The gull's loud keening has distracted us from other birds' calls. But a sudden "kaww" behind us causes Matzner to wheel around. "That was a gull dive-bombing a Cooper's hawk in that tree over there," he says. Looking through the binoculars, I see the gull flying off, while the hawk, a bit ruffled, settles onto an upper branch. "This is a typical reaction to a hawk. Any bird in the neighborhood will chase it," Matzner explains.
When you listen, you notice much more of what's going on around you than when you simply watch. We never would have noticed the hawk if the other bird hadn't cried out. Our ears serve as warning devices; for prehistoric hunter-gatherers, they were literally lifesavers, Matzner reminds me. "We're smack in the middle of the food chain. We needed to listen for predators and for our food in order to survive." Now that we no longer worry about being stalked by man-eating beasts, the old survival skills can serve to enhance our appreciation and enjoyment of wild places.
We have stopped on a shoreline path and are looking across the water toward the airport. Some long-billed, long-legged willets are standing on a rock just offshore. "Listen," says Matzner. "They make a peculiar cry when startled." He rushes toward them, loudly clapping. But the willets barely look around. He tries again. The willets stay put. "These are some hard-boiled shorebirds here," Matzner says.
Indeed, the birds at Arrowhead Marsh seem to have made peace with the airplanes and other noises they're subjected to every day. This is true in other noisy places as well. The largest breeding colony of endangered least terns north of Santa Barbara is just a few feet from the runway at the Alameda Naval Air Station. To survive, they have had to adapt--since so many of California's wetlands have been destroyed, they have to do with what remains, noisy or not.
The world is becoming noisier all the time. Matzner and his colleagues in the Nature Sounds Society travel widely to record bird and animal calls. A couple of decades ago, they could find places in national parks where they heard nothing but pure natural sound for 45 minutes or more. Now they're lucky if they get more than ten minutes of quiet even in the most remote places. In California, Matzner says, it's "almost impossible" to go more than four or five minutes without hearing an aircraft motor or other human-generated noise.
As the day progresses, Arrowhead Marsh becomes noisier as well. By 9 a.m. the din from the airport is almost constant, and the roar of industrial compressors and trucks comes steadily from the freeway side of the marsh. But we can still hear the soft whistles of American widgeons, the musical calls of marbled godwits, and the comical, half-mumbled complaints of a dozen or so slate-colored coots as they forage along the banks. One by one the coots hop off a low embankment onto a mudflat, each landing with a loud "plop" and then waddling away. "They're kind of heavy-footed," Matzner says, laughing. We watch as a clapper rail repeatedly dips its head into the mud, searching for small clams. It's a rare sight. Suddenly a willet lands nearby, causing the rail to fly up with a loud, startled "kracck." Matzner sighs. "I've held a microphone up here for half an hour trying to get that squawk."
A bearded man with a gentle wit, he is a biologist who did doctoral work in animal behavior at Rutgers University. He came to his current occupation via some years of work in natural history education, including a program he called "Fun with Frogs" for kindergartners and first-graders, in which "you learned about ecology by meeting an animal." When he came to the Oakland Museum's Library of Natural Sounds in 1984, Matzner says, "my first assignment was to travel around the state and listen to natural environments in preparation for composing a sound environment to be installed in the museum." For a biologist who is also a musician (he plays piano), this was a dream job. He is not above cheating a little by using an assortment of noises to attract birds. Now he holds his hand up to his lips to make a squeaky "kiss" sound, as well as a high-pitched "whisch" and a lower-pitched "pshish." An Anna's hummingbird perched in a nearby tree answers back with its own shrill call, then flits off the branch and flies toward us. It hovers, not six feet from Matzner's face, absolutely still and fearless, staring directly at him for several seconds, then zips off into the distance.
"I thought it was going to attack me," Matzner says with mock relief in his voice. At this time of the year, the hummer was probably trying to set up its territory and perceived him as a potential threat, he explains. As we walk back to the parking lot, a familiar chirping comes from the trees along the path. "Those are song sparrows in full song," he says. "Spring is coming." Matzner figures that he can identify around a hundred different birds by ear, and I ask him for a few tips for improving my listening skills. Learn to walk quietly, he says; wear cotton and wool clothing, which doesn't rustle like nylon and other synthetics; and avoid loose buckles and fasteners on backpacks, along with other things that rattle, he advises.
Don't get hung up trying to identify every little sound, he adds. Relax and try to take in the full range of what's happening around you. He says he thinks of the sound around him as a symphony, with each animal, the wind, his own footsteps, and even cars and airplanes playing different parts. Once you're aware of this symphonic soundscape, it's much easier to notice subtle changes, such as the far-off tapping of a woodpecker, which you may have otherwise missed.

About a week later, I decide to try out what Matzner taught me. For the sake of a challenge, or maybe just out of perversity, I head for one of the most visually alluring places on the California coast--Point Lobos, just south of the town of Carmel.
This is a place that almost everyone knows, if not from a personal visit, then from the black-and-white photographs by Edward Weston, Ansel Adams, and Brett Weston that hang in galleries throughout the world, as well as the bright color pictures taken by lesser artists that grace the pages of countless guidebooks. What could possibly be gained by focusing on the aural features of such a place, especially on a beautiful winter morning, with the last traces of mist still clinging to the rocks of Weston Cove?
As soon as we arrive I see I'm in a minority here. Photographers toting the latest high-tech equipment aim their cameras into every nook, cranny, and tide pool, or at the lone cattle egret stalking a meal in the shallows. Some gather in small groups to discuss f-stops and exposure times. Even my own wife, Sandy, is anxious to try out a new zoom lens.
Not surprisingly, the sound of the ocean is dominant here. I listen to the variety of wave sounds--the booming crash of big breakers on the rocks, the subtle lapping of smaller waves in the coves, the "shussh" of water as it recedes from a pebbly beach. The egret notices, too. Every time it hears a wave break, the bird picks its head up, probably looking to make sure it's not going to be inundated. Even the most dedicated photographers are distracted by the raucous cries of six oystercatchers chasing each other around the cove. Heading south along the shoreline trail, I find that listening complements my visual enjoyment of the Point. Hearing a familiar "zweeep," Sandy and I look up to see a hummingbird high in the air. Again and again it hurtles toward the ground, pulling up at the very last second in a spectacular mating display. The upland trees are filled with birdsong, ranging from sparrows' tiny peeps to the ominous caw-caws of crows. On a high cliff, a group of tourists is making comical noises at a harbor seal resting on a rock below. The seal eyes them briefly, then goes back to sleep. Out in the water, a baby sea otter cries loudly and plaintively as it tries to crawl onto its mother's belly. I might easily have missed all this and more if I'd been focusing too much on the visual beauty of the place.
Afterward, Paul Matzner and I take an evening stroll in the East Bay Hills. We discuss the Zen practice of "listening to your breath" and how little quiet we actually experience in our daily lives. "We're not really taught there's a value in silence," Matzner says. "We're afraid to be quiet. We're afraid to listen." But we come to a broad overlook, and far across a valley, past the drone of the highway below, we hear a pair of great horned owls hooting in the darkness. As their calls reverberate back and forth, neither of us is tempted to utter a word.

Bill O'Brien is a freelance writer in Berkeley.