Three-fer Friday: Shhh… We're in Our Quiet Places

Once the holidays hit, finding a quiet moment can be–let’s call it–challenging. So, before we all get swept away, let’s take a trip to some extreme quiet. This week’s Three-fer Friday celebrates, to borrow Björk’s words, places that are “oh, so quiet [and] oh, so still.” Please take them along–or, of course, call up one of your own–during your Thanksgiving morning I forgot cranberry sauce! run to the market or the Ugh, I didn’t get a gift for Aunt Martha! trip to the mall the day before [insert whatever gift-giving holiday you celebrate here].

Joining us on our trip to shhh is Jim Morrison. Our kind of writer, Jim doesn’t put limits on the topics he covers. From Kentucky’s Bourbon Trail to Bruce Springsteen and wiffleball, it’s all fair game for Jim. He has written for magazines including–but certainly not limited to–Smithsonian, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, National Wildlife, and American Way. He’s also been known to post some Semi-Regular Raves ‘n’ Rants.

"...we walk slowly, silently, stopping often, awed by nature's eternal artistry." Photo by Jim Morrison.

After an hour of hiking through a stream bed and scrambling over slick rock, we turn the corner and the walls close in. Thanks to a drought, Lake Powell has fallen 150 feet unveiling this slot canyon, submerged for decades by a dam feeding the West’s unquenchable thirst. John Wesley Powell led the first expedition to Glen Canyon in 1869. My small group is the first in probably 50 years to reach this spot. Twin walls rise 60, 70 feet above us, the Navajo sandstone dramatically streaked with desert varnish. I’m reverent. There are no words so we walk slowly, silently, stopping often, awed by nature’s eternal artistry. It’s a chance to savor what writer John McPhee calls “the stillness of original time.”–Jim

A quiet that stays with her. Photo by Sophia Dembling.

My home is Dallas, Texas, my former home is New York City, and my heart home is Sebago Lake, Maine. I spent girlhood summers on Sebago Lake in the 1970s, at Camp Sunningdale (RIP). And in the mid 1980s, I rented a cottage there for a month-long writing retreat. That’s when I took this photo one morning. The only sounds were the gentle lap of water and rustling autumn leaves and the crisp air smelled of lake and pines. When Tom and I married in the early ‘90s, we rented the same cottage for our honeymoon. I haven’t been back since, except—often—in my heart, when I need peace.–Sophia

Going about their business. Photo by Jenna Schnuer.

There are faster ways to get from Yellowstone National Park to Salt Lake City International Airport than an off-season drive through Grand Teton National Park but I doubt there are any as rewarding. Though there were a few other cars driving through, I was on my own when I stopped to shoot the jagged peaks. And I didn’t have to worry that anybody was going to start hollering away hoping to see the animals go for a run. Instead, at a river-side stop, the bison took drinks from the water and grazed on the grasses–and I just watched them, completely at peace.–Jenna

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