Hey, keep it down out there

The HIKE THAT promises a “silent night” in Franklin Canyon Park claims to center stressed-out urbanites by giving participants the kind of experience that allows them to forget that they live within spitting distance of half a dozen strip malls.

But the two-mile round-trip hike where participants trod silently -- really more of a walk -- is almost too civilized.

Until someone disappears.

One evening at twilight, my friend and I join a dozen or so women who are learning how to safely maneuver in the dark while walking on a relatively flat fire road in the Santa Monica Mountains park near Beverly Hills.

Volunteer coordinator Rebecca Farr advises us to clap loudly if we get lost or lag behind.

She designates one woman to act as the sweep and watch for stragglers at the end of the line.

As we huddle in a shivery circle around Rebecca, she explains why silence is a virtue.

“On this walk, we’re appropriately both outside and inside ourselves,” she says earnestly. “And being silent in nature is our strongest teacher.” We nod vigorously.

We practice breathing. We inhale the good feelings of the forest and exhale work, gas prices and that line at the grocery store. I find myself exhaling quite a bit.

As we head off into the dark unknown, I march through an enormous anthill and silently destroy the tiny creatures’ home.

This is not the peaceful walk I was hoping for.

But the terrain is easy, and there’s a nice woodsy feel to the walk. With at least 30 feet of space between hikers, I soon lose sight of my companions, which is slightly exciting.

Starlight illuminates the road, and I avoid the leaves underfoot to keep from making disturbing crunchy noises. I end up dancing all over the place until I realize that even if my companions can’t see how silly I look, the animals can.

Concentrating on using my other senses to keep me walking straight, I waddle duck-footed along the center dividing line of the road with my eyes closed. Each time I do this, I veer into a gully.

The group stops at a fork, and Rebecca claps four times to make sure we are all caught up. Our sweep claps back.

We climb a tiny rise, cross a dam and, one by one, breach the gloom surrounding a landscaped pond.

I emerge five minutes later.

But our sweep never comes out.

Rebecca claps again and again. Sometimes the sweep claps back, but we have to strain to hear her. Sometimes she doesn’t answer at all.

The silence breaks abruptly.

Everyone talks excitedly as Rebecca starts asking whether anyone saw what happened.

We are mystified, but willing to talk about the problem.

Ever the optimist, Rebecca claps frantically into the night. The wind moans in the pine trees surrounding the lake, where ducks murmur grumpily in their sleep. We wait. Rebecca keeps clapping desperately.

And finally we hear the tiny, off-beat sound of palm slapping on palm. Our companion emerges from a trail on the other side of the dam. She smiles but, in keeping with the hike’s theme, stays silent.

We grow quiet once more and head back to our cars and the frantic noise of a Los Angeles night.

Join a two-hour silent hike in Franklin Canyon on Saturday evening sponsored by the William O. Douglas Outdoor Classroom. Call (310) 858-7272, Ext. 131, to reserve a spot.