I was sitting outside this evening in one of the two lawn chairs left by my landlord reading a book about Hetch Hetchy. It was about an hour before dusk, the usual time that I end up in the mill yard with a book in hand. Sitting, as I and the mill are, on the top of a mountain surrounded by trees, the primary noise at that time is a chorus of birdsong I can appreciate but not categorize. But others often creep in.
Tonight someone from one of the score of properties across the road was trying to start a car. It squeaked metallically at each key turn, which the driver obstinately held longer and longer. But the engine never even burbled a hint that it would turn over. The attempts stopped after 10 minutes.
Lately, I have heard and felt machinery. Some Tuolumne Cou agency is renting land from the sawmill to house their machinery and though I arrive home well after five most days, I still catch the last trips the great earth diggers and movers. On the Mondays—which I have had free the past two weeks—I have been awakened by the sharp metallic clicks of the dual tracks which one large piece of machinery runs on. As the sound moves ominously closer the windows rattle and floor vibrates—somewhat alarming for the unsuspecting sleeper.
The most common noise is barking. A single dog will sometimes bark for a quarter of an hour without accompaniment, but more likely it will be joined by others. It seems most of the houses along the top of Big Hill Road and the adjoining lanes have dogs and at times nearly all of them exchange howls. Oddly, even at their peak I seldom notice. It is only when one of the owners yells for silence do I awaken to the cacophony. One man’s voice creaks out the “Shaddup” like a rusty saw pulling through tough wood. The female shrieks I’ve heard are equally fearsome. I have yet to meet my neighbors.
You should put up pictures of the gears, and other random art installations.