When I walk the multi-use paths around my newly designed "urban infill" neighborhood, the people I meet almost invariably wear white headphones. It doesn't matter whether they are running or pushing a stroller, they all seem mid-workout, so I know there isn't going to be any chit chat. An unintended convenience for the wearer of the white wires is that they can be spotted from a distance, thereby signifying unavailability. It's a fair-warning of the listener's near-total disengagement from the social sphere. Though they may be in a public place, their behavior suggests preoccupation with something utterly private. You're lucky to get a "hi" out of anyone with headphones on, and you're supposed to know that ahead of time.
Headphones used to be black, with maybe some "chrome" accents. It was this way for decades. When Apple introduced the iPod the wires were suddenly a bold white. Apple had bucked convention right down to the tiniest detail. Now it's hard to find a set of earphones that aren't white, not that you would want them. Even the sketchiest of off-brands imitate the white Apple ear buds.
On my way down Mount Shavano in Southern Colorado earlier this summer, I was surprised at the stream of white-wire-wearing solo hikers that were on their way up the mountain. Though it's not a technical climb, any hike up above 14'000 feet in elevation would suggest you have your wits about you and pay close attention to every aspect of your environment. Particularly when you've gotten a late start, as these folks obviously had, and storm clouds have crowded the sky.
In full disclosure, I'm no stranger to the use of headphones. Though I'm irked by some of the sociological affects of headphone wearing, I know how critical a high energy mix can be to powering through a tough workout. I'll also admit I've dropped over a hundred dollars on a set of top-end ear buds just so I can get the extended audio frequencies a high definition source can deliver. Furthermore, I've worn the white headphones in public when I 'm not listening to anything at all, just to be left alone. And, outrageously, I have used them on top of a mountain. Which I can explain.
Even the easiest fourteeners can be extraordinarily demanding. When I first started hiking them, I noticed that lots of climbers perform some sort of ritual, or reward themselves with something special on the summit. After climbing a non-standard route on Gray's Peak in Colorado a few years ago, one of my climbing buddies took a kite out of his pack and flew it from the peak. Another produced a rotisserie chicken from her pack, which she proceeded to share with other hikers. I have seen flasks passed and cigars smoked. A friend of mine even reported seeing two young men with wooden Corn Hole game boxes strapped on their backs struggling up one peak. So it would be unremarkable to admit I've listened to my iPod on top of 14,196' Mount Yale, in the Collegiate Peaks Wilderness. I mention it simply because the music I listened to led me into something of an ecstatic state, which I'd never quite experienced before.
It's no coincidence that every religion I can think of equates mountains with holiness, or states of spiritual bliss. You might say it's all just the effects of endorphins and the thin air, but until you've gotten yourself up to a high summit under your own power, and experienced the intoxicating numinous weirdness of just being up there, you'll only be able to guess at its mechanics.
The music I chose to accompany my stay at the top of Mount Yale was Carl Orff's O Fortuna, a particularly over-the-top piece of mid twentieth-century classical music. Purists who resent pop culture's appropriation of this piece for everything from movie soundtracks to video games, dismiss it as high camp. It's sort of the Bohemian Rhapsody of classical music. But no matter, listening to a piece of over-the-top music on top of a mountain requires no justification. From the opening choral blast the effect was overwhelming. That critical little voice in the back of my head which rarely shuts off, tried to remind me that this experience was a contrivance. But the voice quickly fell silent. The world tumbled away in every direction. Far below, the shadows of cumulous clouds drifted across the forests. I did a slow 360-degree turn as the names of familiar peaks in the distance drifted away. Only three minutes later the piece was over and I was nearly in tears. Returning to my bodily senses, I looked over at my friend Donny, who was smoking a huge cigar. Donny doesn't smoke, so I had to guess his nicotine buzz had him at least as blissed out as I was. I unplugged my white iPod headphones and stashed them in my pack for the trip back down.
Pretending to be busy with my smart phone, I watch the father and son toss, drop, and chase their ball for several more minutes. The boy hardly says a word, which causes me to suppose he is used to his dad only being partly present. Imagine a six year old boy playing catch and not talking. But his dad is there. They are doing a thing together. Which is something.
I walk the block back to my house and try to inventory all the sounds I can. Air conditioners, a truck backing up. Traffic. Two jet planes. More air conditioners. Concentration reveals another layer of acoustics. Crickets in a hedge. Children playing in the distance. The crisp scuttle of an empty Cheetos bag blowing down the sidewalk. My own footsteps. And beyond the individual sounds is the way they describe a space. A brick corridor sounds different than an open field, even if the sounds in them are the same. On my way home I do not pass any other pedestrians. The sidewalk is empty in both directions. There are no conversations, short or long. But I'm ready for one should it happen.
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