up with a nightmare later that night.

9:57 p.m. - First a howl in the distance to the southeast, then a return howl from the northeast.  Coyotes.  The back and forth sounds eerie, yet important - like a communiqué about some potential threat.  Or maybe one wants the power drill back that he let the other borrow.  Who knows?  I’m no Doctor Dolittle. 

10:16 p.m. - More primal sounds... seemingly from the tent across the path.  An animal in distress?  A creature in defensive posture?  Nope, just a neighbor snoring and farting after washing down hot dogs and beans with a 12-pack of Schlitz.  I wonder if Thoreau encountered these sounds at Walden?  

11:02 p.m. - Silence.  Complete and utter, starlit, silence.  

And then it hits me - that’s part of the reason why we’re here.  No cell phone service, no cell phones ringing.  No highways nearby, no sounds of engines racing toward mundane appointments.  No fiber optic cables, no TVs blaring useless noise in the background.    

Just unadulterated, thick silence... well, except for the occasional sounds of loons and beer fueled flatulence.