Daybreak at Zabriskie Point, Death Valley, California

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The rising sun and waning moon painted Zabriskie Point orange and red. Alone in the vastness, I wondered if the rumored "claustrophobia of absolute silence" really existed.

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Carefully in semi-darkness I climbed down the escarpment. In the dead quiet, the sounds of every step were magnified a hundred times. The "zup-zip" of my nylon jacket was all that I heard. Unnerved, I froze and waited for the silence to return.

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Fifteen seconds later, it did.

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But before I could enjoy it, a new sound hijacked my senses: my own breathing, loud and oppressive like a steam engine in my face. To stop it, I held my breath as long as I could, but when I finally exhaled, the steam engine was replaced with: "CHOOsha, CHOOsha."

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When I realized what it was, I was horrified. It was my blood pulsing relentlessly against my eardrums. Inescapable, the sound became absolutely everything. I felt suffocated and panic-stricken. Claustrophobia had arrived.

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“Enough!” I shouted, and spun around and scrambled back up the hill, loudly stomping my boots, yelling, and singing out loud —anything to drown out the sounds of my own body.

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At the top, I dove into my car and blasted the radio.

 

Finally, the internal noises began to fade away.

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If rocks could talk.