What is it about that sound of a foghorn, or a bell buoy, or a whistle or gong buoy?

For some people, like Dianne Ballon, these sounds are magical, and mystical, hearkening to a world that most of us don’t know. Dianne is a Maine-based artist who shares a passion for the sea—and most specifically, a passion for the devices whose voices warn fog-cloaked vessels about the presence of hazards. Not just foghorns, but also bell, whistle, and gong buoys.

I came across Dianne Ballon while I was in the middle of one of my down-the-rabbit-hole projects, researching the history of lighthouses and foghorns. I was looking for foghorn sounds to augment my own recordings, and the Maine Maritime Museum’s Web site popped up, because Dianne has an ongoing exhibit there about the sounds of the Maine coast. I reached out to her, and Dianne agreed to chat with me. You can learn more about Dianne's work at https://www.dianneballonsound.com.

The sun was barely above the horizon by the time I reached the meadow during my morning walk. The bright, flat light hit the tall grasses and wildflowers from the side, creating a silhouette effect that made them glow. But that wasn’t all: the horizontal light also backlit the dozens of orb weaver webs that stretched between the tall plant stems, bejeweled by the droplets of dew that had condensed on them as tiny, transparent, concentric strings of pearls.

I was entranced by these gorgeous structures. So—rabbit hole time. How do spiders build those things? How do they know to create THAT shape? Are the webs strictly structural and for capturing prey?

In this episode, we walk briefly through their remarkable physiology—and how scientists are looking intensely at spider silk for a range of applications.

My newest novel, "Russet," has just been released. It's a 600-page saga about mounting a mission to Mars, an unimaginably complex undertaking. Sending astronauts to the Moon took four days; Mars is a one-way journey of at least five months. How could we possibly build a ship large enough and safe enough to accommodate their needs, for a round-trip journey of at least 18 months? In my story, NASA has the answer—an extraordinary plan to put 30 people on the Red Planet—unless those who oppose the mission can destroy the ship first.

The year was 1977. The top selling cars were the Ford LTD and the Chevy Impala. The top movies were Star Wars and Saturday Night Fever. Gas was 65 cents a gallon. Stephen King published The Shining, and Farrah Fawcett published the poster. Meanwhile, over at NASA, Voyager 1 and Voyager 2 were carried aloft for a five-year mission. Yet here we are, 47 years later, and they’re still going strong. Voyager I is 15.2 billion miles from Earth; Voyager II is 12.7 billion miles away, and both are traveling at about 35,000 miles-per-hour. And as amazing as all that is, that’s not what I want to talk with you about in this program. I want to talk with you about the payload they both carry—specifically, the golden record.

I read a lot. It fuels my writing, gives me a better view of the world, and is a great way to travel through time and space. Every once in a while, I run across a book that really hits me as a must-read. Episode two was about Sam Kean’s book, The Disappearing Spoon; Episode eleven was about The Age of Wonder, by Richard Holmes; and Episode 255 was about William Least Heat-Moon’s Blue Highways. In this program, I’m going to talk about Lynda Rutledge’s novel, West with Giraffes, which I finished last night. Sabine recommended this one to me; as I closed the back cover, I realized that there were tears on my face. This is one great book.

But there’s more to the story of this episode. The book made me think about current events in the context of past events and made me realize that we’re far better off now than we were in 1938—or any year hence. Those who feel otherwise and who look to the past to find “the good old days” won’t find them, because they don’t exist: “The Good Old Days” is a dangerous and misleading myth. Better days only lie ahead, in our collective future, and it is our job to make them real. Please have a listen—this is an important message.

Note: Image copyright San Diego Zoo Global.

I know, tilting at windmills again, but as we enter this next political cycle, I have to once again take a shot at the corrosive power of labels and how we should avoid them--not just during election season, but in our lives in general. this is short, but hopefully will give you something to think about.

This Podcast is all about Curiosity and why it’s important.

I was looking through one of the local paper a few months back, and saw a photo of an interesting looking guy who was practically lying on the ground at the shore of Lake Champlain with a microphone extended over the water, and a beast of a recorder next to him. He’s Wren Kitz, and as you probably already know, he’s a curious guy. I got in touch, we chatted, and he agreed to do an interview.

Wren is a musician, field recordist, filmmaker with his partner Abby, and a bread bakerIf you’d like to hear more of Wren’s work, please visit his Bandcamp site, which is at WrenKitz.Bandcamp.com. And if you happen to be in the area and want to taste some amazing bread, Seek out Tremolo. He sells it at local farmer’s markets in the summer, and a few local restaurants.

One evening in 1982, Sabine handed me a book that had come out two weeks before, saying, “Read this. It has you written all over it.” The book was called, “Blue Highways: A Journey into America,” by previously unknown (and quirkily named) author William Least Heat-Moon. If you haven’t read the book, stop whatever you’re doing right now and go buy a copy. I’ve read it 19 times, and I’ll read it a few more times, I’m sure. Today, 42 years after its release, it’s one of the most important American books of the 20th century. And today, as we enter yet another mindless political screaming match, it’s a good book to read. Listen to hear why.

There’s been a lot of chatter in the press lately about advances in interspecies communication and our soon-to-arrive ability to translate what our non-human neighbors are saying. That’s quite a breakthrough, considering how much trouble I often have understanding what other HUMANS are saying. But there’s another factor: even though AI, machine learning and large language models give us extraordinarily powerful abilities to analyze unimaginably large volumes of data, and to perhaps decode non-human communications, I’m not convinced we should. Have a listen.

One of my favorite quotes comes from Anthropologist Loren Eiseley. He said, “If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water.” In this episode I’m going to prove it.

A lot of you probably know that the first stage of my professional career was as a SCUBA instructor and commercial diver. I spent thousands of hours under the surface of the Pacific Ocean, enthralled by what my hero Jacques Cousteau called The Silent World. We divers used to laugh good-naturedly at that, because the ocean is anything but silent. It’s filled with noise, and I’m not talking about boats and such, although there’s plenty of that, too. I’m talking about snapping shrimp, parrotfish, ocean waves and swells passing overhead, the clicks of dolphins, the eerie call of whales, and all the other sounds we used to listen to and wonder about.

But it isn’t just oceanic creatures that make noise. As you’re about to learn, it turns out that freshwater ponds are filled with sound. Yes, that still, calm little pond over there may be quiet above, but most likely, below the surface, there’s a whole symphony going on.

My guest on this program is an acoustic ecologist who has studied aquatic sound, but more than that, he has come up with ways to use sound as a predictor of freshwater environmental health—and as a tool for the restoration of ponds in areas where human activity has degraded them.