(Hunter)

Joni Mitchell probably said it best in her song, Big Yellow Taxi: "You don't know what you got till it's gone."

Living on our Alaskan homestead, we're surrounded by sound. Most days we hear the ocean. In the sheltered Inside Passage, we don't get huge waves, but most days there's a swell. It slaps against our rocks in a cycle of sound that varies with the height of the tide, from nearly silent to an insistent, almost mechanical hum, as if a large diesel generator operated nearby. With the swell comes the sound of the wind over the water and through the trees.

The wind generators, even the one called "Whisper," add to the noise when they operate, contributing a constant swishing sound. The wind whistles in the generator tower guy lines. In high, erratic winds the generators roar and grumble. The sound of rainfall greatly amplifies on our tin roofs. Rafts of snow falling off the trees onto the roof make loud crashing noises at times.

On calm days, when the water's mirror flat, sound carries over amazing distances. Then the incessant roar of the sea lion haul out across the fjord from us can be clearly heard, even inside the cabin. Their constant bickering interactions sound like either a very busy redneck bar (without the jukebox) or a motocross event, sometimes both at the same time.

The forest is full of sound: dripping, falling cones and branches, trees creaking in the wind, rocks rattle as they fall from the cliffs. Sometimes we hear chainsaws being used around the peninsula. Squirrels chatter and scold from the trees. Ravens and eagles call from the treetops. Hawks scream as they soar over the homestead.

Other animals make their noises. Out on the water at various times of year we hear their exhalations so often we can now tell a sea lion's breath from a porpoise's, or a humpback whale's blow from a killer whale's. Otters chirp their alarm calls, sea gulls cry, and hosts of other seabirds make their calls, from piping murrelets to wailing loons. Sometimes we hear sounds we can't even properly identify.

Airplanes pass by daily when the weather's good. Occasionally we'll hear helicopters, especially the deep throated roar of the big Coast Guard airships. Small motor boats, massive tour ships, ferries, tugs and ore ships pass north and south, the larger engines vibrating the cabin through the bedrock. On calm days we can listen to conversations in the small boats, or the announcements broadcast on the tour ships.

Each day is a symphony of sound, which we rarely tune out—it contains too much information to ignore. We would hardly think of our environment as silent.

Not, at any rate, until we leave it.

Last weekend the local school held a Homecoming Ball, and invited all homeschooling students to attend. Apprentice wanted to go, so we borrowed a neighbor's "town house" in order to be able to stay in town overnight rather than crossing the bay and hiking home late at night. We were smart to do this! The dance lasted till almost midnight, temperatures fell to the low twenties, and the wind blew 40 knots. We would have had a miserable hike home.

During the night we became aware of sounds we had forgotten about—noises so common they're unnoticeable to most people. Refrigerators actually make noise as they cycle on and off. Heaters start up and hum as they operate, then shut off, leaving an almost palpable silence. Cars pass by on the street, a racket that we found very distracting. The wind made just as much noise there as it does at home, so that, at least, was comfortingly familiar. All of these noises, though not loud, seemed amplified in unfamiliar surroundings.

We've noticed this before. When we travel to other Alaskan towns, or visit friends and relatives down south, the electronic hum of their houses and the noise of traffic so unusually close to the house take a while to get used to. Conversely, we find that our guests to the homestead take a while to become accustom to the exquisite "silence" around us.