By guest blogger poet Matthew Minicucci
Trillium Falls Trail, Redwood National Park
April 8th, 2018
It’s important to note, first, that I’m not a hiker. A walker, sure, but not a hiker. Not in that Northern California sense of the word. In the case of the above picture, I’m actually a listener more than anything. Ironic, perhaps, in reference to a photo, but true. Late one day I was four miles deep into the Redwood National Park on Trillium Falls Trail, just hoping to hear something in those ancient woods.
My newest book project, Epode, is a metrical examination of the soundscapes of the American West. On this particular day (of a four-day journey), I had been greeted by a park sign imploring me to “listen for the high-pitched hoots of the spotted owl or the rapid trills of the ever-present winter wren.” And so, ready to listen, I marched into the Sitka spruces and Douglas-firs.
Perhaps, in retrospect, “ever-present” might not have been the word they were looking for. There was neither a trill nor a hoot to be found. But, in the absence of those ubiquitous calls there was a slow boil from the churning falls; the hollowed-rubber thud of my shoes against fallen logs; and this simple sharp tap I heard exactly one time over the nine-hour length of the hike.
What was that sharp sound? Eventually I gleaned it was a single water droplet, fallen from the impossibly tall canopy; a simple sting against the tin cap of my exposed water bottle. A perfectly aimed shot, quite improbable, considering the distance fallen along the forest’s Y axis divided by my measured pace along the floor’s X axis (or some such hiking math). But, there it was. An undeniable ping. Naturally unnatural. Some sonic proof of that damp and perfect place brought into this world only by my very intrusion in it.
Matthew Minicucci is the author of two collections of poetry: Small Gods, finalist for the 2016 Green Rose Prize from New Issues Press, and Translation (Kent State University Press, 2015), chosen by Jane Hirshfield for the 2014 Wick Poetry Prize.