As soon as we parked the car we could hear the cacophony of geese. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, temporarily camped out at the golf course across the street. Certainly there were enough to make golfers spitting mad. I have friends who are golfers and I had one of them in my pickup as we drove by recently. On the other hand, the birds are an amazement and amusement to birders. I have a birder friend with whom I regularly meet who can go on and on about getting a perfect photo of a Cackling Goose with a Canada Goose together. Valuing both friendships, I try to stay somewhat neutral on the subject.

The sound of the geese reminded me of an orchestra tuning up - not the gentle first sounds when the oboe and concert master sound their pure and precise notes - but the sounds that come later after everyone has matched the concert A and have gone on to tuning up other notes and finally playing a few arpeggios or even a difficult passage from one of the pieces that is coming up - the sound just before the orchestra goes silent for the conductor to make a grand entrance.

We walked alongside the street and soon were walking right next to the creek below the dam. The creek has its own tonality and rhythm, a subtle blend of higher pitched notes that come from the surface as the water dances around rocks and a deeper set of tones coming from the broader flow of the river. As we approached the dam, the sound changed because the spillway is so even that the water is all the same depth, flowing over a very uniform surface, sending up a consistent spray as it rushes along. A short walk up a steeper part of the pathway got us above the dam, where there is a little bit of open water before we got to the ice. There is always water running underneath the ice at Canyon Lake, and usually there is open water at both ends of the lake. We had some pretty cold days last week, so the ice has thickened, but there is still a good third or more of the lake that is open. On the open water the ducks were chiming in with a different pitch than the geese who were flying overhead. The geese reminded me of a group of politicians engaged in constant argument. Everyone was trying to get in their own comments. I wondered if they were having a discussion about where they were going or maybe even about the preferred route or altitude for the flight. Underneath them, mostly on the liquid water, but a few standing on the ice, the ducks were like a group of old men at the corner table in the cafe, still having a conversation, but with deeper pitches and lower volume. They were sort of grumbling along as they paddled or waddles around.

As we walked by the ice, it was adding its own notes to the symphony. The air was moving under the ice, seeking the highest elevation and pushing bubbles through the liquid water. The ice itself was cracking and the echoes were ringing across the lake. I am not an ice fisherman, and the ice was just barely thick enough to encourage a lone ice fisherman out on it. Were I an ice fisherman, I would have been so distracted by the sounds the ice was making that I wouldn’t be enjoying the fishing. It isn’t like the lake is frozen into one solid, thick layer of ice. There are open areas on the lake big enough to sink into really cold water. Most of the lake isn’t very deep, but still I don’t think a trip through the ice would be any fun at all.

There are some points around the lake where you can hear all of the sounds at once, the ice, the ducks, the geese. As we walked across the bridge, there was even a bit of the gurgle of flowing water to be heard in the background, like a bit of a descant added to the regular verse.

We were walking for exercise, so we were keeping our pace going, our footfalls on the pavement making their own rhythm. Occasionally we’d step into a bit of old snow or on the edge of a piece of ice making crunching and crackling sounds. And we are not youngsters, so our pace was making us breathe a bit deeper than our usual and after a while we were both breathing through our mouths as well as our noses so there was a fair amount of huffing and puffing coming from us. It wasn’t enough to bother the geese as we walked onto the island and out onto a narrow spit that stretches towards the lodge like a kind of breakwater, though there are no waves to “break.” The crunch of the gravel was a new sound, different from the other surfaces on which we had been walking.

Farther along we passed a spruce tree that was alive with little birds. They were difficult to see individual markings because of the heavy foliage, but they might have been junkos or some other small birds. They made the tree seem to quiver with excitement and their high pitched libretto added a new sound to the outdoor symphony.

A walk up the creek and around the lake is a visual treat. There is a lot to see and the large numbers of birds attracted to the area makes it fun to watch all of the motion and activity from splashes to swoops to dives and aerobatics. Yesterday, however, I was struck by what an aural experience it is to take a short walk. The sounds of a place are as distinctive and beautiful as are the sights. Walking in an unfamiliar place can be a world of discovery, but walking a path that we have walked many times before has its own surprises.

What a treat it is to have the gift of being able to hear. For that I am very grateful.

Copyright (c) 2020 by Ted E. Huffman. I wrote this. If you would like to share it, please direct your friends to my web site. If you'd like permission to copy, please send me an email. Thanks!