Very quickly, patterns emerged. “When we started doing the identification and looked at the data in its raw format, we realized there were some interesting trends going on,” says Jessie Bunkley, who led the research as a Boise State University graduate student. Some bug groups did not show much difference in abundance regardless of the overall noise level or the presence of a compressor. But others had dramatic changes. There were 24-percent fewer grasshoppers in compressor plots, 52-percent fewer froghoppers, and a whopping 95-percent fewer cave, camel, and spider crickets. The louder the plot was, regardless of the presence or absence of a compressor, the fewer velvet ants and wolf spiders there were.

Why are these particular bugs seen less? It isn’t clear, though they all do come from groups that are known to respond to sound or vibration in some way, whether from the ripples in a web as a trapped fly struggles to free itself or the stridulating song of a mate. Compressors create a curiously oppressive noise, with both high and low frequencies at very high volume, running 24 hours a day, seven days a week, nearly 52 weeks a year. More so than traffic noise, which might peak at certain hours of the day and then drop off, compressor noise may significantly affect the surrounding ecology when the inhabitants are sensitive to sound. And the effect might not be as simple as crickets steering clear of the machines. Animals that prey on insects, like bats and birds, could alter their behavior as well, catching more of one kind than another when the compressors are there, for instance.

There was one group in the study, the leafhoppers, whose numbers actually increased in the presence of a compressor. Some insects, including mosquitoes and midges, can be attracted by certain sounds, says Bunkley, so it’s possible that the compressor is sending a message to leafhoppers, which can use vibration for locating mates: “It could be a situation where it’s a sensory trap, where they’re responding to a signal on the landscape with their instinctual response of ‘okay, I'm attracted to this vibration—it means mates.’ And in reality it’s just a giant machine.”

These alterations in the kinds of invertebrate life near noisy human machinery are reminiscent of how, in another sensitive environment, the noise of ships, oil exploration, and military sonar disrupt the communication of whales, causing them to grow disoriented and die on beaches. There has been quite a bit more research on that phenomenon than on the effects of gas compressors and wildlife. “Certainly this paper is just the very tip of the iceberg,” says Bunkley, when it comes to understanding how desert ecosystems change in response to noise. But whether in the ocean or the desert, it seems we can’t escape the sounds of our own devices, and neither can all the creatures that live alongside us.

We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to the editor or write to letters@theatlantic.com.