Music of Nature Podcast

May 17, 1993, 6am, Lake Louise, next to Chase Lake National Wildlife Refuge near Woodworth, North Dakota. © Lang Elliott. This is a binaural field recording. Please listen with headphones. It is dawn in a vast prairie wetland in central North Dakota. I sit quietly in my canoe, alongside a dense stand of cattails and rushes. The marsh is alive with bird sounds, but I am here specifically to record the resonant, gulping onk-ka-chonk (or pumper-lunk) of an American Bittern (also known as “thunder-pumper” or “water-belcher”)—hidden in thick vegetation less than a hundred feet away. The bittern’s bizarre mating call rings out over the marsh as if he were the soloist in the marsh’s grand orchestra of sound. How fortunate to be here now, but where exactly am I? And how on earth did I get to this very spot, scarcely a stone’s throw from the maestro’s lair? The story begins the day before. While exploring the Missouri Coteau prairie pothole region in North Dakota, I discover Lake Louise, an expansive marshy wetland that is a wellspring of natural sounds. At dusk, the soundscape borders on being cacophonous, but what interests me most is the hollow, resonant call of an American Bittern, which sounds off occasionally in the distance. I’m disappointed … I want a close and clean recording of the bittern’s call, but he’s very far away in an inaccessible part of the marsh. I’m not sure I will be able to home in on him, but a little voice inside says “It never hurts to try.” So, at around 3am, under dim moonlight, I paddle my canoe into a maze of shallow channels and patches of cattails and rushes, trying to thread my way across the marsh to the bittern’s location. Sometimes I lose my bearings and have to wait many minutes before he vocalizes again. Finally, after nearly two hours of frustrating dead ends, I find myself next to his hideout in a marshy thicket. I quietly creep forward in my canoe until I am just a stone’s throw away. I dare not make much noise or I’ll flush him. Barely daring to breathe, I carefully place my soundscape mic on my tripod and then lower it into shallow water. I attach my recorder to the top of the tripod, hit record, and then retreat just far enough away that the bittern will not see me when daylight arrives. My strategy works. At first light, the bittern bursts into action, calling about every thirty seconds, while numerous other marsh birds sound off in the background. I am elated! It has been a long and frustrating night—but worth every wrong turn! Against all odds, I have somehow managed to capture the bittern’s extraordinary onk-ka-chunk for all the world to hear!

Pigeon Roost at Picture Canyon - 17 May 2024, 7am, Picture Rock Canyon, Comanche National Grassland, near Campo, Colorado. Recorded by Lang Elliott. This is a binaural recording; please wear headphones. While exploring the Comanche National Grassland in southeastern Colorado, I visit Picture Canyon, known for its scenic vistas, unique sandstone rock formations, and prehistoric rock art. While I hoped to find something exotic to record, I instead stumble upon something mundane but welcome nonetheless. The high point is my discovery of a large communal roost of Rock Pigeons, nesting on ledges and in nooks and crannies along an extended sheer cliff rising about fifty feet above me. While this is the same species that is found in city parks around the world, I am thrilled by this rare opportunity to record their colony sounds, free of urban traffic noise and people talking. After spooking the birds, I hide in a clump of trees at the base of the cliff, and wait patiently for adults to return to their nesting site. Within a minute or two, several pigeons fly in, and before long the colony is alive with sounds. Pigeons coo while others arrive and depart in bursts of surprisingly loud wing claps and fluttering. It is satisfying to record these amazing sounds, much as they were heard thousands of years ago in rocky canyons and along oceanside cliffs across Southern Europe, North Africa, and Western Asia, long before the species was domesticated and eventually introduced to urban areas around the world.

Puffin Snorefest. 22 July 1994, 8am, Great Island, Witless Bay Ecological Reserve, Newfoundland. Recorded by Lang Elliott. In late July, I accompany two researchers to Great Island, a protected seabird sanctuary in Newfoundland’s Witless Bay. The island is the home to over 250,000 nesting Atlantic Puffins and the primary goal of my visit is to record their unusual buzzy snores, which sound like miniature chainsaws. This is not an easy project. The puffins nest in burrows in fragile grassy areas on steep slopes at the edges of sheer cliffs that drop straight down to the ocean. One slip and I might tumble headlong over the cliff and fall a hundred or more feet to the rocky shoreline below. To settle my nerves, I observe the puffins from a distance using binoculars and choose what looks like a good spot in front of a well-used burrow to place my microphone. Then I make my way to that location, causing many puffins to take flight. I step very carefully so as not to crush burrows or inhabitants hidden within. I place my microphone and then run nearly five hundred feet of audio cable back to our little research hut higher up the slope. From there, I patiently monitor the action through headphones. As expected, the puffins quickly return and soon there is a lot of vocalizing. What’s more, one puffin is very close to my microphone, standing at the entrance to its burrow and making for an exciting soundscape. All hail the Atlantic Puffin and its buzzy snoring call!

4/28/21 around midnight, Turkey Creek, Aravaipa Canyon near Klondyde AZ. NOTE: This is a ambient binaural soundscape; please listen with headphones! During a late April visit to the magical Aravaipa Canyon Wilderness Area in southeastern Arizona, I make my way to a remote side canyon where I camp under a large Cottonwood tree next to a small, gently splashing waterfall. The moon is full and a light fog hovers over the canyon. Around midnight, I am awakened by the distant melodic hoots of a Mexican Spotted Owl … hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-oh. I also notice the sweet up-slurred whistles of a fledgling, presumably anticipating a tasty treat. The exchange continues for several minutes until another owl arrives and delivers the meal. The fledgling squeals with delight and then settles down. Serenaded by the fledgling’s whistles and the very distant hoots of one of the adults, I soon fall back asleep. A Note from Lang: This is perhaps my favorite Spotted Owl soundscape. While I have many close-up recordings of the species, I prefer this gentle ambient rendition because it invites the listener into the multidimensional listening experience itself … the sounds of the owls set against the spacious drippy splashes of the waterfall and the whooshy rush of the stream that drains the falls. And all this happens within the sheltered walls of a narrow desert canyon, with a full moon piercing the fog and illuminating the cottonwood, so freshly leafed and towering above.

Calming Crickets and Forest Drip - 25 September 2017, 1am, Shindagin Hollow near Brooktondale, New York. Recorded by Lang Elliott. As autumn begins revealing its colors, there is still a pleasing insect chorus at night in the forested hills of upstate New York. In late September, after an evening thunderstorm passes through the area, I visit nearby Shindagin Hollow in search of soothing meditative nightscapes. Well after midnight, the sky clears. A half-moon illuminates the forest, gently filtered through light fog. I stand silently next to a small ravine. Leaves are wet and dripping steadily. Tree crickets trill from all directions and spring peepers call sporadically, even though their breeding season is long passed. At times, a barred owl hoots from far in the distance, barely audible. I feel fully embraced by this lovely, nurturing soundscape. There is nothing to analyze, nothing to think about, nothing to hold on to. There is only a sense of deep immersion, complete surrender, and effortless communion with this extraordinary place and time.