Cycling home one dark night from a friend’s house in the creepy darkness I have to pass by the community pool, where the heated water creates a miasma of Jack-the-Ripper fog and eternal pandemic vapors. I’m on the Amazon Creek bikeway in Eugene, Oregon in a light rain, with soggy temps, early spring.
There is little to no ambient light. As I approach a curve and consider slowing down, in case there are dog walkers or the random wildlife, I hear a buzz, a whipsaw, a digital beeper that won’t quit.
I am alone—no one else on the path, no voices from the basketball court. The sound only grows louder as I turn into the bend. It is a a high-pitched hiss as if electrical lines have come down and snaked across the path, the decibels in a range that would drive a person berserk.
Out in the field is standing water. Just like the steam rising off the heated pool, a sonic blanket hovers over the pond, entrancing me. I recorded an audio clip with my phone, then rode home.
I’ve since learned that Eugene is home to the Pacific chorus frog (otherwise known as the Pacific tree frog), and its name, Gudu-kut, is the Kalapuyan name for frog. Male frogs especially when encountering a rival will hit 87 decibel (dB) level. To put that in perspective, most human conversation occurs in the 50 dB range, and police sirens are at about 100 dB.
This chorus or wall of sound is my signal for spring.
INSTANT NOODLES 