Fantastic story, Abhijit. I felt like I was there. I appreciate you
sharing your fears as well. I think listening is a practiced skill.
Often I will close my eyes and see just what I can hear. It's amazing
what gets ignored in just casual listening. Really well written
piece which I am going to save so I can read it again!
----------------------
Suzanne
Suzanne Williams Photography
http://web.tampabay.rr.com/swilli41/www
Florida, USA
--- In Abhijit Menon-Sen <>
wrote:
>
> I lurk on naturerecordists-L because I hope to record birds
someday. I
> have been slowly assimilating equipment recommendations and
recording
> techniques (in theory) over the past year, to say nothing of
enjoying
> the recordings other people have posted.
>
> In the meantime, I use the stereo head-mounted microphones I was
born
> with, and store the recordings in slow, unreliable biological
memory.
>
> A friend and I went up to the Kumaon Himalayas in mid-February,
with a
> new tent and five days of vacation time. We camped for two nights
near
> Vinayak looking for Cheer Pheasants (Catreus wallichii; heard many,
saw
> none), then drove to the Sat Tal ("Seven Lakes") area. We tried to
pitch
> the tent there, but a sudden violent hailstorm intervened, and we
spent
> the night drying our gear in front of a room heater in a hotel.
>
> This post is about the next night, our last in Sat Tal before we
headed
> back to Delhi the next day. My friend ate something that disagreed
with
> him, and felt unwell enough to return to the hotel. I had found a
nice
> camp site while hiking during the day, but the evening brought
rapidly
> fading light and ominous thunder from just over the hill.
>
> What to do?
>
> I pitched the tent in a clearing in the forest beside Panna Tal. It
was
> almost dark when I got the fly sheet securely staked down, and I
still
> hadn't convinced myself that this was a good idea. That afternoon,
the
> Pradhan (head) of Mehragaon (a nearby village) had treated me to a
rant
> about increasing crime rates in the area and, as an afterthought,
told
> me a story about a Leopard having snatched a dog from his house a
few
> nights before; and there I was, alone in the forest, a couple of
> kilometres from the nearest human habitation.
>
> I got in, and zipped the tent door shut.
>
> Fifteen minutes later, I was in my sleeping bag, watching light
from the
> moonrise filter in through the roof of the tent. I was lying in a
large
> clearing at the foot of a hill, between the road to Sat Tal (some
fifty
> metres behind me) and Panna Tal (barely twenty metres from my
feet). The
> road ran flat and straight for a few hundred metres along the
forest's
> edge, but otherwise wound its way up the hillside to Mehragaon (to
my
> left) or, in the other direction, downhill to Sat Tal.
>
> The first thing I noticed was the stereo field: I could hear cars
coming
> downhill, starting all the way at the top, far to my left, slowly
moving
> closer to my head and then, as the road curved back, moving to the
left
> again, but not as far away as before. Three loops, getting closer
each
> time; accelerating on the short straight stretch, and shooting past
my
> head and into the right side of my "view", then receding slowly.
>
> (Lying there in the dark, straining my ears to hear footsteps or
wild
> animals, I learned a valuable lesson about handling noise: every
time
> I thought I heard something moving around outside the tent, it
turned
> out to be my trousers rubbing against the sleeping bag, or the
zipper
> of the bag clicking, or something similarly innocuous (wait, is that
> handling noise or self noise? :-). But I relaxed, took deep breaths,
> and was eventually able to lie quite still and focus on sounds that
> really originated outside the tent.)
>
> As night fell, the traffic slowly ceased. It didn't feel like it was
> going to rain (despite the earlier thunder), and there wasn't much
of
> a wind either. In the comparative silence, I slowly began to be
aware
> of more and more hitherto unnoticed sounds.
>
> The forest around me was filled with the sounds of twigs snapping
and
> leaves settling. An occasional gust of wind would touch the
clearing,
> making the fly sheet rattle, blowing a few leaves around, making the
> trees whisper. If I strained my hearing, I fancied I could hear the
> lake's edge lapping at some stone steps on the bank. I heard some
thin,
> Minivet-like whistles, but they stopped quickly, and were not
repeated.
> I could hear small animals (squirrels?) moving about in the forest
and
> scampering away after being frightened by something I couldn't
hear. A
> few times, I heard something scrabbling and scratching in the leaf
> litter on the hillside (Pheasants? But at night?).
>
> Some distant Red-Wattled Lapwings (Vanellus indicus) -- unexpected,
but
> unmistakable, with their panicked "Did heee do it?" calls -- took
alarm
> at something and took off in their wheeling flight, as they tend to
do
> at the slightest excuse. A flock of Slaty-Headed Parakeets
(Psittacula
> himalayana), disturbed in their sleep, called a few times to make
sure
> everything was all right (toooi?), and then settled down again.
>
> Suddenly, very close by, I heard a flock of Geese in flight, with
their
> loud, haunting, discordant cacophony of honking drowning out
everything
> else. I hadn't expected to encounter any Geese in the mountains,
and I
> was comforted by the familiarity of the sound. I heard the flock
start
> down the hill and fly over my camp site, and land in the lake with
an
> occasional honk and many quiet splashes.
>
> Not far away, a Mountain Scops Owls (Otus spilocephalus) started up
its
> measured, monotonous "pink pink" call, a sound that was repeated
through
> the night by different individuals, sometimes without pause for
half an
> hour or more. I'd spotted an Asian Barred Owlet (Glaucidium
cuculoides)
> sitting in a bare tree while looking for a camp site; and now and
then,
> one of them would pipe up with a quavering "oop-op-op-op-op", then
fall
> silent again. I also heard a deep Bubo-like "hoo-hoo" call a few
times,
> but I don't know what it was.
>
> Another intriguing call that I could not identify was an
accelerating
> series of "hoo"s, starting with widely spaced notes and ending with
a
> Dove-like crooning rattle: "Hoo [pause] hoo [shorter pause] hoo
[short
> pause] ho... ho-ho-h-h-h" (Imagine dropping a marble on the floor
from
> a height. This call fit that pattern in its execution). There
seemed to
> be only one individual, and it repeated this call several times,
with
> pauses, at around 2200, but much less frequently later at night.
>
> One sound that featured in my recording only by its absence,
thankfully,
> was the rasping cough of a Leopard. I've never heard one before,
but by
> all accounts, I would have been able to recognise it... I certainly
was
> paying attention! But if a Leopard came to drink at the lake that
night
> (as I'd been told they often do), it arrived and departed in
silence.
>
> But there were plenty of sounds to keep me guessing. I could hear
grunts
> and sighs from the forest, Langurs coughing, an occasional Barking
Deer
> breaking the silence with its sharp bark, and being answered
somewhere
> up the hill. Twigs kept snapping as things moved about in the
shrubbery.
> There was a pained, long-drawn-out groaning noise ending in a quiet
sigh
> (which I hoped was only a frog!). Branches creaked as they settled
into
> their sleep, and I heard the occasional mouse-like chittering (but
could
> only imagine the interested Owls nearby). As night wore on, I also
heard
> what sounded like grass being quietly munched irregularly somewhere
in
> the clearing.
>
> At some point, I drifted off to sleep.
>
> I woke up before dawn, and was surprised to realise that I'd slept
very
> well. Over the past few days, I had grown used to waking early, to
the
> loud, harsh "Kok-KOK-kok-kok" calls of the Koklass Pheasant
(Pucrasia
> macrolopha), but it was eerily quiet in comparison. There was no
wind,
> no creaking trees, no insects, not even distant bird calls, nothing.
>
> As I stuck my head out of the tent, a started Barking Deer bounded
away
> from the clearing, and in the silence, I set to taking the tent
apart.
>
> -- ams
>
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