Two hours of driving, many more hours on ferries and we land on a minute island only to hop on our bicycles and pedal the roller coaster road to the other end.

Once there, a silence settles in. There is no construction. No sound of cars. No humming of generators or ACs or, really, anything at all.

There are birds and otters and trees gently swaying in the wind.

This is nice.

Other people are into this as well. We’re at a federal campground with just seven sites which fill up over the weekend.

Surrounded by an immense weight of nature we climb into our synthetic domes as night descends, crawl into our polyester and feathered sleeping sacs, nestle onto our inflated mattresses and pillows and join the chorus of crinkling sleepers dispersed at the far reaches of this remote island.

The silence of this quaint and peaceful slice of earth is filled with the echoes of a thousand bags of sun chips, which is only broken up by the rhythmic zipping and unzipping of tent doors and sleeping sacs.

This feels odd.

Is this the only way to enjoy nature? The only way to be amongst the silence and natural orchestra of nature itself?

We don’t bring our generators and motors and music and whatever else. But we bring the magnificent melody of top-of-the-line, lightweight camping gear that can be carried on bicycle where, seemingly, the lighter the weight, the louder the rustle.

Oh well, people settle in eventually and then the sound of night hawks marks the setting sun and sets the stage for the coming owl hunt in the dark hours of night.

Waking, I hear strangers lightly snoring and shuffling and—perhaps deer walking in the meadow just next to us. The sounds are all soft and conducive for waking slowly.

Then about twenty geese descend on the nearby shore in a torrent of flapping and splashing. My conscious piques. My attention is fully on the waking world and the day begins as dreams are abruptly left behind.

We call this camping. And I suppose it’s a nice thing to do.