Silence at Pictured Rocks

October 12, 2026

Greetings from the only voice,

Lake Superior is a living thing, an organism of such scale that it is difficult to exaggerate. It is beautiful and vibrant, and startlingly cold. It has a well-earned reputation for hostility, and a volatile temperament. 

None of that turbulence was present on the first day I walked along its shore, hiking a chunk of trail that wandered for over forty miles from one small town to another. The trail traces the edge of the cliffs that hold Superior in place, dipping down in places to spill into the rocky beaches.  The lake is my companion for many of these miles.  I can’t always see it but most of the time I can hear its ongoing conversation with the shoreline.

For the most part, the sigh from the lake and the wind in the trees are the only sounds other than my labored breathing. At the end of the first day, I recognize I am not ready for this, not yet. There is a conditioning that is necessary to carry this pack, to walk this distance.  But there is also this other acclimation I didn’t consider.  I am not accustomed to the silence, the place that holds the sound of only one voice.

I sit in damp sand on the edge of Superior, look at it bending the horizon for as far as I can see in either direction, stippled grey-green stretching away from the foamy edge outward to infinity. I am reminded of my scale in this place, I can identify with the grains of sand.

My phone is all but useless, so I only take it out of my pocket to take a picture.  The urge to look at the news or texts or emails was scrubbed away in the first hour.  There are no distractions from quiet, which makes the monologue in my mind that much louder.

In my backpack are what I think are the essentials; my tent, a few clothes, sleeping gear, food for four days. No books, no games, no temptations to fill the quiet.  I have a pen I brought as an afterthought, and I am scribbling notes on the one piece of paper I have; my backcountry permit. 

The sun dips into the trees as I finish my dinner and sit by my fire, watching the flames paint the sides of the logs I scavenged.   I douse the fire and gather my things into my little home, cozy in the cooling air.  I curl up in my bag in my tent and doze long enough for night to settle, and then I am awake again, listening to the one voice, waiting.  It muddles through a few questions about food and water. And then it is quiet.

Sometime later, I am awake in the cold dark tent, listening to the waves.  There is another noise, a sound I finally convince myself is a cello being played somewhere in the woods. I finally realize it is the foghorn at the lighthouse, miles down the coast.

It is hours until sunrise, but I roll out into the chilly morning. Even in the dark I can see my breath form in the air in front of me. Above me the sky is so clear, the stars so vivid, it is hard to look directly at them.  Between the tips of the trees, the Big Dipper, maybe the only collection of stars I know, is bold in the inky sky. The moon shines brilliantly between the branches, dapples silver-white in the packed sand around me.

I make coffee in the pool of my headlamp, listening to the relentless inhale and release from the big lake. The aroma of the coffee takes me back through countless other mornings like this, on the edge of a day full of adventure, and of silence.

I set off in the dim light, talking out loud, sometimes humming.  I follow the trail, meandering along the cliffs, then wandering deeper into the woods.  It threads between maples, skirts around pines, drops into steep crevices to meet streams and pulls itself up, scrambling up steep banks, roots carved into steps by generations of other hikers.

The trail is not entirely remote, but you have to want to be on it. I pass a few other hikers, mostly trade hellos, but some stop and we deal out nearly the same cards: where we started, where we slept last night, our gear, the weather, how we feel.  These quiet moments season the day, but for hours at a time I am alone with my own voice.

The voice makes plans. Where to get water, where we might sleep, would this be a good log to sit on and eat something? But then it is quiet, for a long time, before it poses other questions.

I sing songs, tell a few stories, just to keep myself company while the voice is waiting.  I’m surrounded by beauty, and so I am never bored.  A crow flies through the woods, its wings are loud as it crushes the air.  I come to the cliffs again and look down on Superior and the color has changed, now pale blue-green, as if the Aegean has washed up into Michigan.

The days tilt past, I sleep in a light rainstorm, and walk in fog, in sun, up steep cliffs, down into riverbeds, follow the stream hurrying to be part of Superior. I stand in the pebbles at the edge of the sand and crouch down and put my hand in the water.  The cold burns and tingles until my hands are numb. I rock back on my heels and hold my hands up until they feel again.

There is another ache, alongside the sore muscles and muttering joints. It is the feeling of being solitary, away from the noise of the world, in a place where the principal sound is that of the thoughts in my head.  I am out of shape, unaccustomed to this practice, but I also sense it is valuable and necessary. And, after a few days, welcomed.

It is autumn, and here in the north the trees are proud to be the first to show their colors. I walk past birch and oak and maple and others that refuse to be named. From the low brush along the trail, swarms of small birds whirl and wheel.  The voice asks again, if I’m happy, how I’ve changed, what I want next, what have I learned, what will I do differently? I trudge through the leaf litter, thinking of the answers, none of them in ink.

I have felt this, been in this place before, but it has been so long I am out of practice. It’s like meeting an old friend after too many years, and it takes a few days for us to know each other again.

The last morning, I wake in the dark, feeling change. The temperature dropping, a dampness in the air.  There are other hikers sleeping in tents nearby, I make my coffee in the moonlight, as quietly as I can. I am at the edge of this experience, a flickering moment in all my decades, but I am moving slow enough to see it.

Somewhere beyond the trail there is noise again. Cars, voices, laughter, a radio leeches tragedy into the diner. Doors slam, dogs bark, I walk through other people’s conversation about things that sound small and petty. The noise waits to absorb me.

But for this last bit of time, in the puddles of moonbeams, only my coffee for company, only the distant sigh of Superior, I’m grateful for ache of alone.  I’m happy, again, to hear the voice that matters.

Hope this finds you listening for the silence,

David

This essay was written by the author and does not include Ai content.

Copyright © 2026 David Smith