And so we start again. Happy New Year everyone!

I picked this album to coincide with the new year because the field recording it is built on is, to me, a kind of tonic. It pulses with the sound of distant surf, wildlife, and a spring rain shower.

Recorded on April 10th last year at Agnes Creek Open Space, a 57 acre woodland in the heart of Lincoln City, Oregon, this soundscape features the low din of the ocean, the ebullient Pacific Wren, and a very nice ensemble of Varied Thrush adding their ethereal single-note song. In the distance we hear cheerful American Robins and Song Sparrows. In time, a Purple Finch and a Douglas’ squirrel take positions in the soundstage. Mixed flocks—bushtits and Chestnut-backed Chickadees primarily—pass through. It sounds like a thriving habitat, but it was not always this way.

The area was clear-cut in the 1960s. After that, it regenerated naturally, resulting in a very dense thicket of young conifers that became draped with invasive species. By 2000, when the city purchased the property with funds from an open space acquisition bond, it was overgrown and trash-strewn.

In 2013 the city conducted a selective forest thinning project, which improved forest health, and provided wood chips for a new loop trail. In 2016 a ribbon cutting ceremony celebrated carved benches and a footbridge created by local groups.

This environmental recording serves as a testament to the forces of both neglect and attention to create renewal. Yes, neglect. Don’t we all have issues we don’t tend to? We make resolutions and then fail to act on them. Sometimes that’s just a necessary step in natural rejuvenation, creating the necessary conditions for real transformation.

My composition takes cues from the low moan of the surf, with a variety of sampled and synthesized instrument voices selected to preserve space in the higher frequencies for the wildlife.

Coastal Forest is available under the artist name Listening Spot on all streaming platforms Friday, January 2nd, 2026. I’ve made it available here in its entirety with the idea it might be somehow useful. Thanks for reading and listening. And, again, may the promise of a fresh new year be a boon to us all!

Thanks for reading Soundwalk! This post is public so feel free to share it.

ps. For a deeper dive from, see also Field Report Vol 26: Nelscott by Chad Crouch available on all-but-one streaming services.

Hi Everyone. How are we? Are you OK? I’m OK. I’m just really grateful to be able to do this: to walk, listen, make music. To share it here. It’s a dream gig, really.

So for starters today, I think we should discuss the weird name of this week’s soundwalk. It comes from a log cabin built in 1907, as the first administrative site in the Olympic National Forest. Ranger Emery J. Finch constructed it for his bride Mabel, and they moved in on April 22, 1908. Word has it he chose the spot for a nearby fishing hole, which came to be known as Ranger Hole. But the name, recorded in early years as “No. 27 Interrorem Administrative Site,” remains something of a mystery. This rustic cabin is still standing proud, near the SE border of the park, and you can even book a stay for $58/night in the near future.

“Interrorem” is latin. It’s law jargon for a legal threat, meant to compel compliance without resorting to a lawsuit or prosecution. It’s basically what a cease and desist letter attempts to accomplish, and it is undoubtedly a primary objective of any ranger: to convey authority over a domain. It is not however, a term that would often enter the lexicon of an early 20th century ranger. It’s difficult to imagine Emery saying to Mabel, after putting his whipsaw and adze to rest, “This will be our home, dear. We’ll call it Interrorem.”

Some say it was a scrambling of the less fussy word “interim.” Seems like we’ll never know. The important thing for this story is that the trail I walked for this soundwalk is basically the same path Ranger Emery J. Finch wore into the once-primeval forest to go down to the Duckabush River fishing hole he prized.

The cabin itself is surrounded by Big Leaf Maple trees in a clearing, giving way along the trail to western hemlock, Douglas-fir, and western red cedar. The Olympic National Forest is famous for its temperate rain forests, and while this watershed may not see the 130” of annual rainfall the famous Hoh Valley does, it too is a mossy wonderland.

On this rainy day soundwalk we are greeted in the beginning by Varied Thrush, before the woodland seems to envelop the visitor in quiet. As the rain lets up a little, we hear Golden-crowned Kinglets and trailside rivulets before the surging Duckabush River comes into the fore. Clocking in at 19 minutes, it’s on the shorter side, but long enough to relax me into slumberland.

This is just a taste of what’s to come. We’ll hear more soundscapes from Olympic National Park in 2026! Thank you, as always, for joining me here, and for listening.

Interrorem Soundwalk is available on all music streaming services on December 12th, 2025.

The view from Morgan Lake looks more like Montana than Oregon to me. It’s big sky country.

Just 10 minutes up a gravel road from the eastern Oregon city of La Grande, Morgan Lake is mysteriously a world apart. From its shores you see only rolling prairie giving way to distant mountains. Situated on a ridge, Morgan and its sibling Twin Lake have an implacable mirage-like quality. The surrounding topography—the absence of enfolding contours—doesn’t readily explain their presence. There is no incoming stream to feed them. Subterranean springs pump water from an active aquifer hidden below.

I found myself on the lake shore on a breezy March Saturday. People were fishing nearby. The wind billowed through the Ponderosa Pine canopy. An osprey occasionally called out. Nuthatches passed through. Later on, White-throated Sparrows sing in the quiet, followed by a wayfaring Winter Wren.

As I’ve shared in the past, I like to program my releases in batches. This is the last in a trilogy located in the Pacific Northwest, east of the Cascade Range. It’s lodgepole and ponderosa pine country. Once again, the main character in this soundscape is the mesmerizing whisper of the wind in the pines. This particular day was dynamic; the breeze ebbed and flowed. Occasionally it howled.

The arrangement is super sparse. Honestly it would likely fail as a piece of music without the wind. The ratio of solos to duets is about 50/50. Most of my arrangements are comprised of at least duets, most of the time. I think I was responding to the sense of loneliness I felt in the physical space. The chord progression is progressive. Each part adds another chord and more harmonic complexity. There is a touch of minor color, which sounds a little unsettling. Though it was recorded in early spring, it strikes me as a wintry listen. I hope you enjoy it.

Morgan Lake is available under the artist name Listening Spot on all streaming platforms today Friday, December 5th, 2025.

It’s a Substack exclusive!

Natural Bridges was on the shorter side (11:34) so I didn’t slate it for a wide release. I hadn’t even listened to it for over four months, until a few days ago. It surprised me how good it was: how transportive, how intertwined, how gentle, how concise.

This all brings to mind the subject of confidence in artistry. A few years ago, when I was just beginning my explorations in environmental music—and while explaining what I’d been up to lately at a wedding reception—I decided to try on a few words: I’m the best at it.

My logic was this: being the best at something almost nobody does is really pretty easy—an absurdist boast—so why not frame it that way? Why not project seriousness with a touch of humor? (This was well before my stats on the leading streaming service increased, by the way, so it wasn’t any kind of posturing based on numbers.) Isn’t it what every artist secretly wants: to be the best at what they do?

So I said, “I make soundwalks. I record the sound of my walk and compose instrumental music to go with it. I’m the best at it.”

I scanned the table for responses. I was surrounded by musicians who were all more skilled than me, incidentally. I saw some thin smiles, but overall a muted response. Usually when I’m uncomfortable, I immediately follow up with a qualifying remark, but I was determined to let this linger. Then a friend I admire said something along the lines of, “I don’t know… the best, huh?” like he was challenging me to a soundwalk duel, or at least like he imagined I would go down pretty easily in a soundwalk duel. It was delivered like a line at a poker table. I couldn’t tell if it was casual or calculated, or both. In that moment, though, I decided that the bravado didn’t suit me. I laughed it off and switched the subject. The exchange helped me realize I don’t need to, or want to be the best. Being the best is defending a title. It’s not motivating, it’s not authentic. It’s conflict, it’s worry, it’s stress. No thanks.

But, I’m okay going on the record that this 11 minutes, 34 seconds of audio is good. In fact, maybe it’s the best 11:34 of environmental music I presently have to offer.

Natural Bridges is a geological curiosity and a short hiking destination in Gifford Pinchot National Forest in SW Washington state. The “natural bridge” features are the remnants of a lava tube cave ceiling that collapsed, created during lava flows 12,000-18,000 years ago. The site is in a quiet region of mountain prairies, lakes and coniferous forests.

Natural Bridges is only available (for the foreseeable future) to paid subscribers. Soundwalk is a reader-supported publication. Thank you for reading and listening. And, thank you for your support!