The Hum at Mile Marker 17

I've been meaning to write this down for a while now, but every time I sit at this desk, the words feel wrong. Like I'm trying to describe a color that doesn't exist.

I was walking back from the creek—the one where I check my water line—when I heard it. A low hum. Not like power lines, not like a transformer. Deeper. More intentional. I know how that sounds.

Mile marker 17 on the old logging road. That's where it's strongest. I've walked that road a hundred times and never noticed anything.

I brought my portable shortwave out there. The needle went wild around 4.2 MHz. Nothing but static on the speaker, but the needle was dancing like it was picking up a symphony. I recorded about twenty minutes of it. When I played it back at the cabin, there were gaps. Clean gaps, like someone had taken scissors to the audio.

Every 47 seconds. I timed it.

Now, the honest assessment: my recorder is old. The heads are worn. I've been meaning to replace it for two years. Portable recorders in humid Tennessee air develop issues—the tape transport slips, the heads clog, you get dropouts. A 47-second repeating gap could easily be a mechanical issue with the capstan roller.

But I've used this recorder for three years. I know its quirks. It drops audio randomly when it fails, not in precise intervals.

I asked Earl at the supply drop if he'd heard anything. He got quiet. Too quiet. Said something about the old mining surveys and changed the subject.

Could be a mundane equipment issue I can't diagnose. Could be something else. I've ordered a new digital recorder. Until it arrives, I can't trust what this one captures.

But I heard the hum with my own ears. The recorder didn't imagine that.