A collection of long, unbroken soundscapes to soothe the working soul.

Soundscapes For The Working Mind

On the morning of 2021 May 17, I stepped out of my tent next to my favorite Okanogan wetland to collect a recorder and microphones I'd left attached to a pole the night. It was a cool, crisp Spring morning, but the life and voices of the marsh and lake were as active as always. This recording covers the Dawn Chorus, from 23 minutes before First Light (at 22:55, 04:46:58 PDT, click the comments below to playback directly) and through Sunrise (at 50:49, 05:14:41 PDT) for almost 90 minutes of what was really hours of singing and foraging.

The wind was light, and the cool air helped project voices across the lake. As always Red-winged Blackbirds, that most North American of wetland songbirds, flew about, singing, chasing, and defining territories. I was delighted to hear a Brewer's Blackbird, a shy cousin of the Red-winged, popping in and out of the mix. Their quick almost mechanical sounding songs can be easy to miss and often confused with a squeak of a fence. They have two prominent songs, a hinge-like squeak (23:39), and a soft "shuk-shuuk" like a film camera auto-winding between frames (24:29). For the '80s kids among us, I think it sounds more like a Kodak Disc Camera, but I digress...

Also hanging out, literally, are a pair of bats just trying to get some sleep (52:14 and later). I would have easily confused their audible chatter for the Tree Swallows that harried them endlessly, but watching it happen with my own eyes confirmed what I later heard on the recording. The 15 foot pole was topped by a large bucket to be used as a nesting box for waterfowl. This morning chattery Tree Swallows were using it as a resting spot between aerial acrobatics. The sleeping bats clinging to the underside of the bucket, however, did not like this idea and would angrily chatter and chase them away, at least until they finally fell fast asleep themselves.

Speaking of chatter boxes, a Song Sparrow (23:31) took up residence on a nearby shrub and lived up to his name, delivering clear variations of his song, playing with melody like a maestro. A Common Yellowthroat (43:47) flew in and out of the same shrub, trying to sing in or around the Sparrow, but his anxious warble never quite had the same thrilling clarity.

Songbirds aren't the only residents here, though. Across the lake, Canada Geese fly in-and-out, bringing their echoing honks with them, Pied-billed Grebes whoop-whoop almost seemingly out of control (47:12).

Prominent voices in this recording include Song Sparrows, Red-winged Blackbirds, Brewer's Blackbirds, Common Yellowthroats, Canada Geese, and Pied-Billed Grebes. When there's a lull in the background the occasional Western Meadowlark, Chickadee, Spotted Towhee, Chipping Sparrow, Yellow Chat, Tree Swallow, Mallard, American Wigeon, and Wood Duck.

Okanogan Wetland Morning

Recently I had the pleasure to spend several days recording on the wonderfully-named Skull and Crossbones Ridge in the Loomis Natural Resources Conservation Area in Okanogan County. The ridge marks a fascinating intermix of three dominant habitats in the NRCA: subalpine wet meadow, mountain sagebrush scrub, and forest consisting of Lodgepole Pine, Subalpine Fir, and Alpine Larch.

Due to an approaching ridge of low pressure, it was fairly windy all day, every day, but there were a few distinct moments of still air. Surprisingly, and delightfully, one of those moments was across the Dawn (First Light to Sunrise) period. Because I haven't shared a long recording recently, the first track in this playlist is a "Long Dawn". Being just after Summer Solstice, First Light was at 0409 on this day, 2021 June 25. The recording itself begins in near-silence at 0341, with the first local bird voice coming from an awakening American Robin about 15s in. Most of the nearby nesters have dispersed well-before sunrise at 0457, but the mountain winds were beginning their return. I let the recording continuer nearly another half-hour until 0526 to hear the onrush of cooler mountain flowing across the ridge.

Some of the many voices you'll hear in this recording are American Robins, Chipping Sparrows, White-crowned Sparrows, Brewer's Sparrows, Dark-eyed Juncos, Washington Ground Squirrels, Clark's Nutcrakers, Ruby-crowned Kinglets, Swainson's Thrushes, a Western Wood Pewee, possibly a Vesper Sparrow, and also quite possibly me coughing from a distance of around 250 feet (76m) because I just can't keep myself quiet.

On an enjoyment note, because we're currently undergoing an historic once-in-a-thousand-years heatwave here in Seattle I was forced to lightly master these recordings on headphones whilst fans blast me from all angles in my little studio room.  I'm not suggesting that you should *only* listen to them on headphones, but they'll likely translate best that way. My mastering doesn't involve a whole lot of processing, mostly just some low-end control when it's extra-windy and critical choices about how to decode from double mid-side (my preferred recording method) to stereo for SoundCloud playback, but it's enough that listening on a nice set of headphones will give you a closer approximation of what I heard when I clicked "upload".

As always, if you like something you hear and would like to license it or something similar for use or simply download it for further listening enjoyment, feel free to reach out to me by direct messaging here on SoundCloud or clicking one of my far-too-many social media connections above.

Happy listening!

Northwest Soundscapes

Loomis NRCA Long Dawn

12min - 0415am, First Light
12-54 min - 0415-0457, DAWN
54min - 0457am, Sunrise

Large wildfires are once again uncontrollably threatening much of the intermountain west in North America. Just 5 miles/ 8 km from the oncoming edge of the Cub Creek fire here in Washington is one of my most favorite places to record  anywhere. Thirtymile Meadows is one of the very few places I know of in the continuous 48 United States that is neither rainforest nor remote island where I can set up my microphones, press record, and expect a soundscape free of human-generated noise for at least 4 hours to be the result. Sometimes it can be up to nearly a day.
This was a little more than a month ago, the morning of Summer Solstice. It’s merely an excerpt.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to record there again, at least not a soundscape such as this, filled with birdsong. It’s highly likely my next trip with be filled with the whistling winds that wind around burned snags, the creaking of swaying barren trunks, perhaps the snapping and falling of dead wood.

Stands up on soapbox:
These forests depend upon fire for their very survival, but the rejuvenating fire that feeds their growth is low-level, fuel-consuming, and under-story burning. It cracks open seeds for hardy conifers. It clears room for new seedlings. It brings down larger diseased trees, returning their nutrients to the soil.
The fires we see raging now are not those fires.
For decades we have managed these forests by preventing fire without clearing the accumulating fuels. In the effort to keep “timber stock” available for logging and to protect the encroaching human settlements, all fire is suppressed. Weakened and dried by the advancement of climate change, trees age without replacement while dense, dry growth builds up beneath.
A simple spark (a lightning strike, an untended campfire, the hot under-carriage of a vehicle, a cigarette butt) is all that is needed to start a conflagration that does not clear and rejuvenate, but destroys.
With both the understory and tree cover gone, the ground becomes loose and rocky. The Autumn rains, Winter snows, and Spring melts wash away the fertile soils that nurse future growth.
We lose forest, and it doesn’t grow back. Not all of it. The interiors are safe for now, and can slowly re-grow over the ensuing decades if left un-molested. The edges are gone, however, and each successive fire and monsoon season scales them back farther.
Thirtymile Meadows is at a unique interface of interior, edge, and wet meadow. The meadow will survive, as should the deep forest to its Northeast. The Southwest edge, though, will disappear if the Cub Creek Fire reaches it. Already scarred by human-caused fires nearly twenty years ago, the Southern edge is dry, fuel-filled, and loose.

I don’t have an answer. I don’t have a plan. I just want to make people aware.

I also want to share the beauty of soundscapes that are in danger of disappearing, whether from noise pollution or ecosystem loss.

2021 - 06 - 21 ThirtymileMeadows Across The Dawn

Constant heavy rain with small drops on broadleaf vegetation, mostly Maple

Rain, Heavy, Small Drops on Broadleaf

Constant heavy rain with large drops under a Spruce canopy

Rain, Heavy, Large Drops on Spruce

A long soundscape across Dawn in the Queets River Valley rainforest of the Olympic National Park. Starting in Astronomical Twilight, a small herd of Roosevelt Elk walks in from a distance, though a small forest glade, an away towards the Queets River bed.

Early Autumn rainfall and dropping Maple Leaves are the dominant sounds to begin, their pak-pak-spaks are a reminder that time passes, even in the still quiet of a moss-covered forest.

Highway 101 in less than 12 miles away, and distant traffic is funneled up the Valley, showing the difficulty of escaping human-generated sound. This has been mitigated somewhat with light processing, but close listening and inspection will make remnants evident. There are no other edits or processes committed.

I love the crisp cold air of the rainforests in the fall. Sounds, natural and human generated, carry into the distant. Tucked into my sleeping bag, I lay back in my small tent, listening to the forest awaken. Where once there was just the soft distant wash of the river, the elk are joined by the local birds. Steller's Jays shriek their song with grating-yet-amusing "CHA-CHA-CHA-CHAs". A Northern Saw-whet toots in the forest canopy. Young Varied Thrush practice their songs, not quite reaching the beautiful and haunting signature fluting of their predecessors, instead emitting a silly buzzer-bell-like noise. Pacific Wren singing at the end of their season and the occasional Kingfisher make an appearance as well. Noe of these complete with the sheer vibrance of the elk.

Roosevelt Elk or Roosevelt's Wapiti or Rainforest Elk are the largest remaining elk species in North America and thrive in shadowy silences of the Pacific Northwest's temperate rainforests. Bull's bugles and roars echo through the trees, becoming one of the signature sounds of the Olympic Mountains. The cows mew and squeal in return, listening for one another to not wander far astray.

The small herd is a tight-nit family group, a with one, maybe two, dominant bulls, five or six cows in their harem, and a handful of young. The dominant bull leads the group on a daily hike, down from the upper valley to the river and back again. Their bugles urge the group, both signaling the direction to go and scolding those that dawdle. As they pass through the glade, their heavy footfall on the vegetative floor thump-thump-thumps their presence as much as the vocalizations and the continued crushing of vegetation as they push by.

I can't get enough of their energy. They pull back frequently. No matter how many times I encounter them, Elk never cease to awe me.

Click through the comments below for some highlights!

Queets River Valley Rainforest Dawn with Elk

A recent Spring Dawn in the Queets Rainforest inside the Olympic National Park
The air is cool and the light is filtered through a canopy of Sitka Spruce and Douglas Fir, Pacific Chorus Frogs crowded in an ephemeral wet-spot seemingly don't know if it's day or night as they sing around the clock here. The river sounds like a soft pillow in the distance, a dull roar that is more comforting than disturbing, fading away behind a biophonic meditation.

As twilight dawns with First light, local birds join the the chorus with the frog. Varied Thrushes with their nasally mysterious alarm-like cry. Pacific Wrens who seemingly believe that everyone needs to hear what they have to say. Song Sparrows with some of the happiest song ever to delight. A Chestnut-backed Chickadee that inspects the microphones, pulling little tufts of the wind protection to pad a nest. Northern Flickers and Chipmunks compete to see who has the best chatter.

All the while, the frogs continue on in cycles of chorused and cycles of silence, punctuated only by the occasional encounter trill or inquiring contact croak.

Queets Rainforest, Vernal Dawn Chorus With Frogs

I had the pleasure of spending the month of December 2023 recording in a few different jungle locations in Costa Rica. The experience was wonderful and inspiring. Most of the trip was spent on Osa Peninsula, in lodges that bordered Parque Nacional Corcovado (Corcovado National Park).

The peninsula and the park are recognized as one of the most biodiverse regions on the planet, with 2.5% of the world's species represented, many of them endemic.

While the history of the park is fraught with controversy dating back to European colonization, the importance of conservation cannot be understated. 

My recordings are filled with wonderful moments that deserve to be heard. I'm parsing through everything, but I thought I'd start with one of my favorite, 90 minutes midnight insect chorusing. Growing up in the mid-Atlantic states of the US and with roots and time lived in the Deep South, few sounds bring me to a state of transcendence like the orchestrated song of insects at night. The spectrally tight but densely-layered score of hundreds or thousands of insects in concert is soothing to the ears and the best sleep-aid I can experience for myself. From time to time hungry bats flutter past.

Normally I'd point out a few voices along the way, but I'm out of my depth when it comes to identifying insects in neotropical forests, so I'll let the ecosystem speak for itself.

Recorded at Finca Sueño De Osa Lodge, Puerto Jimenez, Costa Rica

Parque Nacional Corcovado https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corcovado_National_Park

Interested in my recordings? Contact me here: https://linktr.ee/AndyMartinNatureSound

Costa Rica Midnight Insect Chorus near Corcavado

I got to spend December 2023 recording in several jungle locations in Costa Rica. The experience was wonderful and inspiring. Most of the trip was spent on Osa Peninsula, in lodges that bordered Parque Nacional Corcovado (Corcovado National Park). With nearly 2.5% of the world's species represented, many of them endemic, it is  recognized as one of the most biodiverse regions on the planet.

On the same morning as the previous  Midnight Chorus recording https://soundcloud.com/soundeziner/cr-fincasueno-midnightchorus, a troop of Golden Mantled Howler Monkeys greeted the Dawn and their neighbors (and the rest of the jungle) the only way they know how. Male mantled howlers have an enlarged hyoid bone, a hollow amplifying bone near their vocal cords that gives the ability to generate great "howling"  calls that can heard for kilometers.  Howling allows the monkeys to exercise territory and remain in contact  without expending energy through movement or bearing the risks of physical confrontation. As someone who likes little more than sitting in a forest listening to nature speak, I approve of this lazing behavior.

While this howling is their most well-known vocal characteristic, I'm rather fond of the popping and grunting that warms up to the howl and pads the time in between. It's relatively quiet, and is most noticeable only when near the vocalizing howler. The best description of it that I can think of is like the "vocal fry" not uncommon in many of today's pop singers. Check it out near the start of the first round of howling around 2:40 (link in the comments)

After a first round of loud howls, the group takes a break. With what is known about Mantled Howler activity, they're likely sleeping, or maybe eating. After 20-is minutes, they pick up again for a brief session before settling back down. It's possible they've been moving during this time as they're quieter during this round. Finally, just before Sunrise at 05:38 in the morning, they pick up again, slowly building and then tapering off after nearly 30 minutes of vocal exercising.

After speaking with other recordists, I know I am far from alone as someone who loves their sound, but I I may be one of the few that enjoys waking up to their calls. Every morning I heard this in the distance or nearby was a morning I walked out to breakfast with a big silly grin on my face.

Another voice that has become a personal favorite is the Yellow-throated Toucan, with their rhythmic, bouncing song that seems to carry on forever. There is at least one singing for most of this recording, but you can get your first good listen behind the Howlers at 53:27 or skip ahead to 1:06:02 to hear two singing at each other.

Hummingbirds are abundant, and you'll hear their buzzing wings fly by and around the microphones numerous times. Also coming and going are raucous and noisy Scarlet Macaws and Red-lored Parrots, a lone Red-eyed Tree Frog, a visiting Little Tinamou, and more. 

I'll point out a few voices along the way in the comments, but I'm out of my depth when it comes to identifying neotropical birds, so I'll largely let the ecosystem speak for itself. Feel free to poke around with links in the comments to scoot around the recording, or just let it play out over your morning coffee like I do.

Feel like seeing some fancy colors? I've been playing at visualizing soundscapes lately. Check out the video for this recording on YouTube: https://youtu.be/duxU2INkyXI?si=xhIrgiHiOSOk922l

AMNS Costa Rica 01

Golden Mantled Howlers at Dawn

I spent a night in a bed of moss, listening to the sounds of Springtime Alaskan boreal taiga in the twilight. Nearby swam a pair of loons. A beaver circled, territorially slapping the water with its tail.
I smiled and listened.

Location: Long Lake, Talkeetna, AK

Weather: variable over the course of the night, 49-61°F, light to no wind, humidity rose from 31-52%

Geophony: Clear lake in a hilly boreal taiga, dominated by White Spruce, Bird, and thick beds of diverse mosses

Anthrophony: myself @90 feet, distant ambient generators (most of which I’ve edited out)

Biophony: Common Loon (Gavia Immer), Swainson’s Thrush (Catharus Ustulatus), American Robin (Turdus migratorius), other birds I don’t recognize, Beaver, insects (mostly white flies & mosquitos), river otter (visible, but silent)

For the gear curious:
stereo downmix from double mid-side
mid channels: MKH8040x2
side channel: MKH30
recorder: Zaxcom MAXX

Long Lake, a mid-night chorus

I feel fortunate to have been able to record over an hour of unbroken natural sound in the Olympic National Forest at the Snider-Jackson trail head. Starting during Civil Twilight, sun rises in this recording around the 30 minute mark, although the Thrushes were awake and active long before then. Robins, Varied Thrushes, Flycatchers, woodpeckers, squirrels, Pacific Wrens, and more fill these moss-covered woods to the background wash of the Calawah River.

Sunrise was at 5:42 this morning, with the first almost-audible human-related sounds of very distant vehicles starting nearly an hour after that.

It's difficult to comprehend the sound of the wilderness we are losing. Even here, deep in the mountainous, moss-covered trees of the Olympic National Forest on the border of the Olympic National Park, it's only by creeping out in the early hours of the morning that we can hear long stretches of natural sound unbroken by human-created noises. With the ever-encroaching settlements of humankind, how much longer will it be before even that is lost?

Dawn in the Olympic National Forest

A year ago this time I was listening to and watching dawn (still twilight, ~5:15, but active already) from one of my favorite locations in the Sinlahekin Wildlife Area with my good friend Jason Wolford. It was the first time I'd introduced another recordist to one of my favorite places, and it did not disappoint.

The temperature was chilly, barely above freezing, but the birds were abundant. Ruffed Grouse, Dusky Grouse, Wild Turkeys, Red-Winged Blackbirds, Canada Geese, Tundra Swan, American Robins, Wilsen's Snipe, Ravens AND Crows, Red-Shafter Flickers, Western Meadowlarks, Song Sparrows, a bunch of duck-like birds, and many other birds I just haven't bothered to identify because this is already a lot.

There are some nearby ranging cattle, and the resident wildlife manager's dog barks a few times, mostly at the turkeys.

Conner's Lake, chilly Spring dawn

Thirtymile Meadows is a wet, subalpine meadow high in the Okanogan National Forest. A natural shallow bowl, it collects meltwater from each winter and slowly drains away through innumerable soft tinkling streams. In such a wide open space it can be difficult to know where to point microphones. When I visited in the Summer of 2019 I was never certain where the next morning's dawn chorus would arrive from. Past migrant season there was no consistent resting place for the wildlife every night.

Filled with chipmunks, Hermit Thrushes, Olive-sided Flycatchers, Lincoln's Sparrows, White-crowned Sparrows, Woodpeckers, Ravens, Clark's Nutcrackers, American Robins, and more, the meadow is a feast for the eyes and ears of the quiet observer.

This meadow and the surrounding scarred forest are still recovering from the massive Thirtymile Wildfire that began from an unattended campfire almost 20 years ago. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thirtymile_Fire They stand as a testimony to the resilience of nature against all that we humans throw at it. Fragile ecosystems are stronger than we once believed, but our negligence does them no favors. 

This is the same meadow as our friend the coyote. In fact, this recording is from the very same overnight. https://soundcloud.com/soundeziner/sets/coyote-in-the-high-country

Beginning in twilight silence, we progress through the earliest voices of First Light at 32 minutes and Sunrise at 72 minutes. After a brief period of the dawn rush of air, we spend the last hour listening in on the comings-and-goings and daily lives of Thirtymile Meadows. Throughout it all, the soft occasional tinkling of water flows around and beneath.

Unfortunately, one of my microphones failed overnight, and I ended up with a lopsided recording. I've accounted for this somewhat in the the master, but it's an imperfect image that I'm hoping to replace this summer when I return.

This recording can also be enjoyed at Northwest Soundscapes, here:
http://soundeziner.com/2020/05/thirtymile-dawn/

Thirtymile Dawn

Just a few miles away and a little farther up the mountains from Thirtymile Meadows (https://soundcloud.com/soundeziner/20190714_thirtymiledawn) can be found Long Swamp, a very large, highly biodiverse wetland complex.
Like the wet meadows, swamps in this area form through the collection of meltwater of the preceding winter. Unlike the shallow bowls of the meadows, though, the swamps form in the shallow creased valleys between rising prominences. Sometimes the water drains away into a creek at the end of the of the valley, but they are just as likely to simply seep slowly into the topsoil to re-appear elsewhere as a natural spring. Long Swamp does both.

This morning Long Swamp was playing host to Lincoln's Sparrows, Wilson's Snipe, Wilson's Warblers, woodpeckers, Willow Flycatchers, Olive-Sided Flycatchers,Western Tanagers, White-crowned Sparrows, Hermit Thrushes, American Robins, Ravens, Cedar Waxwings, Warbling Vireos, Northern Flickers, a large mammal that wandered through around the 2h46m mark, and another around 4h47m.

I'd like to say that this was a true long, unbroken soundscape, but I did find the need to remove three aircraft that buzzed through over the course of five hours. Other than that, there was very little done to clean this recording. Bordering the Pasayten Wilderness to the West, Long Swamp is a nearly pristine environment.

Beginning around twenty minutes before first light in the last few minutes of Nautical Twilight, it's easy to see that some birds are early risers. Wilson's Snipe are are crepuscular, so we can expect to hear the swoop winnowing of their tails, but I was surprised to hear the high fluting of Hermit Thrushes and buzzy "zip-pew!" of Willow Flycatchers already filling the air. Barely nine minutes into the recording and a White-crowned Sparrow practices the first part of his song to our left. Fifteen minutes later and we hear the morning tuk-tuk laughter of an American Robin. By First Light at 0434 (22 minutes)we're able to hear the "Quick! Three beers!" of Olive-Sided Flycatchers and the distant trilling of Lincoln's Sparrows. Through this period chipmunks have been scattering about, already signaling their territory with rapid fire chitters.
Around 0459 (25 minutes) a Western Tanager begins to come into focus. Sounding like lazy Robins, they are easily confused. The easiest way to hear the difference is to learn the general cadence. Tanagers pause after every 5-10 "lines". Robins, however, sing in blocks of 4-6 "lines", but barely pause before plowing through.
With so much activity already occurring around us, the 0513 sunrise (1h01m) goes by barely noticed.
What I truly love about listening to a place like Long Swamp is the ebb and flow of life. Whether it's woodpeckers hunting too the fluted tunes of Hermit Thrushes at 3h54m or the chipmunk taking over just a minute later at 3h56m, the  frustrated "kyew" of a Northern Flicker at 4h37m or the fast zoom of a large insect or hummingbird at 4h25m, there's always activity, the literal humming and buzzing of life. It goes on all around us every day wherever we are. Tucked inside our dense, noisy urban and suburban homes it's easy to forget and to believe that humanity is life. Far from those urban centers, though, stripped of noisy cars and cellphones and H/VAC systems and airplanes are places like Long Swamp, where natural life continues unabated or stressed by the rigors of anthropogenic sounds.

Long Swamp also appears on my blog, here: http://soundeziner.com/2020/05/long-swamp/

Long Swamp Dawn

blog: http://soundeziner.com/2020/05/long-swamp-dawn-20190717/ 

This is my last Long Swamp post. I promise. From 2019.

As I mentioned in last night's Dusk track, https://soundcloud.com/soundeziner/20190716-long-swamp-dusk, I've fallen in love with the mountains of the Okanogan. The wet meadows, swampy bogs, dense forests, deep riparian zones, grassy ridge tops, and more are perfect for finding sonically rich, naturally quiet locations. Most of the special places are difficult to reach from Seattle, but that’s fine by me. It means more opportunities to record with without interruption.

The morning starts crisp, clear, and early, with the first local voice an early-rising Song Sparrow at 0m21s (0428). He's soon joined by a Swainson's Thrush who works through a minute of one-note calls, then buzzes and churls, before finally breaking into full, beautiful song at 2m17s (0430). His dense, spiraling, ethereal notes spin away like fluted wisps in the morning. I listen in awe.

A fellow thrush and close cousin of the Swainson's, an American Robin, finally wakes up enough to join full-throated at 4m23s (0432). I usually expect to hear Robins before anyone else, but everyone's out-and-about early in this still dark twilight.

There isn't much of a wait for light, though. The 0434 Dawn begins at 5m58s with First Light, when the sun is just 6 degrees below the horizon and the first fingers of sunlight creep across the hills. Nautical Twilight is over, with Civil Twilight not far behind.

At 8m43s (0436) a Lincoln's Sparrow joins the chorus. Like Song Sparrows, they have a wide individual repertoire. I'd not heard this variation before camping at Long Swamp, and it delights me every time I hear it now.

As if to show off how well song carries in this place, an Olive-Sided Flycatcher sings "Quick! THREE beers!" in the deep background. You can hear it well at 17m43s (0445) while everyone else rests. Birders have a reputation as boring or stodgy older folks. That the common phonetics for these little birds is "Quick! THREE beers!" leads me to think it's a cover. We're partying folk at heart. Pull up to the pub. Quick! Three beers! Not two. Not just one, but THREE beers!

This isn't just a place for songbirds. A Mallard rants on about the difficult life of a duck while wading around the swamp, being particularly petulant at 34m37s (0503).

The 0515 sunrise at 46m58s brings an end to Dawn and a start to daylight hours. That doesn't bring an end to the chorus, though, which carries on as if time is just a construct of the mind. Soon, however, the chipmunks wake up and start their constant territorial squabbling and chittering. From 55m54s (0524) onward the birds have heavy sonic competition. Perhaps this encourages them to begin foraging. Perhaps it's just a useful time to pack it in. In any case, I'm quickly reminded that chipmunks are skittish can be alarmed by anything, such as discovering a set of microphones near their home at 59m59s (0528). This powerful blast represents the one "edit" I've made to this recording, dropping the volume of the chitters by more than 12 decibels. You're welcome for your speakers not being overloaded, by the way.

By 1h11m42s (0540) the Dawn chorus is largely over, and all the actors have dispersed for a day of foraging, living, and territorial squabbling. Locally, from 1h19m30s (0548) to 1h45m0s (0614), the soundscape is a mix of wandering chipmunks and nearby waterfowl activity, most likely a Mallard family browsing about. I love hearing scuttling and fluttering, but feathered splashing nearby always stands out as something a little more special to my ears. It may just be that its a sound I don't hear around the house from pets, so I'm drawn to its subtle familiarity-yet-alien-ness.

Speaking of fluttering, soft chatter of Tree Swallows darts around a long-winded Song Sparrow from 2h02m55s (0632) on. Both flutter and skip around the microphones as they carry on.

I sit and listen, a silent, smiling guest.

Long Swamp, Dawn, 2019-07-17

blog: http://soundeziner.com/2020/05/long-swamp-dusk-20190716/

I’ve fallen in love with the Okanogan mountains, the wet meadows, swampy bogs, forests, grassy ridge tops, and more. Most of the naturally quiet locations are difficult to reach from Seattle, but that’s fine by me. It just means more opportunities to record with without interruption.

On the night of 2019-07-17 I camped, once again, near Long Swamp. I’d spent the previous night and Dawn at the Long Swamp Campground (https://soundcloud.com/soundeziner/long-swamp-dawn), but this night I found a location further up the drainage with more open water.

There are plenty of residents, full-time and transitory, in Long Swamp. Song Sparrows, Lincoln’s Sparrows, Swainson’s Thrushes, American Robins, Mallard Ducks and more make their homes here. There was activity all around.

The air was still as I sat down to record; the temperature a chill 60ºF/ 15.5ºC, and the moon was expected to be full. By the start of this recording at 1944, I was long settled into my tent for a nice evening of listening.

I could hear distinct non-song vocalization from Swainson’s Thrushes. The crisp clear air, chill wetland water, and hardwood reflections off nearby trees made for the perfect medium. Listen to the one-note call of a nearby Swainson’s: at 12m35s (1957) It works through fitful song-starts to buzzes and churls as it warms up 13m08s (1958). By the time he’s opened up for his full song at 15m40s (1800), he’s been joined by distant rivals on all sides. Each is as clear as he is. Only their volume betrays their distance.

If you’re wondering “churl” is, check out the series at 18m08s (1803). Most birders call it “churr”, and the phonetics are really more of a “tchik-wOow”, but I really like the descriptive appeal of “churl” a lot more. Besides, it’s fun to say, “Those thrushes sure are churlish today, aren’t they?”

The local Thrushes wander off by 20m50s (2005), and we're left with a period of distant mingling song before our first Song Sparrow shows up around 24m16s (2009). Song Sparrows are fun to listen to for their spritely personalities the range of songs each bird goes through. Individual pulls from a variety of distinct phrases to develop its own repertoire. It can be easy to be fooled into believing you’re surrounded by multiple sparrows, when it’s really just one. Check it out:
1h01m12s (2046) —  over the next 50 seconds this one individual pulls out four slight variations of the same theme.
Again at 1h06m24s (2051)
And again at 1h11m50s (2057) — he does it again over two minutes.

Take a listen to this ten minute stretch from 0623 the following morning https://soundcloud.com/soundeziner/20190717-long-swamp-dawn#t=1:55:50 It’s not necessarily the same bird from evening, but this is clearly one individual going through at least five distinct variations and many subtle permutations in one long sitting. So. Much. Fun.

Sun set this evening at 2047 or 1h02m31s, signaling the start of Dusk. It’s a common misconception that Dusk is the period before sunset. Just as Dawn ends with the sun’s rise over the horizon, so does Dusk start when it dips below. Dusk ends with Last Light and Civil Twilight makes way to Nautical Twilight at the same time. This occurs when the sun is about 6 degrees below the horizon. On clear days there’s just enough light for most outdoor activities that don’t require reading. Tonight that Changeover is 2127 at 1h42m31s.

This evening comes to a quiet close with what has long been one of my favorite mystery sounds at 1h49m45s (2124) This noisy insect — one of the few we have here in Washington — is a frequent, loud voice throughout the inland forests of the Pacific Northwest. I have yet to find a reliable identification of it. It often goes unnoticed due to its high pitch. The bulk of its acoustic energy is between 12.6kHz and 14.5kHz, out of range for many adults, especially males over 45. If you have a name for it, please leave a comment below or message me.

Long Swamp, Dusk, 2019-07-16

While taking my college-aged child on a 2020 quarantine-fueled road trip of some of my favorite recording places, we were gifted by the world with this beautiful Dawn Chorus near Forde Lake.

From the 0419 am First light through Sunrise, I wanted to know what the dawn sounded like to a tree. Hanging a pair of small omni in "tree ears" fashion about 6 feet up in a young Ponderosa Pine, we discovered that Lazuli Bunting and Spotted Towhee were in extreme abundance in the immediately proximate area. In the distance you can hear a variety of other voices, including California Quail, Ring-necked Pheasant, Sparrows of several varieties, Thrushes, Warblers, and my new favorite singer, the Yellow-breasted Chat.

Sinlahekin Tree Ears, 2020-07-02

While taking my college-aged child on a 2020 quarantine-fueled road trip of some of my favorite recording places, we were gifted by the world with this beautiful Dawn Chorus at Forde Lake.

From the 0419 am First light through Sunrise we listen to the world wake up through the canopy of deciduous coverage near the slow-moving Sinlahekin Creek. Light rain briefly patters on Quaking Aspen and Maple above and big leaf ground foliage below, and a wind tousles the leafs with a papery-breath.

This location was a favorite of several local Yellow-breasted Chat, but even they can't drown out the Wilson's Snipe, California Quail, and Veery.

Sinlahekin Dawn Chorus, 2020-07-01

While taking my college-aged child on a 2020 quarantine-fueled road trip of some of my favorite recording places, we were gifted by the world with this beautiful and dense Dawn Chorus at Long Swamp.

Starting in Astronomical Twilight at 0353 am, 23 minutes before First Light, and running through 40 minutes after Sunrise, this track features a wetland shrub area in Long Swamp and faint water burbles from Long Swamp Creek, while distant wash from drainage near campground provides a stable bed. The stage is set for a dense chorus that really get going around 10 minutes in. Included in the roster of voices and sounds are Olive-sided Flycatcher, Willow Flycatcher, Western Wood Pewee, Wilson's Warbler, Orange-crowned Warbler, Yellow Warbler, American Robin, Hermit Thrush, Swainson's Thrush, Lincoln's Sparrow, Song Sparrow, Savannah Sparrow, Ruby-crowned Kinglet, Warbling Vireo, Wilson's Snipe

Long Swamp Dawn Chorus, 2020-06-30

At 2.5 miles Ape Cave is the longest continuous lava tube in the contiguous United States, and the third longest in North America. Formed approximately 2000 years ago, it's difficult yet fun hike. From time to time I like to venture in and record all night (to avoid the disturbance of other hikers during the day).

In November 2019 I returned for another night of hiking and recording. This time I made sure to avoid the splats and smacks on backpacks from the previous trip. It didn't hurt, too, that I had much longer cables and could rest farther down the tunnel and around a bend than I could previously.

Ape Cave 2019 01

Field Recordist / Sound designer
Shhhhh. Listening to nature.

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Soundscapes For The Working Mind

Andy Martin, Field Recordist