If there is a God of Silence, he resides in a craggy homestead at Sheldon National Wildlife Refuge in northwest Nevada. There are no lawn mowers at Sheldon, no leaf blowers or Ninja bikes to assault the inner ear. There’s a road, but in early September, no cars are on it. There is only blessed quiet, save the clapping of a grasshopper and a lone bird’s song.
I sit beneath the shade of a juniper at the base of Yellow Peak, where I’ve hiked with Steve. The path is rugged and deeply rutted, owing to a rainstorm some six days prior. The air smells of sage and is as dry as paper, the sky a cerulean blue. A body can see forever. And at night, when the moon rises, an owl hoots from a fence post. There is the rustle of a sleeping bag and a low, contented sigh. And then there is nothing for six full hours, when the day begins anew.
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