Silent Hike
Walk, minus talk
We’re walking on a mountain trail, 15 of us. I’m at the front of the line. At the end of the line is our “sweep,” the woman who volunteered to carry the first aid kit in her daypack.
Normally, a group this size would be making a substantial amount of noise as they hike through the forest. Not us. The only sounds this morning are the “tea-kettle” trill of a Carolina wren and the crunch of our footsteps.
Before we started our walk, I passed out little stickers to everyone and we patted them into place on our T-shirts. Each sticker displays two words in bold black letters. If we pass other people on the trail, hopefully these stickers will explain why we’re not saying good morning.
For this hour in the woods, we won’t be greeting others. We won’t be discussing the weather or politics or our children. If there’s a pretty wildflower or an interesting tree stump by the side of the trail, no one is going to exclaim over it.
Each of us will be walking in our own capsule of quiet. We have chosen Noble Silence.
Ten years ago, when I started leading what I call “Silent Hikes,” I wasn’t sure anyone would show up. Who’d want to walk in the woods with a group of people and not say a word the whole time? What’s the point of that? And it’s true: Some people wrinkle their noses when I explain the concept. Most folks on a nature outing enjoy the conversation with their companions as much as they enjoy the scenery.
To my surprise and delight, our first Silent Hike filled to capacity – and that’s what happens nearly every time I offer one. Four times a year, near each equinox and solstice, I choose a different trail and put the word out to my mailing list.
Those four Saturday mornings are perhaps my favorite days of the year. I don’t charge a fee for the Silent Hikes, because I’m sure I enjoy them as much as my guests do.
Time after time, there’s a core group of regulars who return. Some are meditators attracted by the idea of bringing their practice into the woods. Others – the curious first-timers -- see it as an intriguing challenge: Can they survive an hour of hiking without talking? Some people show up simply because they need a break from their noisy, jam-packed lives.
As we gather at the trailhead, I explain about the concept of Noble Silence – how it’s a gift we give ourselves. It means that we can be in congenial company with others, but we don’t have to make polite chit-chat. We can experience human connection without the banal blah-blah-blah.
I also tell the hikers how I borrowed this concept from meditation retreats. I suggest that it actually can be pleasant, being among others without having to speak or interact. I assure them that even though the silence might feel awkward at first, within a few minutes they’ll relax into it.
And then I tantalize them by hinting that their experience of the forest will be richer when they’re not distracted by conversation. They’ll notice more colors and textures. They’ll hear more birds and squirrels. They’ll spy more insects. They’ll fully appreciate the aroma of the air, the sunlight on their skin.
I encourage them to take their first step onto the trail as if they’re a wild animal -- senses alert, quivering.
And then we start out, a single-file line of quiet, expectant creatures.
The interesting thing about Noble Silence is that it’s not something foreign, a contrived practice we do only during a meditation retreat or a Silent Hike. It’s really our natural state. Before humans had words, we had silence. So choosing to walk in silence, even for a few minutes, is returning to our roots.
Several years ago, I visited the Muir Woods National Monument in California. That’s the place where ancient redwoods hold court. Silent, majestic trees as tall as skyscrapers. They’re breathtakingly huge. As you walk beneath them, a reverent hush falls over you. The soundless sound of awe.
Near the entrance to the forest, there’s a sign urging visitors to talk softly, turn off their cellphones, and keep kids under control. Farther along, in the heart of the forest where the tallest trees grow, a simple sign announces that you’ve arrived at a place called Cathedral Grove. And then, two words: “enter quietly.”
Yes. Quiet. Noble Silence. Can we yield to its holiness?
At various points during a Silent Hike, I stop the group.
For a minute or two we stand in place, right there on the trail. I let them know at the beginning of the hike that whenever I halt our walk like that, they can use the short pause to re-collect their wandering mind. It’s a chance to recognize that our brains tend to fill outer silence with inner chatter.
As we stand there motionless, I hope my hikers are experiencing, even if for only a moment, the relief of Noble Silence – both verbal and mental.
By the end of the hike, most groups don’t want to leave the quiet. They come off the trail slowly, reluctantly.
“Does anyone want to share about your experience?” I ask.
They usually just gaze at me, faces soft and eyes radiant. It’s hard to speak again. Sometimes we simply stand in a circle and smile at each other.
I want them to be able to take their experience of Noble Silence with them, back into the cacophonous world. So, as a benediction, I read them this teaching. It comes from a Taiwanese Dharma master named Hsin Tao:
“Hear the silence in the mountains and rivers, the great wide earth, the sky. Eventually, the whole universe will fall into deep silence. Perceive that same deep silence in yourself.”
What a delightful practice. I'll be leading a night hike next month. Perhaps after that, I'll move toward offering something like this.
I love that we can choose silence, even as a group activity.