Sand dunes near Stovepipe Wells, in Death Valley. Photo: Craig Miller.The quietest place I’ve ever been was in a national park and I don’t think I’ll ever forget what it was like.

Now, okay, “quiet” is a somewhat subjective thing. When I lived on the upper (way upper) west side of Manhattan in the 1980s, any interval without hearing a car alarm seemed like blessed relief. Quiet can be measured, of course, with sound pressure meters. Anything below about 40 decibels is pretty darn quiet for most people’s purposes.

The National Park Service (NPS) says the quietest place it has yet measured is a spot in Great Sand Dunes National Park, where Vicki McCusker, who helps oversee the natural sounds program for the Park Service, says it was “bottoming out” their meters.

I’ve never been there but it’s hard to imagine greater quietude than an afternoon I spent in Death Valley. Coincidentally this was also on a sand dune, near Stovepipe Wells. It was also Christmas Day, which kept the tourist traffic to a minimum. It was at a point in my life when I was in desperate need of some deep introspection, so I parked my car along Highway 190 and trekked into the dunes, found an accommodating slope and sat down. Occasionally a fly (or something) would buzz by. Other than that, the loudest thing was the buzzing in my own head, which I can only hope would’ve been inaudible to anyone with me.

It’s interesting how, when things get really quiet, our bodies try to make up for it with ringing ears and internal chaos. The noted bioacoustician Bernie Krause talks about the time he and his wife, Kat were hosting guests from New York, who literally had to leave the Krause’s semi-secluded Glen Ellen “sanctuary” because the night-time quiet was creeping them out.

I asked Krause what he could draw from that. “Well, it tells me that we’re more insane than I ever thought in the first place,” he mused. “I mean, we’re definitely verging on pathological.  Because it’s exactly those kinds of sounds–the urban acoustic envelope in which we enfold ourselves–that kind of urban noise that’s driving up the numbers of prescriptions for Prozac.”

Surveys of national park visitors would seem to bear that out.  In the early 1990s, NPS surveyed 15,000 visitors in 39 parks, about noise issues (NPS manages 391 “units” nationwide, 58 of which are designated as “parks”). More than nine out of ten visitors surveyed cited “enjoyment of natural quiet” as a reason for visiting. This survey provided some juice for the ongoing natural sounds program in the parks.

An open question is: where does it go from here? Much of the current effort in the parks appears to be geared toward developing “air tour management plans,” a response to concerns that first arose over the increasingly crowded skies above the Grand Canyon. McCusker told me that while aircraft overflights are the most pervasive noise issue across the parks, the most common complaint is probably over loud motorcycles (note to “straight-pipe” Harley owners).

Krause, who conducted a year-long project documenting soundscapes in Sequoia-Kings Canyon National Park, hopes the research will also be used to develop new rules governing on-the-ground noise pollution. “If the parks can set aside places where people can go and hear the natural world as it is, at any season of the year, then that will be a really big benefit for visitors coming to the parks,” he says. “Otherwise, you’re seeing the parks with the wrong soundtrack. It’s like watching Star Wars without a soundtrack.”

So check out this four and a half minute “journey” I produced with Bernie Krause, founder of Wild Sanctuary. It takes you from the familiar cacophony of the urban soundscape to a serene spot in Sequoia Park.

QUEST on KQED Public Media.

Listen to the radio report, “Soundscapes of National Parks” online.

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The Quietest Place I’ve Been: Reporter’s Notes for Soundscapes of National Parks 9 May,2013Craig Miller

  • I think the quietest place I have ever been also was at a national park.

    I remember being in a snow storm that was so quiet I could literally hear the snow flakes hit the ground.

  • Now _that’s_ quiet. Where was that? I know from growing up in Syracuse that snow is one of the all-time great sound mufflers but a snowflake? That would have to come in at or below 0 db (a ticking wristwatch at one meter is around 0, according to the scale to which we linked). You must be waxing poetic here but I would love to hear from more people about their favorite quiet spots or any other sound-related anecdotes.

  • Fine piece, Mr. Miller. The quietest place I’ve ever been in the natural world is a box canyon at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Measured 3dBA. Nearly anechoic. All I could hear was the blood coursing through my veins. Scariest moment I can remember. Had to get out of there even though I had planned to camp for a few days. Headed back toward the river and the reassuring solitude of the sound of water.


Craig Miller

Craig is KQED’s science editor, specializing in weather, climate, water & energy issues, with a little seismology thrown in just to shake things up. Prior to his current position, he launched and led the station’s award-winning multimedia project, Climate Watch. Craig is also an accomplished writer/producer of television documentaries, with a focus on natural resource issues.

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