18 Oct (Tue) Up at dawn. A frosty 21°F on the porch. Went out to see if Valiente and Red were in sight. Nope. Damn. [Come October, the horses search out tiny pockets of still-green grass hidden in Piute Meadows’ densely forested margins.] I strolled along the meadow’s edge hoping for a glimpse of horse flesh through the trees. Nary a four-legger in sight, sigh. And it was COLD!—probably in the mid-teens even though the meadow is only about twenty feet lower than the cabin, if that. Hands a-pocket, my breath in clouds, under-dressed and shivering. ◦◦◦◦◦ For grins, I did my booming, bass-register, mock-operatic-voice Valiente-call—Vahl-eee-EN-tay-y-y-y!!—on the slim chance that a horse or two might pop out of some hidden recess to see what the ruckus was about. (Been doing this for years, on occasion, and it seems I’ve got the pipes for it.) It reverberated back and forth between the canyon walls most agreeably. The perfect stillness and super-cold air may have been factors, not sure, but the slowly fading echoes highlighted a truly awe-inspiring dawn silence that I might not have otherwise noticed seeing as how I’m so inured to the quiet. Went back out again minutes later hoping to see a couple of specks way out back but mostly to make more of those killer echoes. Alas, just then an airliner was passing by high overhead. I tried to wait the thing out but its dull roar went on and on and on. For some reason I found this extremely annoying. Finally gave up and went back in. To be honest, I seldom even notice jet noise back here. There’s a whole lot of Bay Area- and Sacramento-bound commercial air traffic over this section of the Sierra (far worse than other areas) but I mostly tune it out. In this hour, though, before birds have started to sing or breezes to stir, it’s a different animal entire. An immaculate silence, particularly when framed by large open spaces like at the edge of a meadow or on a ridge top, is utterly magnificent—the aural equivalent of, say, viewing a craggy high peak in fine lighting. It’s a hard thing to describe, since silence is space…a form of emptiness. A whole lotta nuthin’. Not many people are familiar with the phenomenon of unadulterated silence. They really have no idea. (Same goes for the star-studded night sky—something that a lot of people don’t even know exists.) It’s a cryin’ shame, really. In man’s world, there are always sound waves of one kind or another moving molecules around, even in the dead of night. But up here in the montane wilderness, particularly at dawn: nuthin’…absolutely nuthin’! Can’t hear a doggone thing! It really is stunning. ◦◦◦◦◦ It came as a surprise to learn that some folks find this level of silence off-putting. Too stark. A quiet that’s too quiet. It actually makes some individuals uncomfortable. (I know this to be the case because several backpackers, urban types, have told me as much.) Me: I happen to enjoy simple things. I’m drawn to minimalist art, for instance…prefer music with plenty of space between notes. The austerity of uncontaminated silence turns it into an actual thing that definitely has a powerful impact on my many moods and the quality of my thoughts. I’ve told people that I consider silence to be akin to music. It certainly is an ideal medium for contemplation…makes for an empty canvas to paint your thoughts on. I just love it. ◦◦◦◦◦
Next day:
19 Oct (Wed) ◦◦◦◦◦ Took a short evening stroll in the meadow. It was already close to freezing when I set out. The Sun was going down…last pink light on the west face of Ehrnbeck; Hawksbeak in shadow. (The sun is setting so far to the south these days that Hawksbeak is in Ehrnbeck’s shadow around sundown.) Meadow now entirely dead-brown. Not a hint of green. I saw robins and bluebirds—they’ve started to head south for the winter—and heard one of the redtail hawks’ final evening cry. I could almost feel the silence, the utter lack of life-sounds, and suddenly realized that the deer have all left town. Hadn’t even noticed, even though I’ve not seen a one for some time. This is a good example of the way people notice the appearance of things but not their disappearance. It’s been a long time, now that I stop to think, since I last saw a swallow or nighthawk or dragonfly or heard poor-wills calling at dusk. And, finally, on the walk back, with the sky itself turning pink in the west and peaks glowing in last dim light reflected from the upper atmosphere, I saw fog rising from pools of snow-melt that have recently filled the remnants of old oxbows in the meadow. No mist coming off the river but it was rising from all those little oxbow ponds that had time to warm up during the day. I felt a little autumn-sad in the quiet but at the same time full of hope and vigor-of-spirit.
Copied inside the front cover of this volume of Piute Log:
“There is a proper dignity and proportion to be observed in the performance of every act of life.”
Marcus Aurelius
©2026 Tim Forsell 24 Jul 2026
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