I am writing this from the trailhead of the M, where the parking lot is currently vibrating—not from a tectonic shift, but from the bass of a portable speaker strapped to a daypack. It was 7:15 a.m. on a Tuesday. Apparently, the morning song of the meadowlarks needed a percussion section provided by a popular EDM remix.

I moved to this valley in 2019, right before the world shifted, and I like to think we established a social contract back then. We come to the mountains to listen to the wind in the pines and the occasional heavy breathing of our own lungs. If you need a soundtrack to conquer a 1,200-foot elevation gain, might I suggest a pair of noise-canceling headphones? They provide the same high-decibel experience without forcing the rest of us to participate in your personal musical journey.

My neighbor, Gary, who has been here since before the pavement on 19th was a twinkle in a city planner’s eye, put it best: “I came out here to see the elk, not to hear a podcast about true crime narrated by a man eating chips into a microphone.”

It is a simple matter of trail physics. When you broadcast your sound into the wilderness, you are effectively taking up more space than you physically occupy. You are claiming the acoustic landscape for yourself, which is, quite frankly, a bit of an overreach.

We are all lucky to live in a place where the mountains are our backyard. However, a backyard requires shared boundaries. Let us leave the concert halls in downtown Bozeman and keep the trails for the sound of our boots hitting the dirt. The mountains are already playing music; we just have to stop talking—and playing Spotify—long enough to hear it.

Tammy Switchback moved to Bozeman in 2019, which she considers early enough to have opinions. She hikes recreationally and judges others for how they do it.