50 Quietest Places Around the World

This is part of Seeking Quiet, a collection of stories that highlights our quest for stillness in an increasingly noisy world. Read more here.

Quietude, it would appear, is slipping away from us. In the cacophonous environment that most of us inhabit—full of sirens, construction noise, car horns, and blaring music—the space for reflection, a still mind, is getting ever smaller.

Gordon Hempton, an acoustic ecologist and cofounder of nonprofit Quiet Parks, separates “quiet” and complete “silence,” although the words are often used by us interchangeably. According to him, quiet is not the complete lack of auditory information but the fading of human din. “Nature has noise too, but it’s the absence of these loud manmade sources of sound that block access to the fainter, meaningful sounds,” he explains. By that measure, quiet is the presence of the good kind of sound: the flapping of bat wings, the squawks of a tern, the rustle of dune grass, the lapping of a lake. The earth’s concert halls, if you will.

Research has shown that spending time in natural quiet has countless benefits: helping us self-reflect, sit more comfortably with emotions, lower stress, and even summon greater creativity. In his essay What Are People For? novelist and environmental activist Wendell Berry wrote, “True solitude is found in the wild places, where one is without human obligation. One’s inner voices become audible. One feels the attraction of one’s most intimate sources. In consequence, one responds more clearly to other lives.” In communing with quiet, he surmised, we emerge better connected with the rhythms of the natural world—and in turn, with each other.

So where does one go to seek out this kind of quiet? And what should we expect to encounter when we find it? We put these questions to some of our favorite travel writers and editors around the world. As it turns out, threatened as they are, quiet places exist everywhere. Some we have to travel further for: Wadi Rum in Jordan, Alaska’s Glacier Bay National Park, or the Dark Sky Reserve in Lake Takapō, New Zealand. Others are micropockets of stillness in our backyards, such as the Healing Forest in Manhattan or the walking trails that rise about Hong Kong’s skyline. In these spots, away from the clatter of our worlds, all natural sounds are amplified—from the chittering of squirrels to the distant bellows of wildlife and the calving of a glacier. Equally, our inner thoughts and feelings rise to the top, unshackled from our polyphonic, tech-charged lives. But you might also find yourself tuning into a more powerful reverberation that you can’t immediately place: It’s a low cosmic hum, older than time itself, which, if you’re really lucky, will continue to resonate in you long after you leave.

Read on for 50 such incredible places around the world where quiet awaits—pristine, tranquil, and brimming with possibilities. —Arati Menon

As I drift unhurriedly among a cluster of aquamarine icebergs in an expedition raft on Alaska’s Alsek Lake, words escape me. Conversation seems out of place among these ethereal glacial remnants, looming like icy castles against a moody sky. The lake is the largest in Glacier Bay National Park, and its remoteness lends itself to a distinct dearth of human-made sounds. But it’s a particular noise that does periodically descend upon us that makes this unfettered quiet more profound. Almost mistakable for thunder, the eerily low rumble, often jarring the lake’s surface, is what happens when a chunk of ice calves off one of the rapidly receding glaciers that overlook the lake. The more I hear the haunting roar, the more it becomes an insistent nudge to tune out my inner cacophony and tune into my surroundings—and the more it spurs reflection in the ensuing silence on our role as humans in the evolution of this ancient glacial landscape. —Julie Dugdale

Silence echoes in the Arribes del Duero, the magic place where the Duero River becomes Douro, creating a natural border between Spain and Portugal full of cliffs, canyons, and waterfalls. I escape here whenever I can, but I couldn’t choose one of its seasonal silences over another. In autumn, after the grape harvest, its wines of heroic viticulture will steal your words. Everything turns golden—olives, mulberry, pomegranate, and orange trees await their moment, and the sunsets look like fire. In winter, the frost paints a landscape of stillness that takes over the villages. The stove boils ancestral dishes: patatas revolconas (with paprika and pork belly), rice with meats from the traditional slaughter, and crayfish stew. Spring brings blankets of blooms—white and yellow flowers, lavender, jasmine, and Serapias—and the streams and waterfalls interrupt the quiescence. Summer means that diving into a hidden watering hole is always on the table, and siesta time would be devoid of sound if it weren’t for the cicadas. Such is the cycle of life and silence, in one of the most sparsely populated places in Europe. —David Moralejo

The path toward Barton Creek Cave reveals little of what’s to follow. One minute you’re kayaking through gemstone-like waters, bathed in sunshine in the company of birdsong; the next you’re squeezing through the narrowest of apertures in a mountain before being thrown into pitch darkness. That a cathedral-like silence follows is to be expected of a deep, wet cave—there’s nothing here but the resistance of water against your oars and the flapping of bats’ wings. In a country with more than 100 navigable caves, Barton Creek stands out for being the longest subterranean site. First discovered by Peace Corps volunteers in 1970, it has since become an active archaeological site—prehistoric pottery shards and jewelry were found here—and a popular tourist attraction. Still, there are hours in the day, and times of the year, when your kayak will be the only one there. We were able to turn off our headlamps and float alone through a primordial darkness that is simultaneously terrifying (especially once you learn this was a cave used for human sacrifices) and life-giving. As you make your way back out, and that first pinprick of light falls upon your eyes, you’ll squint, then scowl—and be tempted to turn right back around. —Arati Menon

It’s so delightfully desolate at Qatar’s Brouq nature reserve that I could belt out all my deepest secrets. I know they would be safe, immediately absorbed by the windswept sands that softly sing across the flatness—masked by the pitch of a thousand pebbles. Nothing mars the vast terrain, save for Richard Serra’s East-West/West-East sculpture, a sci-fi-like Stonehenge of tall steel plates rising from the rocky plains; the ant-sized silhouettes of oryx against the setting sun melting on the horizon; and the ruins of huts atop jagged limestone outcroppings. I feel like I should be lonely, but the cool November zephyr makes the land feel comfortingly alive. Its breath is beautiful—whispering through tufts of flora, letting off a warm hum as it kisses the rolled steel—like the memory of being lulled by the rise and fall of my grandfather’s chest. It’s like going to confession without having to say anything at all. I feel small but far from insignificant. —Julian Manning

It’s a crisp evening in late March, and the sun is just starting to kiss the flat horizon of the Great Plains. I’m standing on the side of a gravel road next to an empty cornfield in Wood River, Nebraska, south of Interstate 80 and not far from where I grew up. Thousands of three-foot-tall sandhill cranes are congregating among the rows of stubby harvested corn stalks, just a quick flight from the safety of the nearby Platte River. All I can hear are the birds’ cacophonous calls—a loud, repetitive, trilling babble that ornithologists describe as “rattling” or “bugling.” Their vocalizations drown out all other noises in Central Nebraska between February and April when more than a million stop to rest and fatten up on their way to northern breeding grounds. With their nearly seven-foot wingspans, skinny legs, and crimson eye patches, the graceful birds are a sight to behold. But it’s the sound that makes their annual migration one of nature’s most impressive spectacles. —Sarah Kuta

Despite the humming motor on the back, the piragua (dugout wood canoe) I’m sitting in isn’t moving. The water in this section of the Chagres River is too shallow during April’s low season, and the rocks are tapping the hull beneath my feet. One of our guides is using a long narrow wood stick to propel us forward as great egrets soar above the jungle landscape, croaking as they land on banks nearby. The outing is a welcome respite from the bustle of the capital—we’re about an hour north of Panama City—and a way to connect directly with the local community: Our escorts are members of the Emberá tribe, one of Panama’s seven Indigenous groups. We’ve left behind the few other boats we saw at the launch point as we head to the fourth, and farthest, village based here. Soon, the Emberá Drua will greet us with music—playing gourds and shells and drums—but for the next hour, because we don’t speak the same language, rushing water sets the soundtrack for our slow progress. —Daliah Singer

The dense jungle and sleepy coastline offer a balm to my frenetic mind. Spotty Wi-Fi doesn’t ruffle me—I give in to losing connection to the outside world. Arriving at the gate of Las Rosadas, I step into a secret garden of cottony Saba-nut pods, coconut-laden palms, and scarlet birds of paradise. No sound interrupts my walk to the beach except serenading birds, and the industrial silence continues at my Careyes mountaintop casita. Labyrinthine roads lead to the turtle sanctuary. A coconut shell in hand, I scoop turtles to release on the sand—they instinctually crawl toward the ocean as the sun sets. After a deep sleep, I point my car to the eco-reserve surrounding the Four Seasons Tamarindo. There, the humidity blankets me and my guide as we wander the rewilded landscape. Pausing at a papelillo tree with peeling copper bark, he offers the story of his parents’ love letters, handwritten on paper created from it. In an increasingly loud world, voiceless communication speaks volumes. —Carrie Honaker

Cold mist falls as I hike past Earth Sanctuary’s trailhead—a rusted bell sways from an old fir tree branch, and a Tibetan prayer wheel spins. Wandering the wooded path through the 72-acre sculpture park built on a nexus of powerful ley lines, I feel like the only person here, the tranquility only interrupted by snapping twigs, insects trilling, and wind whispering through the forest. I stop at the labyrinth, and the flagstone walkway leads me to a Native American prayer stone. Pausing to meditate, I slow my breath, still my fears and worries, and focus on my inward journey. Around me, bullfrogs croak, a family of hooded merganser ducks ripple the pond’s glassy surface, and the loamy aroma of fresh rain on moss permeates the landscape. Cairns punctuate the horizon of big-leaf maples and leggy ferns as the journey continues, looping back to where I started. Dampening the world’s chaos allows nature’s gentle symphony to emerge, providing me a soothing balm to the stress of everyday life. — Carrie Honaker

Portland isn’t particularly noisy as cities go—it’s defined by bikeable neighborhoods, leafy streets, and electric trams that hum through its urban core. By contrast, what’s much noisier is the chaos looping inside my neuro-spicy brain. In the near-decade I’ve spent there, I’ve found the antidote to that internal noise to be a midweek hike in Forest Park, a slice of native Pacific Northwest woodlands a short stroll from downtown with 80 miles of trails that feel like true wilderness. Since moving to London in 2021, I go back every year to visit friends and, yes, to take a solo trek. I close my eyes, and it’s a wind symphony through conifer branches, a woodpecker tapping into bark, and the rustle of a squirrel through giant ferns. I’ve been teleported to a much more remote part of Oregon despite its proximity to the dense Alphabet District. On a rainy weekday, while, say, avoiding a deadline or processing a breakup, there’s nothing like slipping onto the Wildwood Trail and forest bathing amid the moss-draped Douglas firs to silence the chaos within. —JD Shadel

I’ve left one quiet for another, but this one is spikier. The reading room is hermetic, restrained—the only sounds inside are whispered checkout requests and the fluttering of old pages. But I’m quickly in the silence of California in February, bright overcast sky, with 83,000 species of plants to absorb any lingering noise. The other botanical garden guests this weekday noon seem to be somewhere I’m not. In the Desert Garden, it’s only me and the cacti, completely enveloped: round ottoman-size barrel varieties and stately towering columns, fuzzy-fingered branches like desert coral. I only hear my footsteps on the stone and, once, a flutter of birds alighting on a boojum tree. These are my favorite: frizzy oversize ocotillos, strange and swooping, some of them 50 feet tall. A botanist named them after the mysterious creature from Lewis Carroll’s The Hunting of the Snark, which causes anyone who encounters it to “softly and suddenly vanish away.” And I do, for at least 15 or 20 minutes. —Hannah Walhout

Fewer than three people per square mile call the vast Gobi Desert home, a place where Earth’s ancient history is etched into its breathtaking landmarks. The Flaming Cliffs carry stories of dinosaurs—the theory that they lay eggs was proven here, with shell fragments that are still readily seen on the trails today. Ancient petroglyphs dating back to 3,000 BC hint at civilizations long past, but still not so different from the nomadic families who warmly welcome me, sharing their culture through stories and food. The desert spans over 500,000 square miles, and its silence is profound, broken only by the soft hiss of wind sweeping across towering dunes or against the glow of rust-red sandstone illuminated by the fading light. At the foot of Bulagtai Mountain sits Beyond Green’s Three Camel Lodge. Here, silence takes on a tangible quality through cinematic-like mirages as I hike up the mountain to witness the sunset painting a timeless landscape. —Jonny Bierman

Standing on top of Greens Ledge Lighthouse, a mile off the shore of Rowayton, Connecticut, I’m surrounded by water and wind in every direction. I’m alone, except for Ollie and Olivia, the two chatty ospreys who return to their nest on the jetty each spring—and are making their presence known. With nothing standing between me, the sea, and the sky, I watch the full moon slowly crest the horizon, casting a beam of light over the black lapping waves. In the darkness, the fainter sounds the wind had overpowered earlier in the day are sharpened. Fish jump and splash while birds chirp overhead. The water ripples against the rocks. The lighthouse blinks its secret language, alternating between red and white, caution and hope. As I look up at the stars, our original navigational aids, I feel the magical excitement of a child wash over me. I begin to hear the lighthouse talk to me, like it has to seafarers for decades, letting me know that I am not alone. — Hannah Towey

It’s August, and the last light illuminates the sky well past 8 o’clock, periwinkle over the water separating Haida Gwaii from mainland British Columbia. With nobody in sight, not even the white-tailed deer that sometimes pick their way through the swaying beach grass at my back, it’s a unique type of wonder to be truly alone. This feeling of solitude has become more familiar during my days at Haida House, though, and just before dinner each night, I follow a trail to this beach. The wind blows across the cold sand—it’s hard to imagine, being this close to Alaska, that it ever gets hot—but the strait ahead is so still that the sound of the sea is a lapping of waves too small for even an anchovy to body surf. The intermittent gasp and burble of tiny shelled creatures burrowing into the wet sand are the only interruptions to the beach’s rhythmic soundtrack. When it feels as though, maybe, I’m no longer on the same planet I know by its honking horns and people shouting to friends across the street and music blaring out of cars, I glance back, to anchor myself, and the yawning windows of my log cabin stare back, reflecting a serene scene interrupted by only me. —Megan Spurrell

The mist that envelops me in Haleakala Crater, Maui’s massive dormant volcano, tickles my ears with gentle whispers of e hoʻolohi, the Hawaiian phrase for slow down. Centuries ago, the Hawaiian demigod Maui stood on Haleakala’s 10,2030-foot summit and lassoed the sun, demanding it do the same. In the crater’s stillness and absolute silence, I easily obey. Its lunar-like landscape of obsidian lava flows layered with ochre and rust-hued cinder cones absorbs sound waves, making this one of the quietest places on the planet and one of the few places I feel completely present. On my two-hour descent along Keonehe‘ehe‘e Trail, the soft buzz of a bee is amplified as loud as a helicopter, and a Hawaiian petrel’s oo-ah-oo roars like a warrior’s cry. With each breath, I’m transported to Maui’s shores, my inhales and exhales like crashing ocean waves. When I finally reach the crater floor, I detect a faint rhythmic thumping. I gaze around the cinder desert and up to the passing clouds, then realize it’s my own heart beating. And I marvel at how I can feel so alive amid this place of primordial desolation. —Jen Murphy

An icy crinkle plays on repeat beneath the studded tires of my electric fat bike. Perhaps I can hear it only because there’s almost no one else here as I pedal the Healy Creek Trail in Banff, Alberta, on a frigid January day. It’s a mere 16 degrees outside, and I’ve decided to try an alternative to the area’s popular ski resorts. Brewster Creek, which I’m traversing alongside, is frozen into silence. Birds, if there are any, must be bundled away. Snowflakes stick to the needles of the surrounding spruce trees as if seeking warmth. In the winter, this route is limited to fat bikes, snowshoes, cross-country skis, and hiking—there are no motors to cut through the stillness. It heightens the intensity of my effort; my breath, sealed in beneath my balaclava, reverberates loudly in my ears. I stop and let the air escape in a silent mist before pedaling on. —Daliah Singer

A whisper of a nearby hot spring had been shared with me at lunch, and even as I saw the Brooklyn-bedroom-size pool and petite changing room, I didn’t believe it was real. A pool house with a cobalt blue door barely peered over the road’s horizon line as I drove around Mjóifjörður’s natural bend. The sounds of a car (mine) groaning over gravel, a driver’s seat being directed backward (again, mine), and the human exertion of a swimsuit being struggled onto a seated body (guilty as charged) were the only manufactured noises—a true soundtrack of a remote road trip around Iceland’s Westfjords. Crunching down the small, steep walkway made of chunks of rock worn down by hot spring seekers, I was alone with a splashing pipe that coaxed near-boiling water into Hörgshlíðarlaug hot spring from the adjacent bay. I soaked in a deep spiritual silence punctured by a water’s surface disturbed by arms and legs and the squawk of an arctic tern. I closed my eyes and let a few tears of deep relief escape, opening them only when I heard “Hello.” —Erika Owen

The woody scent of camphor fills the air, and only the soft clap and tap of metal chisels breaks the quiet. Following the sound toward its source, I walk along Inami’s stone-paved main street. I pause in front of a traditional wooden kominka building to watch as an elderly man, hunched over, as he works on an intricately carved wooden panel called a ranma. Rural Toyama’s Inami is a woodwork town—out of 8,000 people, around 150 are wood-carvers. From store signs to bus stops, the place appears to be hewn from wood, but it’s the sound that transports me. I’m not the first: In a 1996 bid to combat noise pollution, Japan’s Ministry of the Environment designated wood carving in Inami as one of the 100 Soundscapes of Japan. It’s after Inami that I realize I’ve been overlooking a thread in the unique fabric of a place, at that moment resolving to travel with ears—as well as eyes—wide-open. —Karen Gardiner

Canada’s northernmost city is also one of its most remote, just short of the Arctic Circle. Surrounded by vast, beautiful openness, the 8,000-person community sits upon the ancestral homelands of the Inuit, whose cultural practices are remarkably intact in this placid place where tradition and modernity collide. Much like the land is dotted with signs of development, Iqaluit’s subtle soundtrack is punctuated by the buzz of snowmobiles zooming across the tundra in search of caribou, the winds rustling between the town’s signature brightly colored buildings, and the quiet contemplation and juxtaposition of standing symbols of European colonization and Indigenous resilience. One example: the historic Hudson’s Bay Company building opposing the archway made from bowhead whale jawbones in the municipal cemetery, both in nearby Apex (where the Inuit were moved when this one-time U.S. Air Force base was established). One thing that can’t be muted? The apparent joy of the residents of the first Aboriginal self-governing territory in Canada. While wandering along the winding streets of Iqaluit on a recent trip there, I was struck by the laughs and playful sounds of Native youth growing up surrounded by their culture, seemingly around every corner. —Kate Nelson

I escaped the hullabaloo of cherry blossom tourists in Kyoto to find hushed, could-hear-a-pin-drop peace. Here, in a 13,600-acre sacred forest two hours southeast from the cacophony of the metropolis, I immerse myself in the tranquility of Ise Jingu, a complex of 125 cypress shrines—the patter of my footsteps on gravel, the rustle of the wind through the leaves, and my slow breath the only sounds. A place of worship for Shintoism followers, a religion that prizes quiet mindfulness, it’s one of the most culturally important sites for Japanese people. The concept of chinmoku, directly translated to “silence,” is an elevated form of expression in Japan, and at Ise Jingu, it’s amplified by design. Trees are planted so that every 20 years, a new divine palace with the same dimensions as the current one is constructed at an alternate site adjacent to the main sanctuary (I viewed the empty plot where the next one is due to be situated in 2033—summer-camp pine-iness in the air). As a New Yorker whose main ailment is a chronic case of logorrhea, I am embracing an ability at Ise Jingu to shut my trap and wield a license for silence. I’ve heard it said that we have two ears and only one mouth for a reason—we should listen twice as much as we speak. It’s an awakening that hasn't been lost on me. In this forest, philosophical questions about falling trees are irrelevant. The whole point is not to make a sound. —Ross Kenneth Urken

Crepuscular rays of sunlight fan out across the sky above the stormy Sea of Japan—the phenomenon, I think, lives up to its nickname: god rays. It’s easy to feel the presence of a higher power in Izumo, especially here on Inasa-no-Hama beach, where, in the fall, all eight million kami (Japanese gods and spirits) touch down on earth and get together for their annual meeting. In Shimane, Japan’s least-visited prefecture, Izumo is off the beaten track—even the Shinkansen trains haven’t made it this far. But the quiet here is not just due to a lack of tourists. The seven-day Kamiari Festival, marking the arrival of the kami, inspires contemplation. Workers put down their tools, and worshippers lower their voices. Every effort is made to keep noise down while the kami are in town. After all, there’s an important job to do: They’re gathered here to decide all of human fate. —Karen Gardiner

I’m sitting at the edge of the island of Juist—one of the seven East Frisian islands nestled in the heart of the North German Wadden Sea—sharing my tranquility with a seagull on a Strandkorb, a traditional seaside chair, beside me. Growing up, I was mystified by this dainty island, often hidden from view behind a misty veil. I am drifting into a tranquil vibration, indulging in the glistening sunset on a white sandy beach that stretches far into the hazy horizon. Just over a thousand residents spread out over two villages connect on this car-free island, embodying a slow rhythm fueled by horse-drawn carriages, cycling, or walking. The island feels stuck in a peaceful slumber, salty winds softening the echoes of gentle horse hooves in the distance like an early dream. The largely untouched sand dunes stand wild, complementing the unspoiled landscape of salt marshes and beaches, while on the Kalfamer sandbank, masses of nosy seals haul out to rest during low tide, haw-haw-ing for attention. —Sandra Denda

Stamped like an inky Rorschach in the treacherous North Atlantic, the Faroe Islands comprise 18 largely treeless islands—each one a location scout’s dream with its vertiginous sea cliffs and razor-thin ridges carpeted in kelly green. The wildest way to experience this Land Before Time is on foot, which is why my family hopped a passenger ferry from Klaksvík to Kalsoy, a sliver of an island with an Instagram-famous lighthouse (Kallur) and a Hollywood-famous tombstone (the final resting place of James Bond). We’re on a weeklong road trip with our 16-and-half-month-old son, but a fear of heights has compelled my husband, Andrew, to abandon our trek midway through and return to the town of Trøllanes (population: 13) with Julian strapped to his back. He encourages me to carry on alone, and I do. The tightrope walk to the summit is scored by the crunching of rocks beneath my boots, seabirds circling and squalling overhead, and the wind mercilessly lashing my face. There are more sheep than people out here and somewhere in the great yonder, I hear a woollyback bleating its doleful song. Otherwise, it’s just me and the pounding of my own heart pushing me forward—higher and higher until I reach Kalsoy’s white-knuckle pinnacle with its stunning 360-degree views and let out a gasp so loud even the sheep hear it. —Ashlea Halpern

Silence at Lake Inari is a presence—far from the simple absence of sound. I experienced the Arctic winter, where the snow muffled every step and the frozen lake seemed to hold its breath. Only the faint crackling of ice beneath my boots broke the stillness, a reminder of the vastness surrounding me. There was no traffic, no voices, no rush, only the whisper of the wind weaving through frost-covered pines. Even a reindeer, moving through the skeletal birch trees, did so with an almost ghostly grace. As night fell, the sky ignited with northern lights, undulating silently as if honoring the profound tranquility of the landscape. I will always remember one particular deep breath—the air was crisp, pure, and almost electric. In the distance, the glow of a kota hut flickered, offering a sanctuary and the promise of warmth. In that remote corner of Finnish Lapland, time slowed, my mind cleared, and quiet took on a new meaning. It wasn’t just solitude but a perfect communion with nature in its purest, most untouched form. —María Casbas

Go for: a blanket of darkness—and endless stargazing

About 80% of people live under light-polluted skies, and the Milky Way is no longer visible to a third of us. But here in Lake Takapō, one of the darkest places in the world, the Milky Way ripples like a luminous ribbon. Nearby, the hook of the scorpion tail signifies the Scorpius constellation and the ubiquitous Southern Cross—seen on flags and emblems around the Southern Hemisphere—shines bright. It’s midnight, and I’m standing on a mountain in a vacuum of darkness and silence, stargazing. As we litter our nights with artificial light from phones and screens, traveling to dark sky sanctuaries such as Lake Takapō feels like a form of well-being. Like a sensory deprivation tank, the blanket of darkness is an invitation for rest and relaxation. A chance to take a deep breath, exhale, and switch to dark mode. —Chloe Sachdev

On a corner of Roosevelt Island, the tennis-court-size Manhattan Healing Forest grows, a micro-forest planted in 2024 as a living barrier against erosion. Floating over the East River on the tramway marks the transition from the city’s urban symphony of whooping sirens and rattling subways into an open-air music box of bird chirps. The wind blows along with a gentle percussion, rustling together 1,500 trees from 47 native species. The Lenape, Manhattan’s first inhabitants, know the forest as Tekenink atàm. Members of the Lenape Center planted the first saplings of Tekenink atàm by tucking them into the earth with loam while reciting the Indigenous names of each tree—its multicultural team of foresters calls the newly planted green space “the lung of the city.” Quiet here is tuning into an ancient hum from long before New York became the world's busiest metropolis: Come to press your ear against the process of turning air into breath, to hear it combine with life. —Kat Chen

“Will I see many wombats?” I asked my Tasmanian guide, Junaidi Susantio, as we boarded the ferry from Triabunna to Maria Island National Park. He assured me it was impossible to miss the island’s famed marsupials, often the stars of viral social media videos. Sure enough, as we approached the dock, dozens of fuzzy, earth-toned boulders grazed quietly in the morning light. Nicknamed Tasmania’s “Noah’s Ark,” it’s a sanctuary for dozens of species, including forest kangaroos, red-necked wallabies, and Tasmanian devils, who thrive in their predator-free environment. Biking through wind-swept grasslands, I hear the rhythmic crunch of tires over dirt as we pass kangaroos grazing noiselessly, punctuated only by the calls of Cape Barren geese. No cars. No towns. No Wi-Fi. Just 44 square miles of unspoiled wilderness, where silence reigns—especially in the cooler months between May and September. With no permanent residents, only campsites, Maria Island offers a rare, quiet luxury: an escape into nature where the only soundtrack is the rustle of eucalyptus leaves, the lapping of waves, and the occasional thump of an errant wallaby baby in the brush. —Kaila Yu

Imagine a land so vast it could swallow the sky; so bone-dry, for parts of the year, that the cracks in the earth form an intricate network of veins stretching for miles. This is the lunar-like landscape of the Makgadikgadi salt pans, and it’s hard to imagine. One evening, as the sun became a disappearing quiver on the horizon, Chemical—a guide at Jack’s Camp—drove me to a point in this vast span of crackling, bare earth. Once there, he told me to close my eyes and take 50 steps in any direction. “Don’t cheat. There are no wrong routes here,” he said. I set off, slamming into a wall of nothingness and pushing past it with every footfall. When I counted to 50, I stopped. In the absence of visual cues, I listened for auditory reassurances but heard nothing—not the distant roar of a Kalahari lion nor the hooves of a herd of wildebeest hitting the dirt—but the sound of blood rushing through my head. I couldn’t tell you how long I was there, but when I opened my eyes, darkness had fallen. Chemical was where I had left him, with a gin and tonic in one outstretched hand and an unfurled map of the continent in the other. “Now,” he said, “let me tell you a story about how this land came into being.” —Arati Menon

There is a capacious kind of quiet that comes with looking down on a city from a great height. My favorite place to do that is from the golden flanks of Mount Tamalpais, the highest point in Marin County, about a half-hour north of the Golden Gate Bridge. The hiking trails that thread the mountain lead to spectacular vistas of San Francisco, the entire Bay Area, and the Pacific Ocean. You will see tendrils of fog reaching through the Golden Gate below and red-tailed hawks circling above while breathing in the fragrance of chaparral brush. The sounds are almost astonishing in their tranquility, considering the major metropolis splayed out around you: the wind off the ocean rustling the grasses, the chorus of bird calls, the cheerful hellos of passing hikers. I also hear a kind of cosmic hum that is not really a sound at all but more a visceral sensation—one that leaves me feeling renewed and ready to plunge back into the cacophony of the city below. —Jesse Ashlock

Deep inside America’s only National Radio Quiet Zone, you get a single warning: “At this time, all of your electronic devices need to be turned off.” Spanning 13,000 square miles, the zone quietly influences the lives of hundreds of thousands of people. But things get most interesting at its center in the West Virginian towns of Green Bank and Sugar Grove, home to a radio astronomy observatory (visitors welcome) and a government spy facility (no trespassing). Here, cell signals fade, radio dials spin, and the rugged mountain landscape has you driving white-knuckled. Tour the Green Bank Observatory—home of the first official search for ETs and the world’s largest fully steerable telescope—and soak up the culture of one of the wildest, least-populated areas in the eastern United States. Spend a night in Thorny Mountain Fire Tower. Go stargazing in the state’s International Dark Sky Parks. Take a coal-fueled train ride, hitch up your pants for square dancing, or hike the monolithic pillar of Seneca Rocks. Just be warned that you won’t be able to call for help if you twist an ankle. —Stephen Kurczy

Sailing through Norway’s fjords, it feels as though our ship has permeated a natural cocoon of quiet, with steep mountainsides enclosing a calm, waveless sea. The glacier-carved inlets create an accordion-like geography that, if unfurled, would form the world’s second-largest coastline. But instead of a continuous shoreline of crowded beaches, these undulations have preserved picturesque rural communities—nothing but little red farmhouses (known locally as rorbus) and gushing waterfalls to break up the hillside’s vast swaths of green. In Geirangerfjord and Nærøyfjord, the country’s longest and deepest inlets, I hike and kayak from beach to mountaintop, my own footsteps and paddling the only sounds I hear. Luckily, UNESCO World Heritage Site status grants these waterways extra protections: Come 2032, only zero-emissions cruise ships will be permitted. For those seeking ultimate silence, opt for an electric ferry tour, with no engine roar to overpower the quiet lapping of the sea. —Hannah Towey

The flip side of Victoria Peak—Hong Kong’s number one tourist attraction—is the island’s green and gorgeous south side, a swath of subtropical rainforest woven with a network of peaceful hiking trails. While the crowds ogle Hong Kong’s magnificent mirrored skyscrapers sloping downhill to the harbor, I prefer to walk 10 minutes to the cocooning environs of Peel Rise. The nearly three-mile footpath begins near a 100-year-old wing-tipped pavilion, meandering past some of the world’s most expensive real estate before sharply descending into a tapestry of bearded banyan trees entwined with acacias, camelias, fungi, and creeping ivies. The sound of traffic fades, replaced with the coos of crickets, cicadas, and black-throated laughing thrush. Only a privileged few live on this part of the island, and serious hikers tend to stick to Hong Kong’s more arduous trails. No matter the time, I rarely encounter another soul, leaving me in the company of gossamer-winged butterflies or perhaps a black kite raptor circling overhead. On summer days, I veer off the path and clamber between the trees to the rock pools, eager to sink my feet into the chilly knee-deep water. The stresses of the big city dissolve in an instant. —Lee Cobaj

The Rann technically means “desert,” but I cannot label it so. The drive there from Bhuj Airport is enveloped in baajar trees and wild ferns, a direct contrast to the dry soil. My favorite time to visit is late winter or spring when the landscape mirrors my emotions. As I leave the city limits to drive several more hours, I roll the window down, draping my chevron-printed scarf across to salvage my hair as I see bits of Pakistan. Eventually, I stop driving, step down, and start walking perpendicular, breaking into smaller runs, imagining this is my marathon. The stillness forces thoughts, running at sixty miles per hour, oscillating from past to future: to-do lists, deadlines, and trip bookings. A sudden pang of an unresolved memory with a loved one arrives and seems to linger. (Quietness has that effect on me.) The car is a pale dot behind me—the sun keeping me safe with a sense of time. The breeze drags my memories away, and I feel the need to hold on to them. Don’t leave me. My downloaded playlist ends, and the absolute silence tempts me to replay the familiar sounds. Instead, I stand in the middle of nowhere without thoughts, embracing this moment of duality. I was indeed home. —Bhakti Oberoi

In Meghalaya, in the northeast of India, the rain doesn’t arrive in a gentle pitter-patter. Instead, giant clouds hover just above the Umiam Lake, swiftly darting behind trees before gliding into your balcony at the Ry Kinjai Hotel. Here, they burst open, lashes of water falling fast and furious over the lush landscape. This is one of the wettest places on earth, where the rain gushes in torrents and waterfalls, and the aerial roots of fig trees grow so strong the Khasi tribes weave and knot them into bridges to cross over ravines. Meghalaya, meaning the “abode of the clouds” in Sanskrit, is where the sound of the monsoon winds and rain becomes the sound of peace. You can hear nothing but its crashing. Step outside, and you’ll feel the wetness of the earth beneath your feet, smell the fresh air, and watch the mist rise and fall over the lake. You feel the quiet—and then you will feel as if nothing exists but the clouds swirling around you. —Divia Thani

When driving down the winding, misty roads from the city center to the Salinas Grandes on the border of the Salta and Jujuy provinces, I feel as if I’m in a scene from a movie. One moment, lush greenery encompasses my view; the next, rolling hills; after, a rocky cliffside drops hundreds of feet below. While the landscape shifts, the overwhelming silence and total aloneness are constant. Arriving at the salt flats, I find a stillness I have never experienced. Standing on the surface, I am overwhelmed with an endless sea of white, patches of shimmering water that reflect the blue sky above, and a volcano off in the distance. The only sound is the crunch beneath my feet—the intensity of the sight combined with the pressure of the altitude, my mind is forced to a standstill. There is nothing for hundreds of miles in any direction, and the shock of peacefulness that brings to a person who typically thrives in noise is unmatched. —Harrison Pierce

High up in the Himalayas, where the silence is as pure as the air, Sangwa Camp feels as if it were conjured just for you and yours. A private, ephemeral retreat on a peak overlooking Bhutan’s most secluded valleys, this off-grid, ultra-light camp leaves no trace amid the stillness of cinematic landscapes. Pause where Layap herders weave yak-hair tents, monks whisper their chants to unseen deities, and age-old forests hide endangered red pandas and golden langurs. Sangwa is also a model of cultural preservation and community-based economic sustainability in this landlocked last Buddhist kingdom. As its magic is activated, your peaceful perch spills with stories of the microcultures of the Lhotshampa or the Doyas people, their flavors, and their traditions. Dine by candlelight on simple farm-grown ingredients, then sample surprisingly special whiskeys by the campfire as flute-soundtracked costumed dancers share local lore in a way few foreigners ever experience. And it’s not often you wake up in a comfortable bed under canvas, only to pop on handmade slippers to sip your morning tea at eye level with the clouds. —Juliet Kinsman

Slovenia is underrated as it is, but its sliver-like Adriatic coastline might just be its best-kept secret—offering all the seaside charm of neighboring Italy and Croatia minus the crowds. While strolling the coastal promenade south of Portorož, I discovered one of its lesser-known jewels: Sečovlje Salina Nature Park, encompassing 750 hectares of salt pans and wetlands. I stopped in my tracks, mesmerized by the reflection of the salt pyramids in the glassy waters. One of the Mediterranean’s last active salt pans, it’s still harvested by hand as it has been for centuries (supplying local restaurants, including the Michelin-starred Cob). Located amid the pans is an open-air spa, where bathers soak in briny pools and indulge in restorative salt wraps. But my afternoon at the female-run Gramona olive farm, tucked in the rolling hills above the salt flats, felt just as restorative. In the heat of the day, I sat under the shade of a magnificent olive tree, sampling the region’s famed Istrska belica variety, with nothing but the rustling leaves and the distant call of seabirds as company. Whoever said solitude was impossible to find in the Mediterranean must’ve overlooked this quiet stretch of Slovenian coast. —Siobhan Reid

For silence to unveil its full power, it has to get really loud first—the swarms of birds in the Serra da Capivara seem to know this. Their flapping wings come in powerful waves, circling the warm air above our small group. When they finally disappear into the thicket of treetops below us, it goes quiet. We sit here at sunset in a hidden spot near São Raimundo Nonato, where the view extends into the vastness of the national park, which covers almost 130,000 hectares. This UNESCO World Heritage Site is home to the largest (and oldest) collection of prehistoric art in the Americas—many scientists regard the finds as proof that the double continent was colonized from here and not the Bering Strait. Booking a guide is mandatory, as this is one of the last truly hidden places on earth. We’ve come to visit some of the farmers in the region, who nurture cotton, biodiverse with appreciation for the soil. In the vast tranquility of the Serra da Capivara, we are lucky to witness nature and agriculture as it should be: pristine and unmanipulated, cultivated with respect. —Lisa Riehl

My husband, Alex, and I were at the end of a four-day walking and fly-camping safari. The lack of other people, coupled with the near total absence of human presence—no ringing cell phones, no signage, no light pollution from nearby lodges, not even the trace of a campfire or the faded imprint of tire tracks from an earlier trip—meant there was a deep sense of quietude. But not an absence of noise. It turns out that when you strip away humankind, nature can be very loud. The first night, I heard lions huffing and grunting so aggressively I could have sworn they were right outside my tent. Thornton assured me they were across the river from our camp. I became aware of the whistling sound that acacia pods make when the wind whips through the trees. What I was feeling was the absence of noisiness, a stripping away of the visual and aural clutter of modern life. — Rebecca Misner

“Shh!” I whisper to the guy talking on his phone. “This is the silent car,” I say, pointing to the sign indicating that talking, use of cell phones, and even earphones are prohibited on this car. I don’t know which I like more, the quiet zone cars on Swiss trains or shushing loud passengers. Regardless, here in Switzerland where I live (and also in Germany and Austria), noise control is taken very seriously. So much so that cantonal rules stipulate that televisions, laundry machines, and sometimes even showers are prohibited at certain times. But the deep respect for quiet is best expressed on the country’s hyperpunctual trains. I always seek out these quiet-zone cars—there’s usually one on each train. And in the age of noise we live in, quietly gliding across the snowy Alps or zipping through a crowded city to the gentle chug of an electric train is a meditative balm. It helps me stay calm and provides a neutral space that helps me better prepare for my arrival. It’s never totally silent, but it never fails to be a welcome respite from the human-generated noise of our increasingly loud world. —Adam H. Graham

All I can hear as I look out over the marble-covered mound is snow melting from the trees towering at its edges—beneath that, the pounding of my own heart. But the absence of sound is not what makes this silence so overwhelming. An estimated 180,000 people were murdered and buried right here in this clearing while Sobibór served as a Nazi extermination camp from spring 1942 to fall 1943. Here, 180,000 absences reverberate through time. I have never been to a place like Sobibór. The memorial and museum are situated in the very east of Poland—the Ukrainian border is only 10 minutes away by car, and Belarus is a 20-minute journey. In the shadow of Auschwitz, many Holocaust memorials struggle for attention and Sobibór is no exception—very few visitors find their way to this remote corner of the world. To listen to its silence is a crucial act of remembrance, needed now more than it might have ever been. —Kalle Harberg

Socotra Island feels a world away from any hint of the mainland’s instability. Its name was derived from a Sanskrit phrase meaning “island of bliss,” and a week of wild camping here seems like a reset—a return to the way humanity used to be and how we used to live. Waking with the sun. Cold swims. Whole foods. Showers in freshwater wadis and journaling by headlamp. Living with the rhythms of nature. No cell service, but deeper connectivity. No internet, but endless awe. The quiet here isn’t an absence but a physical presence. With the noise of the world tuned down, hearing comes more clearly: the wind sighing through ancient dragon blood trees, the distant calls of Soqotri children playing, and my own heartbeat. It’s hard to put being here into words—the sheer density of wonder, the ethereal landscapes, and the sensation of stepping into a place both lost in time and on the cusp of change. In a world of constant connectivity, Socotra offers something far more precious: the ability to disconnect. —Pier Nirandara

A drop of water. This is the inspiration—simple and pure, escapist and soul-soothing—behind the Teshima Art Museum in Japan. Its name is deceptive; forget paintings and toilet queues. Instead, the entire structure is an ultra-minimalist spatial expression of a droplet. The concrete structure lies on a hillside in Teshima, an otherworldly fishing island packed with art. The journey begins with a walk along a simple pathway, the sea on one side, trees and jewel green rice fields on the other. Then it comes into view: no corners and all curves, a biophilic design reduced to its most elemental form. Crossing the threshold is like entering a temple, the atmosphere shifting into near-sacred stillness. Inside, walls flow in layers of white and light, with two imperfectly circular openings bringing in skies, light, breezes, insects. Eyes are drawn to the ground, where ever-shifting patterns of tiny gem-like drops of water flow hypnotically, in constant creative motion. Spending time here—sitting, cloud-gazing, thinking, life-planning, writing (only in pencil)—is as soothing as sinking into a warm bath. It’s emptiness, but the kind that awakens your senses and inspires a sense of possibility rather than lack. —Danielle Demetriou

There’s only one way to get to the island of Tristan da Cunha, located about halfway between South America and Africa: a week of sailing across the South Atlantic. Fed up with the chaos of everyday life, I board Lindblad Expeditions’ National Geographic Explorer in Ushuaia, Argentina, to make my way toward the world’s most remote inhabited island. Population? About 230. Cell service and Wi-Fi? Not a whiff. Pure bliss. On a solo hike between the sustenance-giving potato patches and the isle’s main settlement of Edinburgh of the Seven Seas, I pause to rest on a weather-worn bench. It might not be silent—the wind whistles in my ears, carrying with it the gentle clucks of chickens and deep lowing of cows—but, for once, my mind is quiet. Here, I gaze out at the ocean separating me from the pressures of the rest of the world, and I am simply present. —Stefanie Waldek

In August, I was invited to Spaceport America, the base for Virgin Galactic’s first commercial spaceflight—a portal to the cosmos set (purposely) in the middle of nowhere. This gateway to space rises from the New Mexico desert just beyond the town of Truth or Consequences, a destination that swapped its original name for 1950s game show publicity. The drive to the rocket’s dawn takeoff was dark, the Organ Mountains silhouetted against a pale blue sky. The spaceport’s curved glass structure reflected an early light, where the sun’s arrival tickled my face. At my nearby base, Hotel Encanto de Las Cruces, water rushed everywhere—cascading from tall fountains in the lobby and trickling poolside, mimicking the region’s Hot Springs Bathhouse District. After an hour-long journey, I arrived at the vast white sea of the world, White Sands National Park, and walked barefoot against the wind toward a clearing scattered with pockets of dried grasses bristling in the wind. And when it stilled, the quiet was so absolute that I could hear the tiny feet of a black beetle scuttling past me. —Jessica Chapel

I define quiet as less an absence of sound and more an opportunity for the music of the natural world to be heard. In the deep forest of Manitoba’s Turtle Mountain Provincial Park, I found my concert hall of choice—72 square miles in proportion, seating occupancy untested. The instruments are already tuning at my arrival: a squirrel chitters in a tree, cutting his practice short as I set out along a hiking trail. My footfall sets the tempo for this wildwood symphony. A woodpecker knocks a percussion line on a hollow tree; a deer makes a brief, frenetic cacophony running into the brush. Something deftly plunks into a pond, sending up a heron whose wings sigh with a harp’s grace. Birdsong enters, two quivering soloists battling with delicate arpeggios. They crescendo to release, fly away, and everything draws down, down, down, to the smallest pianissimo. I stand entranced, waiting for the next movement. —J.R. Patterson

In the Valle del Silencio (Valley of Silence), nestled deep in Spain’s Montes Aquilianos, time slowed to a whisper. The only sounds were the soft rustling of wind through ancient chestnut and oak trees, the distant murmur of a hidden stream, and the occasional call of a blackbird slicing through the stillness. Paths once walked by hermits centuries ago are unchanged, winding through mist-laden forests, old chapels, and villages seemingly untouched by time. I sat on a moss-covered rock, inhaling the crisp air scented with damp earth and wild thyme. The silence was profound—not empty, but full, like a presence watching over the valley. As the sun sank behind the peaks, golden light spilled over the rugged cliffs, deepening the shadows. In that hushed sanctuary, I realized that silence was not the absence of noise but a dialogue with the land itself—a conversation that lingered long after I left. —María Casbas

Breezy summer nights in the villages speckled along the three valleys that form Valles Pasiegos in Northern Spain are blissfully calm—only friendly conversation between locals breaks the silence. The remote cobbled streets and stone homes in these towns are so used to this quiet atmosphere that it almost feels like a tradition: no car horns wake the neighbors in the morning, only the sound of church bells. Surrounded by mountains and grassy hills, the rugged landscape explains this region’s unique personality—roads connecting the valleys are a relatively recent development, and the trails blazed by shepherds for centuries used to be the only way for the locals, the pasiegos, to travel. Today, these trails are mostly trekked by tourists, but the silence remains. The only sounds to be heard come from the cows roaming freely on these verdant pastures and the breeze rolling in from the Cantabrian Sea. —Cynthia Martin

When I first visited Venice in the summer of 2022, I was struck by how quiet the city was. Admittedly, I made this observation at 2 a.m., after a rendezvous with a man who, earlier that evening, made eyes at me in Peggy Guggenheim’s garden. As I walked back to my hotel, I navigated empty streets and barely lit alleys. I took comfort in the sounds of the laguna: water sloshing in salt-licked canals, the onomatopoeic bobbing of gondolas, Venice breathing under the cover of night. This impossible town—built of petrified wood and a great deal of ingenuity—welcomes about 30 million tourists a year, most of them only for a few hours. They make day trips, arriving on the flotilla of cruise ships that ferry them in for their dose of cicchetti and Bellinis. It’s no surprise Venice is sinking; I swear I saw the Piazza San Marco buckle and heave at the very weight of the throngs. But after plundering the glassmakers of Murano and the Valentino on Campo San Moisè, they leave. When both night and silence fall, lucky ones who got to—get to—stay, meet Venice as she once was, always will be: La Sirenissima, the most serene. —Matt Ortile

The white pickup veers off the asphalt into the soft desert floor, and I can no longer hear the noise of the road. As soon as we stop, my body uncoils from the prolonged exposure to cities, devices, and urgent tasks. I breathe out, and I’ve reached Wadi Rum. This protected desert in the south of Jordan, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, stretches nearly 300 square miles toward Saudi Arabia. Here, Bedouin tribes follow the paths of their ancestors who have lived in this harsh environment for the last 12,000 years. Once covered by an ancient sea, Wadi Rum has been shaped into an otherworldly terrain by millennia-long erosion. I watch the last rays of the sun strike the tops of reddish-brown granite and limestone mountains, as the ochre dunes, narrow gorges, whimsical arches, and massive cliffs shaped like a camel’s hump plunge into the dark. Wadi Rum is devoid of noise, not sound. Faint bellows of wildlife a mile away reach my Bedouin tent. At night, the fire crackles at the camp’s gathering spot, and the occasional wind rustles atop a nearby dune. During the midday heat, the still air makes space for the silence of the mind. —Yulia Denisyuk

Pedaling up to the entrance of Xunaan-Ha in Quintana Roo, Mexico, we piled our bikes in the corner of the empty gravel parking lot. The sun was high, and the cenote shimmered in deep blue-green hues, somehow remaining still. The silence of the place was palpable—no one else was around, only the soft sounds of birds from the surrounding trees. Our guide shared the legend of the cenote, known as the Goddess of Water, a tale of an immortal and her love for a mortal Mayan warrior. According to legend, he would drink from her waters as though knocking on a door, waiting to be greeted. Standing at the edge of the cenote, I dipped my toes into the water, bracing for the cool rush of its touch. As I lowered myself into the depths, soft ripples bounced from my movement, quietly acknowledging my presence. —Kayla Brock