I wasn’t sure what to expect from the soundscape of the Smoky Mountains in October. I’d been there in the fall 25 years ago, but my memories were mostly confined to images, and a generalized sense of topography. What I found on return was a soundscape of crickets in the valleys, stridulating in a glacial crescendo—from a murmur in the afternoon to a full-blown cacophony in the gloaming of dusk. This was not new to me. It was the sound early autumn from my childhood, living among fields and orchards on the fringe of suburbia.

The soundscape that was truly novel to me, that I’m sharing today, has a little bit of that: the breathing hum of crickets in the early evening. But the real soundmarks come from mammals—squirrels, more plentiful and more active than I can ever recall hearing. This was the sound of peak mast season.

What is mast season? Mast was a term that was new to me. It is taken to mean the food that comes from bushes and trees: fruits, nuts, and seeds. “Hard mast” is principally acorns, beech nuts and hickory nuts, here in the Sugarlands, the western foothills of the Great Smokies. A “mast year” is a particularly abundant year for acorn and nut production, and every indication suggests 2025 was a genuine mast year in southern Appalachia. A 2025 article described, “oak production as the heaviest since 2012, with beech crops heavy enough that ground beneath beech trees was ‘littered with hulls... after squirrels feasted.’"

I was hearing a squirrel feast! Here in the Sugarlands, hardwoods and oak forest commingle, so there's a lot of mast dropping in a small area. Squirrels get frantic and vocal during the harvest push before winter arrives—chattering, barking, leaf-rustling, and branch-shaking as they work the canopy.

It was this abundance, this sense of life in the trees that encouraged me to reach for woodwinds and harmonium-like sounds in my composition. I wanted it to conjure that peace that comes after a hard day’s work feeling. The music bears more than a passing resemblance to my vinyl LP release Wildwood Trail Soundwalk earlier this year. Both are built up very simply with eight slowly morphing chords per movement, stacked in equal measure, set in a slow, breathing tempo.

I rarely have the conviction that any one album is a good starting place for getting to know my work, but as I listen now and write this, it strikes me that this may at least be more accessible than many others. The music is uncomplicated, warm and reassuring. The sound of humming crickets, the rustle of crisp leaves, the crystalline “kuk-quaa” of squirrels chiming out, all come together in a soothing velvet haze—like the “Smoky” blue air from the faraway mountaintops coming down to settle in the valleys, in the slow transition to nightfall.

Thanks for listening and reading along. Appalachian Autumn is available under the artist name Listening Spot on all streaming platforms Friday, October 16th.

Last year, around this time, I travelled to Durham, NC for a record label conference. The city reminded me of Eugene, OR, where I went to school for a short time. Both are university towns. Durham has a bigger population, and is just one node of a much larger urban area, but the downtown cores are similarly compact, pedestrian-friendly, and relatively quiet.

My mission at the conference was to figure out how to grow my business and innovate my way toward prosperity. A tall order. Given that my business model is hyper-niche—capturing environmental recordings and creating instrumental musical suites—I was sifting ideas and prospects, feeling good about taking time to reflect and plan.

As I walked to an evening event downtown, I was taken in by the sound of crickets in a sparsely filled surface parking lot. We have crickets in Oregon, of course, but perhaps not as many in our cities. The sound was both familiar and novel. I had my Sennheiser binaural headset in my pocket, and decided to capture the moment. From there I took a meandering walk into the heart of the city. This is one of my first urban soundwalks in the US—something that had long occurred to me to do, but never seemed particularly promising, aesthetically or commercially.

But, as I was feeling the sensory excitement that comes with being in a new place, I reasoned it was high time to experiment. I let my ears lead the way.

There are urban sounds throughout the recording, but they largely seem confined to the auditory horizon. The near field sound of the city is so quiet it could almost read as pastoral. As I padded into the downtown blocks, a fountain in the plaza of the Durham Convention Center beckoned me toward it. The shimmering sound put me in a kind of audio trance. I just stood there for several minutes—long enough to become self-conscious—figuring passersby might take me for a tweaker staring at the ground. I took a photo of the sidewalk to memorialize the moment.

I felt a peace wash over me there, surrounded by people, cars, trains, energy, life. It was all very ordinary, but as I stood listening, I began to sense the extraordinary qualities of it too. I know that might sound hokey, but it’s true. I tried to convey that feeling in the score. Maybe it will translate, listening to it? That’s the hope, anyways.

Once again, thanks for reading along and listening. Durham Night Soundwalk is available on all music streaming services September 18, 2026.

What is the hike up to Burnt Lake without the greyed spectral snags of ancient old growth, killed, but not entirely destroyed, by fire? Would it be like walking through a graveyard with no gravestones?

The stand of trees along the trail is uniform, almost homogenous. A mix of hemlock and Douglas-fir.

Scattered among these conifer poles are columns, smoothed and greyed, sometimes hollowed out. They can measure four times as large in diameter.

These are the markers of the great fire that gave Burnt Lake its name.

The forest fire of 1904 started from a homesteader burning slash near what is now Rhododendron, on Aug 25th of that year. Dense smoke engulfed the slopes, reportedly blanketing Government Camp so heavily that visibility dropped to under half a mile. Another fire in 1906 burned off what the first one didn’t consume.

On my way up I stopped at locations that struck my interest, both visually and sonically. Due to technical difficulties with my ancient iPad, however, I only made three sketches on this outing. The first was where a spring rivulet meandered with the trail:

When I arrived at the lake, the mountain was obscured by clouds.

The clouds were moving; shredding, scattering, opening, closing. The effect was tantalizing, revealing glimpses of Mount Hood, a looming sentinel across the valley at 11,250 ft tall.

Burnt Lake is a glacial tern. As alpine glaciers expanded from the crest of Zigzag Mountain in the Pleistocene, ice carved out a steep-walled cirque amphitheater beneath East Zigzag Mountain. The lake basin is scooped directly out of volcanic rock. Morainal deposits impound the water, allowing snowmelt and spring water to pool into the basin.

The clouds brought rain; short bursts of precipitation playing the placid lake surface and leafy margins like a chorus of little drums. I sat on a log absorbing it all, sketching the scene on my iPad. While my second attempt adorns the cover at the top, my first quick study looked like this:

Thanks for reading along and listening. Burnt Lake is available on all music streaming services Sept 4, 2026.

Today we are visiting Holland Park in west central London.

But before we do, let’s zoom out. If you look at a map of central London you’ll see, within the spiderweb of roadways fanning out from the Thames, hundreds of small green rectilinear plots.

Where I live, on the west coast of the United States, this symbology tends to translate as parks or open spaces, accessible to the public. Not so in London. The majority of these smaller bits of green are private parks; fenced, gated and surrounded by tall hedges. You need a key to get in.

Thankfully the much larger green spaces, including the Royal Parks, are open to the public. The Royal Parks trace back to Henry VIII seizing land for royal deer hunting. In Hyde Park, Kensington Gardens, Regent's Park, and five others you’ll find a mix of woodlands and meadows, where Londoners now gather to commune with the naturalistic landscape in genuinely massive numbers.

Holland Park is something of an outlier in this mix. The 54 acre site dates back to the 1600’s as the private gardens of Cope Castle, a mansion originally built on a 500 acre estate for Sir Walter Cope. The Youngest of Cope's daughters married Henry Rich, who became the 1st Earl of Holland in 1624, giving the house, and eventually the park, its name. Much of Holland House was destroyed in Blitz bombing raids. An Act of Parliament in 1953 finalized the sale of the estate to the government, with part of the grounds opened to the public that year.

Holland Park feels smaller and more intimate than its acreage suggests. It’s quiet. Its few discrete entrances contribute to this feeling of privacy and intimacy. It’s also compartmentalized. It’s rigidly formal in the Dutch Garden;

While woodlands sprawl on the north side;

And a unique blend of the two near can be found near the center, in the Kyoto Garden:

And so, it does not sound like the Royal Parks. There are far less visitors, more wildlife density, and less traffic noise from boulevards on the margins. To put it plainly, it’s my kind of city park.

For my soundwalk score, I sought to capture the relaxed and hushed feel of the park in musical movements using electric piano, synthesizers, tuned percussion, electric bass, and woodwinds.

Thanks for reading along and listening. Holland Park Soundwalk is available on all music streaming services August 21st, 2026.

Author’s Note: I mixed up my dates, so this post arrived one week early. My new release for this week is Amsterdam Dusk, available under the artist name Listening Spot, on all streaming platforms today, Friday, August 14th.

Before I begin, just a quick plug for my son, Sam, who I’ve mentioned briefly on here. Today marks the release of his first single, ever; “Tides”.

Sam has developed really quickly in the last year. He started composing his own songs six months ago, and started making recordings just three months ago. He has a handful that are finished, but is in no particular hurry to release a debut album. “Tides” showcases his ear for melody, as well as the ease and expression he brings to the piano bench. Daily he fills our house with beautiful music, and now yours can be too!

He asked me to make a cover, and I obliged with a construction paper collage that embraced the sun-bleached edges:

Favorite, add, share, and smash that follow button wherever you stream music!

Now, on to today’s soundwalk:

Amsterdam has several lovely parks. Vondelpark is not the biggest, nor the most serene, but it is the oldest and perhaps the most beloved. It’s just so comfortable. It vibrates with life. It’s distinctly beautiful.

The park almost feels like a series of outdoor living rooms. Every one is apportioned an open space, often a meadow, that gracefully embraces its visitors and beckons them to stay.

Visitors can also find a quiet corner, among stately houses; a cafe overlooking a pond; a contemplative honeycomb garden; a sunny wading pool; a bench in the shade.

On a summer night it seems like the park can accommodate thousands, affording the visitors a rich experience of togetherness without feeling crowded or overly noisy.

This soundwalk was recorded on August 13th, nearly a year ago as I write this, in the pleasant afterglow of a warm summer day. Park visitors were spread out on blankets enjoying each other’s company, amongst the boisterous calls of Rose-ringed Parakeets. Cyclists clicked past with a little less urgency than during the day. The register of ease and joy can be heard within indiscernible snippets of passing conversations.

To say I was charmed by Vondelpark is an understatement. I was bowled over. I wanted to do right by it with the music I composed for the soundwalk. I tried to incorporate intimate, convivial moments amongst broad sweeps; moments of steady tempo, and free time, moments that whispered and moments that welled up.

Thanks for reading along and listening. Vondelpark Soundwalk is available on all music streaming services today, July 31st, 2026

A short post today, for a short piece. First off, one thing to be clear about is this is not Newcastle upon Tyne, UK Soundwalk. This is Newcastle, Northern Ireland, UK, at the foot of the enchanting Mourne Mountains. It’s quite a charming little seaside town. Not too posh, not too shabby. Maybe this even comes through in the environmental recording?

Newcastle just feels so tucked-in. You can hop on the trail that starts just above sea level on the south end of town and hike all the way up to Slieve Donard, Northern Ireland’s tallest peak. Pretty remarkable really, and a stunning landscape.

I did make a recording of said hike, but have not set about composing music for it yet.

This short vignette of a piece came with the same sense of discovery and happenstance that accompanied landing in the little town by chance for a night last summer.

Thanks for tuning in. Newcastle UK Soundwalk is available on all music streaming services today, July 24th, 2026

PS. Last week I released another miniature album. Otter Point marries the sounds of the southern Oregon Cast with a composition for electric piano, synth, and dulcimer that plays well with this one, I think. Otter Point is available under the artist name Listening Spot on all music streaming services as of July 17th, 2026.

Maple Pass is a mountain pass loop trail in North Cascades National Park. It’s 6.8 miles, rated hard, and scores a 4.9/5 on alltrails.com. It’s about as good as it gets, really. I went there with my son a year ago now, to the day. It was great. Clear skies, warm sun, wildflowers in bloom, birds singing.

A few weeks ago I mentioned a nearby hike, Cascade Pass, that didn’t go down quite like we hoped. This one happily exceeded all expectations.

The trail rises from Rainy Pass, a subordinate saddle to the Cascade range divide about 5 miles to the east, at Washington Pass. Here the Pacific Crest Trail crosses Hwy 20 on its final 60 mile push toward the Canadian border.

Emerging from the subalpine conifers, the trail traverses alongside Lake Ann, an emerald pool in a cirque with a picturesque tiny island.

I am a slower climber than my son but I tried to keep apace, fighting the urge to stop and just listen for a spell.

Warbling Vireo, Hermit Thrush, Western Wood Pewee, Dark-eyed Junco, Canada Jay and the peculiarly raspy (to my ear) Mountain Chickadee are heard along the trail. And, of course, the scrunch, scrunch of footsteps on the coarse trail.

Climbing to Maple Pass, the trail affords vistas of the stunning North Cascades. Red Indian paintbrush, lupines, and bistort are scattered among the granite boulder shards on the ridge. It’s the type of scene that brings to mind the lyric, “the hills are alive with the sound of music”. My score picks up on this ebullient vibe by reaching for a painterly sound palette: big, reverb-drenched synth pads and undulating swarms of synthesized bell tones evoke the panoramic views adorned with colorful life on the margins. This is not intimate piano suite fare.

It’s a popular hike on a summer day, and we certainly were not alone. The environmental audio has been spliced to focus on the biophony, as has been the case for most of my soundwalks. When we made it back to the trailhead I was astonished at how quick we made the transit. We shaved one or two hours off the estimated hike time, and yet time seemed to slip so slowly while we were out there.

Thanks for reading and listening along. If you find yourself in the North Cascades and have the time and ability, don’t pass this hike up!

Maple Pass Soundwalk is available on all music streaming services today, July 10th, 2026.