Episodes
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Itās funny how arrivals can turn into quiet affairs. Like, say, youāre walking along a trail with a friend and you get to a view or a waterfall or something and then slip into quiet. Thatās how Iām feeling with this arrival.
It is the arrival of my first LP, and the sound recording it contains, which both captures and takes inspiration from The Wildwood Trail in Portland, Oregonās Forest Park. To recap, itās a 30 mile linear trail through a 5000+ acre forest in the city. Iāve written quite a lot about it: its magnetism, its quirks, its creation, its history, its wildlife, the volunteers that keep the trails clear, and the art that it inspires. You can read up on it while listening to the forest ambience in every quarter, in my ten part series: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and this one makes 10. Itās virtual forest bathing!
And now, well, here we are. The end of the trail, the launch of the album, and also a new beginning. Itās kind of strange to have an artifact after creating so many soundwalks memorialized only in pixels and a digital ephemera. This is a tactile thing in comparison, and while not as simple to distribute, itās reassuring on some level. It turned out pretty good, if I do say so myself.
Itās really amazing how the material holds the sound. It's all contained in the microscopic ridges of the infinitesimal canyon that spirals along the surface of the vinyl disc. I was curious how long that tiny canyon is, if you stretched it out and measured it, so I turned to Claude to work it out. It obliged my story problem in two seconds and spit out: approximately 3000 meters or 1.86 miles. I donāt know why, but I found that fascinating; picturing the groove like a gossamer ribbon spooling out on the Wildwood Trail itself for nearly 2 miles, shimmering in the wind like a sound wave.
I must pay my respect and gratitude to the kind people at MusicOregonās Echo Fund, and The Portland Office of Arts and Culture. Without an Echo Fund Grant this would not have come to pass. Thank you, Thank you.
And to all of you who are reading this and who have shared moments of my journey or listened to my music, thank you. I hope this finds you well.
Wildwood Trail Soundwalk is available on all music streaming services today June 26th, 2026. Find the limited run LP on Bandcamp.
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It was supposed to be the highlight of our trip.
I spent a few days with my son hiking in the North Cascades last summer. The North Cascades is, according to one YouTuber who titled his video The Most Breathtaking Hike of my Life!, the āAmerican Alpsā.
Itās also one of the least visited National Parks in the US lower 48. It ranks as the second-least, to be precise, after Isle Royale National Park in Michigan, a large island in Lake Superior which requires over 12 hours travel time from the closest major airport. All of this to say, itās a mystery to me why so few people visit the North Cascades.
We saved this hike for our last day, because we were staying on the east side of the range and the hike was on the west side. What we failed to comprehend was the east side forecast calling for clouds meant west side rain. The North Cascades operates like a giant squeegee, scraping the moisture from the cloud layer. And so it was, that the grand vistas of chromatic glacial valleys were replaced by a visibility of 100 feet or so; a blanket of silvery grey.
The hike started at the end of a gravel spur road. The trail was essentially switchback after switchback for over 3 miles, gaining 1,700 feet in elevation as it climbed the SW flank of Sahale Mountain under a conifer canopy. Streams and seeps were alive with water coming down the slope. The canopy was a safe, warm refuge for the birds on that day. They called to each other as we climbed.
I have to say, I was really enjoying the thick fog. The construction of the trail was superb; a nice even climb. The canopy filtered out the fine rain. I focused my attention on the near field wonders. The numerous little waterfalls were vivid landscapes in miniature. The wildflowers and mosses seemed to glow in the visibility deprivation tank.
As we got closer to the exposed ridge traverse the fog thickened and heavy rain began to fall. It felt like we were in the clouds. āEvery cloud has a silver lining,ā according to the Milton poem that birthed the phrase. The metaphor of the bright cloud edge is taken here to mean every negative situation holds positive qualities, so long as you are able to notice them.
We made the call to turn around before the pass, which was only a few hundred yards away.
The experience didnāt match the expectations we set for it, and Iād be lying if I said it wasnāt a disappointment for both of us. Still, it was memorable and special for its dreamlike quality. As the visible was minimized, the audible was maximized; ephemeral, resonant, and enveloping.
Thanks for joining me here. Cascade Pass Rain is available on all music streaming services today June 5th, 2026. Also, the first two singles from my vinyl LP release Wildwood Trail Soundwalk are also out and available to stream. Find the limited run LP only on Bandcamp. (20% off pricing is extended through release day, June 26) Lastly, I posted Part 7 from my in-depth series on the Wildwood Trail a few days ago. So long for now!
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I alluded to a crop of urban soundwalk and soundscape recordings on the way a few weeks ago with Amsterdam Dawn. Weāre still easing in with another Listening Spot treatment: a musical suite in conversation with a continuous environmental sound recording. This is Paris during an evening summer rain.
Itās a vignette, recorded from a 5th floor room in the 3rd arrondissement. Just over 6 minutes long. The composition resembles the series of mini albums I offered up last year as Sleeping Animal. The Pianet electric piano meanders its way along, creating a scaffolding for various washes and textures.
Something about the drips in the foreground and sizzle of puddles in the narrow street below are soothing.
Paris Rain is available under the artist name Listening Spot on all streaming platforms Friday, May 8th, 2026.
Thanks for reading and listening!
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We are back at Tahoma / Mount Rainier this week for another soundwalk. These hikes were made in June, 2024, on a weekend father and son getaway. The recordings were edited to focus on the natural soundscape (but you can make out four feet scuffling along the trail at certain points.)
Iāve always felt a strong pull to Tahoma, having hiked around it on the Pacific Crest Trail in August, 1994. It snowed that August in the higher elevations; the biggest, wettest snowflakes Iāve ever seen and felt in my entire life. It snowed and rained for three days, and it was all I could do to keep my down sleeping bag dry. I was soaked. Itās one reason my experience of the mountain was so dreamlike. I sensed it, but I didnāt really see it. So it goes with mountains, and so it was that I was eager to see it and experience it with my son, thirty years later.
We arrived late in the day. Skies were clear and the sunās rays bathed the alpine meadow in golden light. The southeastern face of the mountain loomed over our shoulder as we climbed the trail to a picturesque bench. Birds were singing their hearts out. Western Warbling Vireo, Hermit Thrush, Fox Sparrow, Pine Siskin, Townsendās Warbler, Yellow-rumped Warblerā¦. We had a snack there, and I set my recording hat 25 feet away to soak up the soundscape.
Bench Lake sat below us; its placid crystal clear water reflecting the subalpine setting. Both Bench and Snow Lakes sit in a cirqueāa giant amphitheater with the mountain at one endāthat was formed over time by glacial erosion. This amphitheater effect, I think, can be discerned in the birdsong; almost like they chose the spot to amplify their crooning.
Listening back, Iām struck at how the creekāUnicorn Creekāhas the same urgent sound of Comet Falls; that wideband shhh of a young creek coursing through steep, boulder-strewn valleys. Such great names here.
Approaching Snow Lake, the creek slowed as it moved through a shaded gully where snow still covered the trail. It was like something from a movie, painted in blue tones of snow reflecting the evening sky.
We scrambled down to a boulder at the edge of Snow Lake and ate M&Ms. Snow Lake was quiet and so were we.
Since then, my son has grown. Instead of two inches shorter, he is now at least two inches taller than me. In the time since, heās also made significant progress on the piano, and is now composing songs that sound to me like they could have been written by the artists we both admire: Dustin OāHalloran, Joep Beving, Sergio Diaz De Rojasā¦
Itās almost like life has been speeding up. The pace of change is dramatic. And yet I look at myself in the mirror, and I see the same person, with lines slightly more drawn. My changes are largely hidden from view, my advances scarcely measurable. People make pronouncements about how one decade of life will feel compared to anotherāas if we move through them all the same. āMake memories,ā they say, as if itās just that easy.
Thanks for coming along. As always Snow Lake Soundwalk is available on all music streaming services today, May 1, 2026.
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Comet Falls is on the south side of Tahoma (Mount Rainier) offering a nice four mile roundtrip hike, perfect for a day when the mountain is socked-in. Itās one of the most impressive falls that Iāve hiked to, dropping about 320 feet (98 m) in a vertical plunge from a hanging valley into a pretty subalpine canyon.
Iāve mentioned this before, but I think waterfalls rarely translate the way youād hope they would in sound. Theyāre so dazzling to look at, and itās exhilarating to feel the rush of wind and spray near the bottom, but not all that interesting to listen to, it turns out. They kind of sound like FM radio static: Shhh. Most of them anyway. And alas, Comet Falls is no remarkable exception on that score.
And so it goes most any waterfall may be more sonogenic when captured in a soundwalk format, as this captures a dimensionality that isnāt conveyed in a fixed point recording.
The hike to Comet Falls follows Van Trump Creek through the canopy and along hillside openings with talus slopes, where you might find Pika (sounding a high-pitched peep). The wildlife was subdued under the grey sky on this day. Varied Thrush, Dark-eyed Junco, and Pacific Wren can be heard to the attentive listener in headphones, but this is mostly a water soundwalk. Our journey takes us to the waterfall viewpoint and follows a return path for a couple minutes.
Another thing about waterfall sound: unless you get really close (like next to water splattering on rocks) itās difficult to discern when you are āthereā.
This is another composition where Iām keeping to the low octaves of a particularly sonorous electric piano. (It would not sound good on a phone speaker.) I do this to preserve listening space for all the water and wildlife frequencies, and also because I just like the dark (as opposed to bright) vibe for this one.
Iāve always thought that a waterfall walk would make an interesting canvas for a super-minimal synth score for droning synth pads and very slowly morphing pitches and timbres, mirroring the manifold sound of the waterfallās creek outlet. This is not that, exactly. Though it occasionally goes there, itās more melodic and approachable. Written in a D minor, the composition evokes the cloudy sky and the slow climb through the valley. The harmonics are ponderous, peppered as they are with sustained second chords, and textured with organ washes and soft, flutey synth pads.
Thanks for reading and listening. Comet Falls Soundwalk is available on all music streaming services tomorrow April 10th, 2026.
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On many a post Iāve told a story about how I found a spot somewhere, that despite being within an urban area, sounded as if it might be in the deep woods. As a practical matter this tends to rely on geologic and erosive forces creating canyons and acoustic gullies of one sort or the other. While I find this sort of thing interesting, Iām mindful it doesnāt spark other peoples imaginations quite like my own. So, it is with some reluctance that I advance this line of thinking yet again, but with a twist. Bear with me.
One thing that is not abundant along the Netherlands coastline are hills, canyons, and gullies. Itās for this reason, the bicycle is embraced as a primary form of transportation for many (maybe most) people. Amsterdam is alive with cyclists in part because the flat landscape is so conducive to cycling. And, because more trips are made via bicycle, the inner city does not pulse with automobile traffic sounds in the same way that a hilly, post-industrial city might. San Fransisco, for example. Or wherever.
All of this is background to presenting to you today the first of many soundscape and soundwalk recordings that embrace anthropogenic sounds (alongside the wildlife sounds) in these urban environments. Consider this an easing-in.
We are getting our feet wet, so to speak, in the Oud Zuid district of Amsterdam, alongside the Noorder Amstelkanaal, as the city wakes up, on a summer day. Sirens mix with songbirds in a strangely musical way. Overall, though, itās astonishingly quiet. The buildings and canals form an engineered canyon, of sorts.
Itās well known that travel can spark a person to reconsider assumptions; to make new associations. I guess that can be said of my travels in Europe last summer, leading me to re-evaluate my approach to making environmental recordings. In some ways the cities sounded familiar to the one I call home. In others, quite distinct. On the whole, I was able to find new appreciation for these city sounds in general, hearing them with fresh ears.
There is a futility in attempting to record soundscapes free of any anthropogenic sound. Our noisy machines routinely puncture the soundscapes of even the most remote locations. It comes as a relief to me, therefore, to chart a new course that embraces the totality of sound, with less rigidity.
Amsterdam Dawn is available under the artist name Listening Spot on all streaming platforms tomorrow, Friday, April 3rd, 2026. Thank you for meeting me here; for listening and reading. Thereās a lot to read and hear in this modern world. Iām grateful for your interest in my little corner.
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Traveling around, Iāve become aware of how Pacific Northwest rain is different from rain patterns in other regions of the US. Take Texas, for example. Texas rain pours. Houses donāt have gutters there, presumably because they canāt engineer them large enough to accommodate the deluges reliably. Storm water infrastructure is three times the size of what I see around here. In contrast, Oregon rain is persistent. Drizzle can last for days. Itās kind of like the tortoise and the hare, I guess.
This soundscape was recorded in Forest Park last year around this time, on a dead-end, unnamed trail that doesnāt see a lot of use, but nonetheless features a sturdy old bench. It is a pretty sweet listening spot for this reason, and this particular time slice offers a pretty accurate sound portrait of our soft rain. Our soft power.
Did you know that the Pacific Temperate Rainforestāa bioregion extending from the northern California redwoods to the coastal forests along the gulf of Alaskaācan pack more carbon per acre than a tropical rainforest like the Amazon?
The Pacific Temperate Rainforest is the second-most dense biomass repository and carbon sink in the world (bested only by the Eucalyptus regnans forests of Victoria and Tasmania, Australia) and itās what gives our Pacific Northwest rain its unique character (and sound). The Pacific Temperate Rainforest operates like a giant lung. Just as a lung draws in air, extracts what's vital, and releases what the body needs to stay alive, the Pacific Temperate Rainforest breathes on a continental scale, pulling carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere and locking it away in massive old-growth trunks, roots, and the deep organic soils beneath them, while exhaling oxygen and releasing moisture that cycles inland as rain. The forest doesn't just store carbon passively; it actively pumps water vapor into the atmosphere, seeding clouds and feeding rivers that sustain salmon, which in turn fertilize the forest floor when they die. Itās a closed loop where nothing is wasted.
Spring Shower is available under the artist name Listening Spot on all streaming platforms Friday, March 20th, 2026. Iāve made it available here in its entirety with the idea it might be useful.
Thanks for reading and listening!
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This is a story about a trail called Nature Trail. At the heart of the story is a simple question: What is nature for? Feel free to click play above to listen to the soundscape of Nature Trail as we ponder this question.
Nature Trail was built in the 1960ās in the interior of the roughly 5,000-acre nature park that had been dedicated 20 years prior, but received little attention in the way of development. Indeed, the most newsworthy question in those early years seemed to be what should we call it? In 1957, a call for suggestionsāperhaps favoring something more showy than the functional, socially adopted name, The Forest Parkāyielded many (Skyline, Tualatin, Wildwood, Tualatin Mountainā¦) but the de-facto name won the day. Officially, āPortlandās Forest Parkā was favored by one vote over āSkyline Forest Parkā. The āPortlandāsā part never seemed to really catch on.
Actually, the biggest changes to the park, to this day, came in response to a 1951 fire that burned over 1200 acres in the center of it. Fifteen emergency access fire lanes were constructed in the early 1950ās, broadly perpendicular to the slope of the Tualatin Mountains, like rungs on a ladder.
What was nature for in the 1950ās? Accessible nature was becoming scarce. The public wanted protections from both development and the threat posed by wildfire.
These fire lanes likely became informal points of entry for the park users in the early years. A network of hiking trails was modest: around 10 miles in total, on the southern end in 1960. Today there are over 80 miles of trails.
What was nature for in 1960? A refuge to visit and admire via trails and lanes.
Today, Nature Trail still harbors subtle clues to its origins Thereās an old steel pole gate and concrete bollards covered by so much moss they could pass for stumps at the end of Fire Lane 1. It all appears quite out of place in the quiet interior of Forest Park. Nearby there is a meadow-like ridge with a couple weathered picnic tables.
Starting in the late 60ās and running for about two decades or so, this was the drop zone for thousands of children in a campaign to foster a connection with nature, formalized in 1968.
A rare 1968 publication in the Library Use Only stacks of Multnomah County Library holds the key to understanding Nature Trail: Portlandās Forest Park Nature Trail was a 32-page interpretive guide authored by Oregon Outdoor Education Councils as informal curriculum for a generation of school children. Fifty-two markers on Nature Trail were keyed to entries in the guide. Midway through the trail was a shelter, bathroom and campfire area. Bus drop off and pickup areas were located on each end.
What was nature for in 1968? Nature was a common good. It was a living lab for learning about the interconnectedness of plants, animals and humans, as stated in the booklet introduction:
If you are quiet and observant, you may see some of the animals that live here.
The forest community is a living area of plants and animals. It has many parts. Some tall plants shade everything on the ground. Under these grow the medium size and the small ground plants. Part of the forest community is the soil and the many organisms that live in the ground. It is the animals that live in the forest. It is the water that comes from the forest. The forest community is many more things. (Portlandās Forest Park Nature Trail, 1968)
Mind you, this was all designed and implemented a couple years before Earth Day made its debut. A 1970 Oregonian article about Nature Trail noted the large coalition involvedā the Park Bureau, Multnomah County schools, U.S. Forest Service, Oregon State Game Commission, Industrial Forestry Association, and others. Much of the trail building for Nature Trail was done by the Neighborhood Youth Corps, employing low-income urban teenagers in public works projects. It all took coordination and vision. Precisely who the masterminded Nature Trail isnāt easily discerned, but there is little doubt Thornton T. Munger was a galvanizing force from the late 40ās into the 60ās, inspiring people to work together, while advancing principles of conservation and education in the nascent Forest Park.
Mungerās own connection to nature can be traced back to growing up next to an eighteen-acre natural area called Hillhouse Woods in North Adams, Massachusetts, which fostered his lifelong interest in forests. In 1908 he was hired by the US Forest Service, and trained under Gifford Pinchot, who between 1905 and 1910 oversaw a rapid expansion, roughly tripling the number of National Forests and acreage. In his retirement, Munger chaired the Committee of Fifty, convincing city leaders to designate the lands as a nature park. The committee eventually became the Forest Park Conservancy, that to this day provide a Nature Education Program with free public events, organize volunteers, raise money, and conduct community outreach.
In 1960, Mungerāin collaboration with C. Paul Keyserāwrote a 32 page report entitled The History of Portlandās Forest Park. In Part IV A Look Ahead, they write,
In a few years nearly a million people will be living within a few miles of the Forest Park. Residences will crowd about it on three sides and industry will dominate its eastern edges. ā¦There will be pressure to widen the roads, to straighten the curves, to pave, to build more roads. This should be resisted, for this āwilderness within a cityā is not a place for speeding motorists; here there should be no need for haste. ...Here within city limits will be a continuous forest 7Ā½ miles long. The roads and trails will be under over-arching trees, varying from virgin forest with giants up to 8 feet in diameter, to thrifty second-growth stands of tall Douglas fir.
What was nature for in the 1960ās and beyond?
* To provide facilities that will afford extensive nearby outdoor recreation for the people and attract tourists.
* To beautify the environs of Portland.
* To provide food, cover, and a sanctuary for wildlife
* To provide a site on which youth and other groups may carry on educational projects.
* To grow timber which will in time yield an income and provide a demonstration forest.
That last point became contentious within a couple decades. Limited timber harvests were being recommended by the committee up until 1975, when the Portland Parks superintendent, facing environmentalist pressure, ruled out selective logging as part of over-all park management.
What was nature for in 1975? Forest Park was closer to becoming a quasi-wilderness area, protected from all resource harvesting. (The Forest Park Rock Quarry lease was terminated in 1979.) Fire suppression remained a primary concern, though seasonal manned fire lookouts were by then retired.
So when and why did the Nature Trail program dissolve? Itās not clear when, and I can only speculate on why. For starters, interior access roads around the park were closed to motor vehicles sometime in the 1980ās. Therefore, any bus passage would have been met with more friction. The built elements of Nature Trail would have been approaching their expected lifespan: numbered posts would be weathered and broken, the shelter roof would have by then become what we now call a āliving roofā: an ecosystem of duff, mosses and seedlings. Beyond that, the environmentalist awakening of the 1970s met a formidable obstacle with the Reagan administration of the 1980s.
So where are we now? What is nature for in 2026? In the pendulum swing of US politics we are lurching back to the 80ās mindset. Environmental protections are being systematically dismantled by the current administration in naked collusion with the fossil fuel industry. āDrill baby drill,ā is one of the presidentās most cherished rally cries.
When I think back to my childhood in primary school, my most vivid memories are of when either someone visited the classroom, or the class took a field trip. I distinctly remember going to a site to hunt for fossils. I vividly remember Outdoor School; basically an overnight camp experience for sixth graders. Perhaps thatās what really replaced Nature Trail: the significant expansion of its objectives with Outdoor School.
The first large scale implementation of Outdoor School in Oregon occurred in 1966, serving 500 students. The program grew steadily for decades, but faced budget pressures over the years as schools cut extracurricular spending. In 2016, Ballot Measure 99 saved and expanded it, setting aside Oregon Lottery funds to provide Outdoor School for every one of Oregon's 50,000 fifth and sixth graders, passing with over 67% of the vote. While other states have more modest programs or aspirations, this guaranteed entitlement is unique to Oregon.
Perhaps more than any point in the last 50 years, US leaders have adopted an aggressively extractive attitude toward nature. For Oregonians, the 67% vote for Measure 99 was its own kind of answer to the question Nature Trail was posing back in 1968.
May in Forest Park is peak birdsong time. My score is electric piano centeredāI love the deep tones of this one. Itās naive and minimal as per usual.
Thanks for reading and listening. Nature Trail is available on all music streaming services today, March 13th, 2026.
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Olympic National Park is the 8th most visited National Park in the US. About 95% of the park is roadless and designated wilderness, making it one of the most wild and undeveloped parks in the entire National Park system. Many of these most-visited parks have a significant road footprint, which makes much of their interior accessible. In contrast, Olympic National Park is largely one big wilderness, absent of roads. There are highways encircling it, and a few spur roads reaching in a few miles, but none passing through the interior.
Dosewallips River Trail is the remains of one such spur road that washed out in 2002. The road reroute/repair proved too costly, and so has added to the relative inaccessibility of the canyon.
When paired with the East Fork Quinault River Trail, this makes an enticing 35-mile multi-day backpack traverse through Enchanted Valley in the southern interior of the park.
The Enchanted Valley offers lush old-growth rainforests, towering mountains with countless waterfalls, and an iconic chalet, nestled in an absolutely stunning valley.
This soundwalk barely scratches the surface of the wilderness soundscape that awaits the visitor here, but itās an appealing teaser. In these lower reaches, small wetlands thrive, fed by creeks coming down the mountain, making for ideal frog habitat.
Trilliums burst through the resplendent mosses found here.
A Great Blue Heron perches above a creek channel.
The name Dosewallips derives from a Twana Indian myth about a man named Dos-wail-opsh who was turned into a mountain at the river's source. Twana is the umbrella term for nine bands of Coast Salish groups that lived around Hood Canal, the largest being the Skokomish. As with so many tribes of the Pacific Northwest, a defining conflict the Skokomish faced over the last century was the salmon fishery collapse.
The ironically-named 1855 Treaty of Point No Point established a roughly 5000-acre reservation at the Skokomish River delta for the Twana bands, roughly 30 miles south of where the Dosewallips meets the Hood Canal, part of the Salish Sea. The 1920ās-era Cushman Dam projects on the North Fork of the Skokomish not only blocked fish passage to the upper river, they also removed the water from the river, tunneled it through a mountain, and dumped it directly into Hood Canal. From 1930 to 2008 the North Fork of the Skokomish ran nearly dry. Because lower river flows no longer flushed sediment and debris in the lower river, it caused a devastating pattern of flooding in the Skokomish valley where two-thirds of the Skokomish Reservation is within the floodplain.
After decades of legal struggle, the tribe reached a settlement in 2009 with Tacoma Power that resulted in a 2010 amendment to the damās federal license. This restored about 40% of natural river flows and gave the tribe joint management authority. The river now has considerably more water, a salmon restoration effort is in place on the North Fork, and the delta benefits from increased flows. Still, itās just the first step toward restoration. The Skokomish valley is still flood-prone after 80 years of sediment aggradation, and the fish passage solutions are as yet underperforming.
So, what does this have to do with listening to the sounds of the Dosewallips River? For me, listening to a place just naturally arouses my curiosity. Who is making the sound? Why is it called Dosewallips? Who named it? Where are they now? What will I find upriver, downriver? How will the sound change? How has it changed over time?
That the mountain, river, and tribe were named after a mythical chief who was transformed into a mountain tells us something about a worldview tied to the language, where the landscape itself is imbued with not only personhood, but ancestry. Twana people viewed the river not as a resource, the land not as property, but as a living entity, as family. Coast Salish people spoke of animals with a similar non-hierarchical framing. Salmon were seen as gift-bearing relatives.
This was such a departure from the Euro-American worldview it was, and is, both hard to grasp and easy to dismiss. With the benefit of hindsight, though, itās worth questioning how the English language encodes a worldview that can lead to short-sighted outcomes.
My score for the Dosewallips soundwalk is very relaxed and minimal; just four instrument voices in all. I drew inspiration from the frog choruses. Itās unusual for me to rest on an undulating single chord arpeggio for several minutes, but thatās what felt right for āPart 7, Frog Chorusā.
Now that I know a little more about the area, Iām eager to make a return. Thanks for reading and listening. Dosewallips Soundwalk is available on all music streaming services today, February 13th, 2026.
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When I first heard a radio piece about Mt. Tabor Park being awarded Americaās first Urban Quiet Park I have to admit I was incredulous. Donāt get me wrong, Iām all for it, but of all the parks I visit to make field recordings in the Portland area, this one might be the most frustrating. That is, if youāre hoping to get away from anthropogenic soundsāpeople and their machines.
It was just last October that I introduced you to Mt. Tabor (if you werenāt already acquainted.)
I described it as a āisland of green in a patchwork of grey.ā And so it is: all 176 acres of it. The deal with mountains, though, is they only give the listener more acoustic vantage as you venture further up and in. There are few folds in the parkās contours, so getting out of earshot of boulevards pulsing with machine energy and airplanes raining down sound waves on approach to PDX, just 5 miles to the north, is nearly impossible. Itās also a well-loved, well-used park. Runners and cyclists breathe heavy scaling its slopes. People talk. On phones. It is not packed on a weekday, but it sure isnāt lonely either. All this sound energy is not a bad thing, donāt get me wrong, but why the first urban quiet park in the US? This is an exemplar?
Itās all about framing isnāt it? I mean yeah, you walk up the mountain and thereās downtown looking like a diorama set against the green West Hills. It looks quiet. It seems quiet. Quiet is so slippery, so subjective.
Maybe itās the signal-to-noise ratio of the near field soundscapeāof being able to key in on small sounds because the background noise is just a washāthat lends itself to the perception of quiet. When you can hear little birds, with their little bird-whisper sounds.
Or rain. Yes, rain with its crowd-suppressing effect; it makes the park seem quieter. Rain and wind in the trees masks the city din. Like passing through a veil, moving through the rain can feel transportive. It sounds a sizzle on the reservoirs, a diffused and hushed drum circle played on millions of leaves.
But still, the first quiet urban park in the whole of the USA? I love the sentiment, but the logic seemed imprecise. Unearned, even.
And then a few weeks ago, on a Wednesday, I went up there for a walk. Something was different. The gate to one of several lanes leading to one of several parking areas was locked shut. āPark Closed to Vehicles on Wednesdayā a sign read. I donāt remember this. Is this new?
Then a thought occurred to me: maybe this is why itās the first urban quiet park. Maybe it is earned. After all, cordoning off whole interior parking lots, even one day a week is sure to rankle some folks. This is what intention looks like, I thought. This is a place that, at least on Wednesdays, sounds different. Measurably quieter. It came with a cost. People canāt vroom in and out. They have to enter from the perimeter and use good old-fashioned human power to move through it.
Mt. Tabor Park, Iām sorry I ever doubted you.
But how long has this been going on? A while, it seems. According to a 2013 article, which references the closure policy, itās been well over a decade; so long even the internet doesnāt know.
I love it when the internetāand AI, when itās not hallucinatingā doesnāt know something. Thatās when I let my fingers do the walking through the maze of research tools the Multnomah County Library provides: not quite microfiche, but as close to it as digital gets.
Could the policy go back to the 1980ās? Conceivably. In a bulletin of Matters to be Considered by City Council, the Apr. 6, 1981 Oregonian references āan ordinance authorizing Parks to install 5 traffic control gates in Mt. Tabor Parkā up for consideration. I found no events programmed for the park on a Wednesday thereafter, save for Audubon bird walks embarking from a perimeter entrance in 2006.
If it goes back that far, what really motivated no-vehicle-Wednesdays? Was a day of peace and quiet? Wilderness-in-the-city-Wednesdays? Iād like to think so.
On several spring and summer Wednesday nights, however the quiet park is jolted to life. Established in 2020, Mount Tabor Dance Community (aka MTDC or Tabor Dance) saw another role that the closure policy could lend itself to in summertime: Insulating their outdoor music-fueled events from the dense neighborhoods of SE Portland, while also minimizing potential conflicts of park users. Tracing its roots to the pandemic and dancing in chalk circles drawn for distancing, the event grew over the years to draw crowds in the hundreds. Last spring and summer MTDC started again at Mt. Tabor, then hopped around to at least five other Portland parks, making good on the motto āPortland is our dance floor.ā
My score for Mt. Tabor Rain Soundwalk is very gauzy: mostly languorous synth pads and drones. Electric piano only enters the instrumentation in the final third of the recording. Thatās my favorite moment; a tender melody receding into the blue-grey distance.
Thanks, my friends, for reading and listening. Mt. Tabor Rain Soundwalk is available on all music streaming services on January 16th, 2026.
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And so we start again. Happy New Year everyone!
I picked this album to coincide with the new year because the field recording it is built on is, to me, a kind of tonic. It pulses with the sound of distant surf, wildlife, and a spring rain shower.
Recorded on April 10th last year at Agnes Creek Open Space, a 57 acre woodland in the heart of Lincoln City, Oregon, this soundscape features the low din of the ocean, the ebullient Pacific Wren, and a very nice ensemble of Varied Thrush adding their ethereal single-note song. In the distance we hear cheerful American Robins and Song Sparrows. In time, a Purple Finch and a Douglasā squirrel take positions in the soundstage. Mixed flocksābushtits and Chestnut-backed Chickadees primarilyāpass through. It sounds like a thriving habitat, but it was not always this way.
The area was clear-cut in the 1960s. After that, it regenerated naturally, resulting in a very dense thicket of young conifers that became draped with invasive species. By 2000, when the city purchased the property with funds from an open space acquisition bond, it was overgrown and trash-strewn.
In 2013 the city conducted a selective forest thinning project, which improved forest health, and provided wood chips for a new loop trail. In 2016 a ribbon cutting ceremony celebrated carved benches and a footbridge created by local groups.
This environmental recording serves as a testament to the forces of both neglect and attention to create renewal. Yes, neglect. Donāt we all have issues we donāt tend to? We make resolutions and then fail to act on them. Sometimes thatās just a necessary step in natural rejuvenation, creating the necessary conditions for real transformation.
My composition takes cues from the low moan of the surf, with a variety of sampled and synthesized instrument voices selected to preserve space in the higher frequencies for the wildlife.
Coastal Forest is available under the artist name Listening Spot on all streaming platforms Friday, January 2nd, 2026. Iāve made it available here in its entirety with the idea it might be somehow useful. Thanks for reading and listening. And, again, may the promise of a fresh new year be a boon to us all!
Thanks for reading Soundwalk! This post is public so feel free to share it.
ps. For a deeper dive from, see also Field Report Vol 26: Nelscott by Chad Crouch available on all-but-one streaming services.
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Hi Everyone. How are we? Are you OK? Iām OK. Iām just really grateful to be able to do this: to walk, listen, make music. To share it here. Itās a dream gig, really.
So for starters today, I think we should discuss the weird name of this weekās soundwalk. It comes from a log cabin built in 1907, as the first administrative site in the Olympic National Forest. Ranger Emery J. Finch constructed it for his bride Mabel, and they moved in on April 22, 1908. Word has it he chose the spot for a nearby fishing hole, which came to be known as Ranger Hole. But the name, recorded in early years as āNo. 27 Interrorem Administrative Site,ā remains something of a mystery. This rustic cabin is still standing proud, near the SE border of the park, and you can even book a stay for $58/night in the near future.
āInterroremā is latin. Itās law jargon for a legal threat, meant to compel compliance without resorting to a lawsuit or prosecution. Itās basically what a cease and desist letter attempts to accomplish, and it is undoubtedly a primary objective of any ranger: to convey authority over a domain. It is not however, a term that would often enter the lexicon of an early 20th century ranger. Itās difficult to imagine Emery saying to Mabel, after putting his whipsaw and adze to rest, āThis will be our home, dear. Weāll call it Interrorem.ā
Some say it was a scrambling of the less fussy word āinterim.ā Seems like weāll never know. The important thing for this story is that the trail I walked for this soundwalk is basically the same path Ranger Emery J. Finch wore into the once-primeval forest to go down to the Duckabush River fishing hole he prized.
The cabin itself is surrounded by Big Leaf Maple trees in a clearing, giving way along the trail to western hemlock, Douglas-fir, and western red cedar. The Olympic National Forest is famous for its temperate rain forests, and while this watershed may not see the 130ā of annual rainfall the famous Hoh Valley does, it too is a mossy wonderland.
On this rainy day soundwalk we are greeted in the beginning by Varied Thrush, before the woodland seems to envelop the visitor in quiet. As the rain lets up a little, we hear Golden-crowned Kinglets and trailside rivulets before the surging Duckabush River comes into the fore. Clocking in at 19 minutes, itās on the shorter side, but long enough to relax me into slumberland.
This is just a taste of whatās to come. Weāll hear more soundscapes from Olympic National Park in 2026! Thank you, as always, for joining me here, and for listening.
Interrorem Soundwalk is available on all music streaming services on December 12th, 2025.
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The view from Morgan Lake looks more like Montana than Oregon to me. Itās big sky country.
Just 10 minutes up a gravel road from the eastern Oregon city of La Grande, Morgan Lake is mysteriously a world apart. From its shores you see only rolling prairie giving way to distant mountains. Situated on a ridge, Morgan and its sibling Twin Lake have an implacable mirage-like quality. The surrounding topographyāthe absence of enfolding contoursādoesnāt readily explain their presence. There is no incoming stream to feed them. Subterranean springs pump water from an active aquifer hidden below.
I found myself on the lake shore on a breezy March Saturday. People were fishing nearby. The wind billowed through the Ponderosa Pine canopy. An osprey occasionally called out. Nuthatches passed through. Later on, White-throated Sparrows sing in the quiet, followed by a wayfaring Winter Wren.
As Iāve shared in the past, I like to program my releases in batches. This is the last in a trilogy located in the Pacific Northwest, east of the Cascade Range. Itās lodgepole and ponderosa pine country. Once again, the main character in this soundscape is the mesmerizing whisper of the wind in the pines. This particular day was dynamic; the breeze ebbed and flowed. Occasionally it howled.
The arrangement is super sparse. Honestly it would likely fail as a piece of music without the wind. The ratio of solos to duets is about 50/50. Most of my arrangements are comprised of at least duets, most of the time. I think I was responding to the sense of loneliness I felt in the physical space. The chord progression is progressive. Each part adds another chord and more harmonic complexity. There is a touch of minor color, which sounds a little unsettling. Though it was recorded in early spring, it strikes me as a wintry listen. I hope you enjoy it.
Morgan Lake is available under the artist name Listening Spot on all streaming platforms today Friday, December 5th, 2025.
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Dear Reader,
In this Thanksgiving season, I just wanted to take a moment to express gratitude Iāve been feeling for three people here on Substack that I admire, and who have helped me to connect with a bunch of you.
Carson Ellis Carson is a busy artist / illustrator and childrenās book author, but when I asked her for her take on Substack almost two years ago she emailed back the same day with a 600 word email. At some point between then and now she added Soundwalk to the recommendations that appear in the sidebar of her newsletter, Slowpoke. In the interim nearly one in five of my subscribers found me through her! That knocked my socks off. Itās a testament to the naturally curious people that gravitate to her and her amazing work. Three cheers for Carson Ellis!
Rowen Brooke I was immediately curious about Rowenās fast-growing newsletter, Field Notes, from its title. Her posts relate her observations, challenges and insights in pursuit of becoming both a regenerative flower farmer & florist and aspiring naturalist. Her recent posts indicate a measured advance toward the latter, given the sensory detail emerging in her writing. Rowenās past recommendation of Soundwalk points to nearly one in ten subscribers finding me through Field Notes. Thanks Rowen!
Colin Meloy Colin is the frontman for The Decemberists, the author of many books, and is married to Carson Ellis. Youād be forgiven for thinking he couldnāt possibly sound like his writing in real life, given his ability to weave in some impressive and uncommon vocabulary words in his newsletter, Colin Meloyās Machine Shop, but Iām here to tell you that he does. He writes like he talks, folks. Colin slipped Soundwalk into a little list he worked up for the official guest-authored compendium The Substack Post halfway through 2024. I recollect my subscriber count jumped by well over 100 overnight! A generous inclusion, to be sure. Thanks Meloy!
It really underscores how meaningful word-of-mouth is to someone like me. If youāre reading this and found me through a recommendation, feel free to let me know with a ālikeā or comment below.
On to this weekās soundwalk. Last week I shared a recording made at Natural Bridges in Washington, a site with two rock bridges spanning a rock-jumbled ravine. The bridges were the remnants of a lava tube cave ceiling, created 12,000 to 18,000 years ago. A few miles away, another complex of lava tubes known as Guler Ice Cave(s) remain intact.
These caves, once commercialized for their ability keep ice and preserve harvested crops by one Christian Guler, are easily accessed today, though exploring them extensively requires crawling through cold, dark, tight passages.
My recording is centered on the main cave mouth that is pictured above. Once again you hear that marvelous wind in the pines (which appeared in the previous two recordings) juxtaposed against a constellation of drips, plinks and plops in the foreground.
My composition pulls from complimentary instrument voices: the sweep of a dobro-derived synth pads; the resonance of low end stringed instruments; the percussive twinkle of a Dulcitone celeste; the shimmer of a percolating āswarmā synth pad. Itās all designed to mirror the tonality of the cave entrance environment.
Strains of Pine Siskin and Dark-eyed Junco filter in.
This is a short, textural audio postcard. I hope you enjoy it. Ice Cave is available under the artist name Listening Spot on all streaming platforms today Friday, November 21st, 2025.
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Itās a Substack exclusive!
Natural Bridges was on the shorter side (11:34) so I didnāt slate it for a wide release. I hadnāt even listened to it for over four months, until a few days ago. It surprised me how good it was: how transportive, how intertwined, how gentle, how concise.
This all brings to mind the subject of confidence in artistry. A few years ago, when I was just beginning my explorations in environmental musicāand while explaining what Iād been up to lately at a wedding receptionāI decided to try on a few words: Iām the best at it.
My logic was this: being the best at something almost nobody does is really pretty easyāan absurdist boastāso why not frame it that way? Why not project seriousness with a touch of humor? (This was well before my stats on the leading streaming service increased, by the way, so it wasnāt any kind of posturing based on numbers.) Isnāt it what every artist secretly wants: to be the best at what they do?
So I said, āI make soundwalks. I record the sound of my walk and compose instrumental music to go with it. Iām the best at it.ā
I scanned the table for responses. I was surrounded by musicians who were all more skilled than me, incidentally. I saw some thin smiles, but overall a muted response. Usually when Iām uncomfortable, I immediately follow up with a qualifying remark, but I was determined to let this linger. Then a friend I admire said something along the lines of, āI donāt knowā¦ the best, huh?ā like he was challenging me to a soundwalk duel, or at least like he imagined I would go down pretty easily in a soundwalk duel. It was delivered like a line at a poker table. I couldnāt tell if it was casual or calculated, or both. In that moment, though, I decided that the bravado didnāt suit me. I laughed it off and switched the subject. The exchange helped me realize I donāt need to, or want to be the best. Being the best is defending a title. Itās not motivating, itās not authentic. Itās conflict, itās worry, itās stress. No thanks.
But, Iām okay going on the record that this 11 minutes, 34 seconds of audio is good. In fact, maybe itās the best 11:34 of environmental music I presently have to offer.
Natural Bridges is a geological curiosity and a short hiking destination in Gifford Pinchot National Forest in SW Washington state. The ānatural bridgeā features are the remnants of a lava tube cave ceiling that collapsed, created during lava flows 12,000-18,000 years ago. The site is in a quiet region of mountain prairies, lakes and coniferous forests.
Natural Bridges is only available (for the foreseeable future) to paid subscribers. Soundwalk is a reader-supported publication. Thank you for reading and listening. And, thank you for your support!
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One thing I think you come to appreciate after some months or years of field recording, or intentional listening, is the variability of sound that conifers make when played by the wind.
Where I live, Iām surrounded by conifers. Douglas-firs abound. They produce a sharp sound in the wind, occasionally what you might call a hiss. Just an hour to the east, beyond the crest of the Cascade Range, a more arid landscape plays host to ponderosa pine trees. The wind on their needles is quite different. Because their needles are flexible and bundled together, they sway and brush against each other in waves, producing a softer sound. More of a shush. Words fail me here. You just have to listen.
This recording captures the song of the pines as a backdrop for the birds that make this habitat their home.
We hear Western Wood Pewee, Pine Siskin, American Goldfinch, Hairy Woodpecker, White-crowned sparrow, American Robin, Red-breasted Nuthatch, and California Quailāto name namesāon a mild June evening near Glenwood, Washington.
But what is it about ponderosa pine trees that they produce such a sonorous sound? According to field recordist Gordon Hempton, the pitch is a function of the length of the needle or blade of grass.
āWe can go back to the writings of John Muir, which ā he turned me on to the fact that the tone, the pitch, of the wind is a function of the length of the needle or the blade of grass. So the shorter the needle on the pine, the higher the pitch; the longer, the lower the pitch.ā
-Gordon Hempton, recordist
While that sounds plausible and is certainly memorable, itās not the whole story. Itās not just about length; stiffness, density, bundling, and flexibility all matter too. All the complexity of the canopy structure goes into the sound. The turbulence of the wind moving between needles, branches and trunks, and the brushing of the needles against each other all plays a role.
Take a guitar string; the string is fixed at both ends and vibrates at specific frequencies determined by its length, tension, and mass. Needles are only fixed at one end, so theyāre more like tines than strings. The frequency of a guitar string follows clear mathematical relationships: a string twice as long vibrates at half the frequency (one octave lower), assuming same tension and thickness. The sound of pine needles comes primarily from aerodynamics: wind flowing around needles creates fluctuations in the air. Needles twice as long do not whisper an octave lower; rather, they produce a lower range of pitches due to the lower frequency of movements and resulting turbulence they create.
A string can produce a clear frequency. A needle produces a spectrum of frequencies; a texture.
What can be said about all the variety of needles, leaves, and blades of grass and the sounds they make in the wind? Has someone attempted to map them?
If there is such an inventory, I did not find it, but I did find the following observations made nearly seven centuries ago in an interesting piece of nature writing. Itās observational, philosophical, and poetic all at once:
Wind cannot create sound on its own: it sounds only in connection with things. It is unlike the ferocious clamor of thunder, which rumbles through the void. Since wind sounds only in connection with things, its sound depends on the thing: loud or soft, clear or vague, delightful or frighteningāall are produced depending on the form of the thing. Though it may come into contact with earthen or rock pedestals in the shape of tortoises, sounds are not produced. If a valley is empty and immense, its sound is vigorous and fierce; when water gently flows, its sound is still turbulent and agitatedāneither achieves a harmonious balance, and both cause man to feel fearful and frightened. Therefore, only plants and trees can produce suitable sounds.
Among plants and trees, those with large leaves have a muffled sound; those with dry leaves have a sorrowful sound; those with frail leaves have a weak and unmelodic sound. For this reason, nothing is better suited to wind than the pine.
Now, the pine as a species has a stiff trunk and curled branches, its leaves are thin, and its twigs are long. It is gnarled yet noble, unconstrained and overspreading, entangled and intricate. So when wind passes through it, it is neither obstructed nor agitated. Wind flows through smoothly with a natural sound. Listening to it can relieve anxiety and humiliation, wash away confusion and impurity, expand the spirit and lighten the heart, make one feel peaceful and contemplative, cause one to wander free and easy through the skies and travel along with the force of Creation. It is well suited to gentlemen who seek pleasure in mountains and forests, delighting in them and unable to abandon them.
-Liu Chi, (1311ā1375)
Thanks for listening and reading. If you made it this far, consider tapping ālikeā just to let me know you were here. I often wonder things like, will I lose readers with this big block quote? Are subscribers alienated by a post marked āpaidā?
Ponderosa Grove is available under the artist name Listening Spot on all streaming platforms today Friday, November 7th, 2025.
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I hadnāt planned to write a post for Wren. In fact, just yesterday I was thinking about how I could skip even writing a Substack Note, which I had been mulling over. What to say?
And then I found myself returning to the interesting thing I learned earlier in the week: how the Cherokee traditional calendar ended and started in the fall, and how that made intrinsic sense to me. A time of harvest and reflection. So, Iām feeling inclined to reflect because this is the last Sleeping Animal release from a slate of several this year.
As a brief recap, Sleeping Animal came about as a solution for two of my concerns: first, I was swamping my own name with too many releases, and second, Iād long feared my preoccupation with incorporating environmental recordings was seen as little more than a gimmick. So Sleeping Animal became my repository for instrumental works, destined to succeed or fail on their own birdsong-less merits.
Letās turn the clock back to 1994. Having re-enrolled at the University of Oregon after a stint at community college, I was edged out of upper level fine arts courses that I needed for my degree. They were all full. The solution was Independent Study. I would pay the university for credits I needed with the minimum amount of instruction. No problem, I thought. Iād already done that in high school by completing an International Baccalaureate art portfolio, a boon to my college credit tally going in.
I wanted to impress my professor/mentor, so I put a lot of hours into having what amounted to a full exhibitās worth of paintings to show at our first meeting. The oil paintings were monochromaticāraw umber primarilyāusing a medium to essentially mimic a watercolor technique. The subject matter was figurative, featuring simple, almost abstracted backgrounds.
So there I was, in the little-used art school room Iād been using for a studio, with all my paintings spread out, only weeks into the term. I imagined my mentor would be surprised. He might say something like, āWell youāve been busy!ā
What happened was he entered the room, said almost nothing, ranged around with a pained expression on his face, seemingly finding nothing worth examining closely, asking few if any questions, and then proclaimiedāin so many wordsāthat the work was thin and cartoony. Those were the words I specifically remembered anyway, because they cut. They hurt.
There was not the slightest scrap of praise offered for my work ethic. If anything, it seemed like the number of paintings was taken as an affront; evidence for their thin-ness. I did not mount much of a defense, and was relieved when I was again by myself in the quiet room.
In the following weeks I painted over every one of them. Though hard to hear, it was true. The paintings were essentially drawings, rendered with paint. You could see the gesso brush strokes under the washier areas.
In my second act of Independent Study I turned to landscapes and still life. A little bit Rothko, a little bit Morandi. A completely different path.
Now, looking at the gallery of album art that has swiftly assembled for Sleeping Animalāall monochrome and seemingly in service of a neoclassical tropeāhow could I not be reminded of that formative season thirty years ago?
Now, in the peak of fall with my body of work on display, for all to hear, Iām drawn back to that quiet classroom in my mind. What is the verdict?
Well, Iāll be the first to say they all look and sound more or less the same. Having said that, itās not a matter of if youāve heard one, youāve heard them all. More like if you heard one and didnāt find it at all useful, you can skip the others. But, isnāt it like that for most artists?
When I first imagined Sleeping Animal, I thought I would revisit a type of work I made that was built up with arpeggiated synthesizers. I also thought that I would leave an opening for vocals, at first just dipping my toe in those waters. Alas, I never came round to those programmed arpeggios. The vocal layers, however, are a unique attribute, mixed at a whisper. I wanted them to be felt more than heard.
What Iām proud of is how naive, imperfect and unvarnished these works are. And, for this first act, Iām happy that I didnāt come out with arpeggiated synths blazing. The thing I prize most about them, as compositions, is how they breathe. They expand and contract. They are expressive not through dexterity or dynamics, but in their relationship to time.
Now for act two!
Thanks for joining me on this trip down memory lane. It only took me a few decades to be able to tell the story. Find Wren filed under Sleeping Animal today Oct. 30th, 2025 on all streaming services.
I rely on word of mouth to find my audience, so if you find my music or my storytelling entertaining, useful or relatable, please do share it with someone.
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Todayās environmental recording captures the sound of an area within Forest Park that few people gave much thought to, until a headline grabbed their attention 21 years ago.
In 2004, a pair of off-trail endurance runners came across a father and daughter living in a dugout shelter in Portlandās 5200 acre Forest Park. They had been living there for four years.
Upon discovery, police were dispatched for a wellness check. Eventually one officer helped the two resettle on a horse farm where the father, Frank, worked and they attended the local church. They left the farm after about a month, never to be heard from again. Their story inspired Peter Rockās 2009 fictionalized novel My Abandonment, which was adapted into the acclaimed 2018 film Leave No Trace.
When first discovered, Frank was 53 and Ruth was 12. Their makeshift home was constructed on the side of a steep hill, not far from where this recording was made. Inside the shelter were encyclopedias, a bible, toys, a doll, sleeping bags.
Nearby was a planted vegetable garden and a water catchment structure.
āBut how could a 53 year old father with a 12 year old daughter survive in this thick, dense forest for four years?ā asks a reporter as he bushwhacks down a brushy hillside in a 2004 segment for KATU news. āWell, police say Frankās a smart guy, college-educated. Heās also an ex-marine who served two tours in Vietnam.ā
The reporter concludes, āSo why would a father with no job, but a $400 a month disability check, hide in the forest? Those that saw them on their weekly walks out of the woods to church, the library and to buy food say it was a fatherās fear society might separate him from the one he loves.ā
Amateur mystery detectives on Reddit wanted to know more. Based on the few details in the 2004 news stories, they placed the father, Frank Trecarten, in articles 20 years prior in 1984, describing a manhunt for a mountain man or āsurvivalistā, in Quebec and New Hampshire after allegations of desecrating an church altar and attempted arson.
Then in 2005, log books for Appalachian Trail hikers signed by āMountain Manā and āMiss Mountain Dewāābelieved to be trail names for Frank and Ruthāwere discovered. A photo corroborates the placement with the identifying note: Frank āTrefcartenā.
Most recently, in 2013, the name Frank Treecarten reappears in articles outlining a flare gun shooting assault in Concord, New Hampshire, where it appears Frank was charged with two felonies and held on $8,000 bail. The verdict in the case is unknown.
These details paint the story in a more acute light, potentially revealing a decades-long pattern of living on the fringes, possibly exacerbated by PTSD.
I re-watched Leave No Trace and listened to the My Abandonment audiobook. Although the movie is adapted from the book, they diverge significantly, especially approaching their conclusions. The book is decidedly more tragic, while the movie hits a more optimistic note. The optimist in me wants the film to be closer to the truth. One canāt help but wonder about Ruth, who would be in her mid 30ās now, and Frank, now in his mid 70ās. If amateur investigators are to be believed, Ruth is now married and living in Oregon.
Another thing that I noticed and appreciated in the film was how sparse the score was. It was barely there. It inspired me to further pare down my own future scores, letting the soundscape ātake solosā.
Additionally, a lot of films get the wildlife sounds wrong, but this was better than most. Varied Thrush, and Northern Pygmy Owl stood out to my ear. I donāt remember hearing Pacific Wren though; a true soundmark of Forest Park.
That late May morning I sat in the middle of the Maple Trail above Saltzman Creek. No one passed by. The trail had been closed for some time following bridge damage. Portions of steel decking were broken off and the railing remained squashed from the impact of a fallen tree.
While there, I made an oil pastel drawing while soaking up the tranquil setting. I also made a half-hearted attempt to scout around looking some clue of a former habitation; a whisper trail, a depression. Then it occurred to me that I really didnāt know precisely where to look. That ridge or this ridge? It seemed pointless, really.
Perhaps the reason that this story still looms so large in imaginations is because it makes us confront how estranged we truly are from the old ways: living light in the woods, not too far removed from hunting and gathering. We donāt really hear these kind of narratives in the USA anymore. We are aghast to discover that a father and daughter did so, undetected, for four years in a city nature park. It defied expectation.
I wonder what this says about us; about the velocity and trajectory of civilization? I donāt have any conclusions of my own to offer. All I know is a young person, I spent nights discretely camped at a few dubious spots while cycling across the USA. You definitely sleep lighter. I canāt imagine that kind of background anxiety over the long term.
My score attempts to hold these two things in tension: the wonder and a the discomfort of living outdoors, close to the land, peering into its wildness.
Thanks for listening and reading. Saltzman Creek is available under the artist name Listening Spot on all streaming platforms today Friday, October 24th, 2025.
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Iām sitting on a bench at the nearby city park listening to Creek & Raven. It comes out in a few days, as I write this. I havenāt listened to it for many months now, so itās both surprising and unsurprising how it opens. Unsurprising is the trilling Pacific Wren, a distant Common Raven and the faint sound of a creek. Surprising is the mournful synthesizer lead that resembles a French horn.
The vibe is meeting me where I am today, on this last overcast day of another extended Portland Indian summer. Winter is coming, literally and figuratively. I feel it; stark, curious and foreboding.
The environmental audio was captured in one of the deeper canyons of Forest Park in early June of this year. The creek that carved this deep canyon is named Rocking Chair Creek after the discovery of a rocking chair in its waters. Iām visualizing it now like the heirloom bentwood rocker in my living room, half sunk with gold-green moss growing on it, illuminated in a sunbeam.
I returned to the canyon a few weeks ago and made more sketches. Itās interesting to me how the palette shifted, on return, to bluer hues of green.
This brings to mind how the observer influences a scene; how interpretations and tone can shift. About 8 miles away from this canyon is a different scene that has captured the imagination of the nation, and beyond, in the recent news cycle.
Here, a nondescript beige multi-story federal building stands between Interstate 5 and the Willamette river on the margins of downtown Portland, Oregon. It is ground zero for a political Rorschach test. A lot has been written about it. Iām not interested in trying to summarize that here. If you know, you knowā¦you know?
But the idea that there is any debate about facts on the ground; that there is any set of conditions that presently call for US military intervention in my home town is unnerving. It is deeply strange and seemingly animated by a dark fantasy.
Most here poke fun at the absurdity of it all; the disconnect between truth and image-peddling. A few have their own reasons to support some hazy notion of a ācrackdownā. The city is not without problems, after all. Anyone can tell you that. Itās been a tough run over the better part of a decade, here and most everywhere. On that score, there have been plenty of indications that the city turned a corner. I travelled to four capital cities in Europe over the summer and they didnāt strike me as better or worse, any more or less livable on the whole.
The fever-pitched finger pointing is what makes my stomach churn. The notion that educated people cannot in good faith arrive at a consensus on whether a city is āwar-ravagedā, āunder siegeā, even āburning to the groundā or about average for its size is like a chapter out of George Orwellās 1984.
āReality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else.ā
ā2 + 2 = 5ā
-Party doctrine from 1984 by George Orwell
In the finale of Creek and Raven we hear ravens croak and rattle with gusto. What are they saying?
Ravens have long been cast as messengers in the symbology of First Nations. As a communicative carrion bird, their associations with prophecy, insight, and playing intermediary between life and death are long held.
Do these ravens have any prophecies or insights to share about their home in Portland, Oregon? Recent studies have identified at least 30 to 40 distinct vocalizations in ravensā repertoire. They vocalize for the same reasons humans do: talking about food, keeping track of family members, socializing, bonding, playing, warning, and identifying each other specifically. Ravens even use āemotionalā prosody; they convey urgency or calm through tone. They can learn new vocalizations, mimicking human speech and other sounds.
I think we could all benefit by taking time to actively listen to what Bernie Krause coined the ābiophonyā, the layer of the soundscape made by living organisms. We would do well to listen to each other as well; us human animals. I believe estrangement from the biophony, can lead to less empathy, and that can lead to all sorts of unfortunate outcomes.
We have some mending to do. We have holes in our social fabric left over from the pandemic; splits aggravated by social media and the tribalism of news media empires. Maybe we can take a lesson from ravens and just remember to talk to each other; to shoot the breeze about food and family.
A ravenās warning call is a sharp, urgent Kawk! Kawk! Kawk! But what happens when one of the flock spreads alarm when there is no real threat? We know from the old folk tale how Chicken Littleāthe sky is falling!ālearns a lesson about spreading alarm without evidenceā¦in the sanitized version of the tale. In most versions, the characters (Chicken Little, Ducky Lucky, Goosey Loosey, and Turkey Lurkey) encounter Foxy Loxy who uses the panic to trick them into his den and eat them all.
What I think we are facing in this country is leadership that is acting like Chicken Little while also behaving like Foxy Loxy. Itās not normal. Itās not okay. I think it needs to be called out. I think weāall of usādeserve more from elected leaders. Iām not typically an outspoken person, but now doesnāt feel like the time to sit back and say nothing.
Thank you, as always, for joining me here, and for listening to my point of view.
Creek & Raven is available on all music streaming services October 17th, 2025.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit chadcrouch.substack.com/subscribe -
Itās been a little while since my last Listening Spot release. If youāre just joining, Listening Spot is a pseudonym I use for stationary environmental recordings paired to atmospheric āambientā compositions. Once again, however, Iām breaking with the tradition of avoiding piano with a Listening Spot release. Pianet electric piano alternates with Korg synthesizer ādew dropsā at the center of this musical score.
This time we are visiting the iconic Mt. Tabor Park of Portland, Oregon.
The 636 ft (194 meter) forested peak rises up from the otherwise mostly level plane of SE Portland. Itās a dormant cinder cone volcano from a lava field formation now quiet for over 300,000 years. From a birdās eye view, itās a promising rest stop on migration, offering an island of green in a patchwork of grey.
On spring mornings the park bustles with both bird and human activity. Many exercise routines target the broad summit, offering the reward of a city view looking west toward downtown Portland. Hereās a sketch of it I made on my phone:
As far as environmental recording goes, Iāve historically found Mt. Tabor to be a difficult place to make āpleasingā recordings. This notion of pleasing is, of course, entirely subjective. But, in general, the topography and popularity of the park makes the anthropogenic layers more of a focal point. Dogs barking, joggers huffing up trails, sirens wailing, trucks beepingā¦ These are all fine and interesting soundsāIāve actually recently come to find backup beeps an interesting musical counterpoint to the sound of nuthatches, for exampleābut they are not the sounds Iāve set out to captureā¦yet anyway.
More recently, I found a spot thatās pretty well insulated from the city soundscape and the bulk of human visitors. There is a knob between reservoir 1 and 5 with a solitary bench on top, offering a relatively tranquil listening spot in the 176 acre park. Here, I made this recording on April 4th of this year. The sounds of the city barely register below the songbirds belting out their springtime melodies.
We hear Lesser Goldfinch, Red-breasted Nuthatch, American Robin, Song Sparrow, Pine Siskin, Stellerās Jay, Northern Flicker, and a Swainsonās Thrush, to name a few. Itās a sharp contrast to the subdued songs of fall.
My score is of the minimal, imperfect, reflective and tender sort. I hope you enjoy it.
Thanks for coming along for the journey. Itās not always clear to me if Iām connecting with readers and listeners via Substack, so feel free to say hi.
Or, if you can think of someone who might like what Iām doing, please let them know. It means a lot to me.
Mt. Tabor Park is available under the artist name Listening Spot on all streaming platforms Friday October 3rd.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit chadcrouch.substack.com/subscribe - Show more
