Pillory: Heedless Headphoners

Dealing with aural a-holes on the trail.

“Behind you. Excuse me. Hello? Can you hear me? I’m talking to you. Hey!”

We’ve all been there. Approaching from the rear, trying to pass politely, we waste our words while they blow their eardrums on Benson Boone and Green Day. Our hike, run, or ride is suspended as we ponder whether to carefully tap a shoulder or scream full-volume to send a single soundwave into the oblivious ambulator’s obstructed ear canal.

Sure, earphones have been around since the Sony Walkman appeared in 1979. But at least you could see the wires bouncing around, signaling, “I can’t hear you; I’ve chosen deafness.” Still rude in a place like Montana, where we greet each other and make small-talk. But now, in the Bluetooth era, it’s concealed-cork ear idiots and a phone hidden in the pocket. Which is infuriating—and sometimes, dangerous—to everyone else.

If your entire outdoor experience is mediated through a podcast, playlist, or whatever algorithmic drip-feed you queued up before leaving the house, then why are you even out here?

It takes a strange mindset to move through the woods like you’re not actually in the woods at all. If your entire outdoor experience is mediated through a podcast, playlist, or whatever algorithmic drip-feed you queued up before leaving the house, then why are you even out here? Nature is doing a perfectly good job humming its own drum, and yet, there you are, double-tapping to your digital stimulus like a lab rat.

And don’t even get me started on the public indecency of video calls. The last thing anyone wants to hear is your high-pitched college roommate screeching that her old boyfriend is with someone hotter now. Take the call in your car and keep that digitalia to yourself.

News flash: there’s a particular social contract on trails. We make eye contact. We nod. We exchange a quick “Mornin’” or Howdy” or “Nice day, eh?” It’s about friendliness, sure, but also kinship and acknowledgment: we’re out here together, sharing a space, enjoying ourselves while navigating weather, wildlife, and the general unpredictability of being outside. Like the finger-wave while driving a country road—it’s what we do here.

Earphones disregard this unwritten code. They tell everyone else that you don’t have to play by the rules. You’re special. You can tune out and make everyone else go out of their way to adjust to you—your pace, your style, your way. Guess what, podcast princess? You’re not “chillin’ to your own groove, man”; you’re being a douche.

Plus, when you can’t hear a biker or runner trying not to startle you, it’s no longer a personal choice. It’s a communal effort of courtesy and consideration you’ve quietly opted out of. You’re like Bradley from that AP English project who never showed up or contributed one word yet received equal credit.

Not to mention the peculiar choreography of passing someone whose mind is elsewhere. How do we make ourselves known to you? Clap? Yell? Bean you in the back of the head with a pebble? Wait for a wide spot and make a desperate dash around you? When you start from surprise, is it our fault for scaring you?

Truth be told, you’re quite the lucky Q-tip cochlea-jockey that it’s just a human you’re irritating. Should a bear or moose be in close proximity, what then? How about a rattlesnake? If you miss the bark, you’ll sure as hell feel the bite—and then find yourself at the ER getting expensive, painful anti-venin. Won’t be so smitten with your smut tape then, will you?

The audacity! I think it’s high time we just start knocking these toolbag technophiles over. If you say, “Behind you” or “On your left,” and get no response, you are now authorized to shove the inattentive amblers into the shrubbery. They’ll probably check the safety of their cell phones before looking for blood on their own skin.

Now, all that said, if you absolutely must bump some tunes to augment your outdoor experience, fine. To each their own. However—one earbud only, or both on low volume. Maintain awareness of your surroundings, the same way you do (or should do) in town. And if not: To the pillory!