I try to respectfully place myself into the natural environments I visit for these earthloops sessions. After all, these places are wild and remote, many of which have probably never seen the presence of a human, or at least not for years, potentially hundreds of years. To show up is to disrupt. I have my drums, I make noise, my dog is with me and acting like a dog, I smell strange. And even when I leave no trace, do I really leave no trace? 

But I do accept the trace that I leave. As far as I know, we humans are too a part of the earth, a part of nature. The problem is that most of us have become so distant from this truth that we connect with the non-connection, the separation. With separation comes an attitude of “us against them,” “me against you,” or here, “human against nature.” I try to avoid this. Because within the truth lies the interconnectedness of life. 

Take us out of our comfy artificial environment, and drop us in the middle of a remote wilderness, and we will realize very quickly that the playing field has been leveled. In this environment, we exist on nature’s terms. We are no stronger than the mouse running from the fox. Or the fox running from the bear. It’s in this vulnerability, this feeling of smallness, that we can finally connect with the feelings of oneness. Suddenly we can look into the eyes of a squirrel with understanding. The trees seem to have breath now when they sway in the breeze. Even the rocks, big or small, become illuminated with personality.  

If we’re paying attention, we can see such personalities in all that exists, whether labeled as sentient or not. Although, I suppose it’s easier for us to make the connection when we’re seeing a subject that is also seeing us, with eyes like ours. In this, we have a clear commonality. 

This brings me to the experience I experienced from this Mountain Pond session. There is much life to be discovered amongst a mountain pond. I was able to see this because my eyes were open – my senses engaged on this level playing field. So allow me to tell you the story of what led me to the pond, and what awaited me upon my arrival. 

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I was looking for something more comfortable leading up to this session. The past three trips were in mountain stream beds at elevation. Although these locations were all uniquely beautiful, they were nonetheless cold, claustrophobic, and unforgiving. So I had something a bit warmer in mind. Maybe a spot with some open views where air and sunlight could mingle with my experience. Perhaps along the south end of a remote pond or lake would be nice.

Situated in a valley to the southeast of Mount Whiteface in New Hampshire, Flat Mountain Pond looked like an ideal location for this recording adventure. I packed up the truck, grabbed the dog, and made the 1.5-hour drive to the trailhead. I felt a bit exhausted, having not fully recovered from the previous session, but decided to push through. After all, the day was warm and filled with sunlight. The forecast for the next few days was to bring more of the same. This was most certainly a gift that needed to be accepted.

The hike was gentle and around 5 or 6 miles to the main pond. The spot I had in mind was on a smaller inlet just north of the main pond. I assumed a bushwhack, potentially through swampy terrain, but ended up on a well-established animal trail. As luck would have it, there was a nice level spot at the end of this trail facing south over the pond. This would be my borrowed home for the next few days. 

As I was setting up camp, I discovered this temporary home to be much more so for many others. At first, I noticed the sounds of the birds, and there were many. Not just your typical chickadees and robins, but a whole soundscape of abstract audibles that I couldn’t identify. The frogs were everywhere. Some with high-pitched chirps, and many with low-pitched burps. Bullfrogs I believe. Later in the day (and every day) the beavers were active, swimming around in circles slapping their tails on the surface with loud smacks. The following morning, a moose. It was on the other side. So tall it could walk through the pond, and so big it seemed closer than it was. 

All of these friends, with their different antics and voices, made their way into the recording. Some literally, with their audible voices. Some spiritually, by affecting the human drummer’s perception with their presence. They were probably wondering why this weird human was here hitting things and making strange sounds. Understandable. 

My understanding became more understanding from this exposure, this immersion. 

When I was a child, I liked to frolic, as did the beavers when swimming. 

As I’ve gotten older, I realize my happiness is dependent on the amount of freedom I have – and what’s freer than flying through the air, singing out loud the voice of your own? The birds of the pond know this. 

We’ve all dreamt of walking on water. When you’re a moose, maybe you can just walk through it.

I bathed myself in the pond. A cut on my leg dripped blood, attracting many leeches to my skin. They were hungry. When hungry, I also experience a strong attraction to food.

Music for us is art. If you’re like me, it’s not really a decision, more of a calling. There’s an expression that needs to come out. The pressure relief valve needs to be bled. The bleeding of these creations gets spread around. Perhaps it becomes food for others’ expression. Perhaps it can be food for your expression?

I talk about things and include some voice-memo notes recorded the day of this session – if you’re interested, that’s over here.

Cheers,

Bill