Sonic Paddling

Once upon a time I found myself in an upper level college course called Creative Musicianship 391. Our first assignment of the semester was to take a sonic walk. Naturally everybody’s like, “Ayo teach, WTF is a sonic walk?”  We were tasked with strolling the streets of Ann Arbor later that evening and listening intently to whatever noise our ears could pick up. For one hour we had to walk, or sit, but always be listening - to the loud and quiet, near and far. Slowly subtleties surfaced and I could hear the low hum of big academic buildings buzzing through the silence. A dog barking and a door shutting three blocks away. The leaves rustling. Conversations floating out the window of a second story room.

Our goal was to find rhythm. It could come in the form of a washing machine spinning, or wiper blades on a windshield. There was no correct or incorrect observation. Rhythm doesn’t always come in the form of a kick drum.

So last weekend when Annie and I found ourselves at a tiny inland lake on Whidbey Island (1 hour north of Seattle) - the quiet reminded me of that sonic walk six Januaries ago. We paddled to the center of Goss Lake and stopped. There were no motorboats. Just us and the ducks breaking the glassy surface, listening and watching while the world spun by.

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Rialto Beach

Greg, Joe and I took a mid-week trip out to the coast of the Olympic Peninsula.
We caught a sunset and some mussels - a difficult dinner combo to beat - and then spent the night begging wet wood to burn. It was the closest I've ever camped to the ocean and the first time I ever tested dunking a Canon 5dM3 in saltwater
(don't do that - these were the last photos I took with that camera.)
Greg made a video of it for fun - which is exactly what it was.

Santa Elena Canyon

We used to pop dandelion heads off into the creek of our backyard and watch those suckers spin, speed and eddy their way down the craziest ride of their pollinated pompon lives.

But now the creek is 50’ across and it isn’t dividing yards anymore it’s dividing countries. And I am the pompon, stalling and spinning and occasionally flipping as I slip past rocks and fallen trees that, like me, have found their way into the Rio Grande River as it cuts through the remote desert of Western Texas.

It feels excellent to race things downstream, pretend boats or real boats. Kids love it. Adults love it. Adults even feel like kids because of it. Aside from paddling alongside your friends - and strangers that are quickly becoming your friends - you’re completely off the grid for the three days it takes to tackle this section of the river known as the Santa Elena Canyon. That means you haven’t a care in the world. There is no news. Your battles aren't with bad traffic or endless emails but with knee deep mud and extended exposure to the sun. 

People don't grow up. They pretend to. Obstacles get bigger. The consequences more serious. But we still invent games, we are still humbled by nature and we still feel most alive when we wade knee deep in it.