Hopkins At Night By: Claudia Corona 10/26/09
Being in the forest at night is an experience from another world. Not because we were scared or anything preposterous like that, but because it’s a different sight, a different feeling, a different atmosphere than what we are used to.
I say “we” because I brought a peer along who also wanted to see what the forest was like at night. And how was it like at night? Like nothing we’ve ever seen, literally.
It was a little after 8:30pm when we made it to the entrance of the Ford Glen Brook trail, and by that time, everything was pitch black. We could dimly see lights coming from a lone house across the brook, but the lights were only bright enough to illuminate inside the house, certainly not anything outside. Trees that normally blocked the sun out of the forest were now being were covered in layer upon layer of night. The wilting white snakeroots were no longer discernible and it was too dark for the ferns to openly boast their evergreen color to the surrounding dull brown vegetation. The dark atmosphere demanded quiet and we adhered, especially since I wanted to know what other creatures were up and about at this time and place.
Our first stop for audio recording was 100 feet from the beginning of the trail, and right before we had to get off the trail to go to the brook. Here we stopped and listened for sounds. In the distance, the audio recorder caught the sounds of the artificial owl call by the Rosenberg Center, which we had visited the week before during our owl trip. The artificial owl call sounded like a siren, constant and repeating, and one used to draw attention. But the siren wasn’t one of alarm, just of seeking. The rushing water traveling along in the brook was much more audible here than it had been some yards back. But hearing it wasn’t enough, I wanted to get closer to the brook.
With hopes of hearing a frog or two that maybe hadn’t yet migrated away, we went down to Ford Glen Brook. As we trekked down to the brook, the sound of rushing water became clearer and clearer, so clear, that even though we were about 15 diagonal feet from the brook (because it was too dark and dangerous to climb down the rocky slope), the resonance made us feel as if we were standing right next to the brook. The sound of the rushing water was a very constant one, and although it was calm and soothing, it lacked ribbits and chirps, so after a while, we decided to go back onto the path.
We voyaged back onto the trail and stopped. For some time we stood in complete darkness listening for sounds that might be out of the ordinary, not caused by wind, water, or artificial owls. After some time had passed, I decided to call it a day and so we marched back to our bikes. We still kept our ears open for hopes of hearing a bird screech or a bear roar, but our steps were too noisy. It hadn’t rained in a while, and so the leaves were still crunchy and loud when we stepped on them, which explains why a part of my audio recording is leaf stepping. We were trying to hear animals and got rambunctious leaves instead!
We were getting ready to hop back up on our bikes when suddenly, a cry coming from somewhere above in the trees, touched our ear drums. This sound was very different from the constant artificial owl call. Not having been prepared to record this sound, I took out the audio recorder, and hoped that this bird, most likely an owl, would call out once more. “Peo!”, we heard it again, now caught on tape; but we coudln’t pinpoint where the bird was! It was definitely a bird cry, but the sound wasn’t fast and loud like a shriek would be in a time of urgency. And it also wasn’t low and slow like a hum. It reminded me of a bird call. I understood it as the bird saying, “I’m here, where’s everyone else?”. After a few more calls, the bird stopped; satisfied with our finds we biked back home. Although I didn’t see the bird that called, the sounds I got on tape were worth it, because they show that there’s always an active world out there, even at night.