SAfety First
Nurturing the Habit of Awareness
Our everyday sensory world is increasingly impoverished. Moreover, independence is penalized, activity is discouraged, and awareness of our environment is diluted by our growing dependence on filtered electronic inputs. This may not matter if your idea of a good time is total Netflix immersion. But if you like to wander in the backcountry now and then, you may need a refresher course in situational awareness.
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by Tamia Nelson | March 10, 2015
If, as writer Brian Aldiss once suggested, the invention of the flush toilet is the signature accomplishment of the human species, then the public toilets (“rest rooms” in Standard American Euphemism) in modern HyperMarts are the high-water mark of our civilization. I put this to the test on a recent shopping excursion, and you can easily confirm my findings. Lights turn on and off without your needing to flip a switch. Toilets empty themselves as you step away from them. And water flows into sinks without your having to turn a tap. Even the hot-air dryers require only that you place your hands under the jet. The resident jinnī then conjures up a samūm automatically, choking it off as soon as you turn to leave.
Your only active participation in the whole process is therefore to stand (or sit) and deliver—and then attend to any necessary post-voidal cleanup. (Though the Japanese Woshuretto does away with even this somewhat noisome chore.) The … ahem … bottom line? We have very nearly eliminated any need for independent action in what is, after all, a fundamental biological function. Many will see this as Progress, and who am I to argue?
Similar testaments to human ingenuity continued to assail me as I made my way through the store. Helpful soundboxes squawked menu advice as I walked past the ends of aisles, and when I’d finished shopping, double doors flew open before me as I trundled off with my purchases. No effort on my part was required. And I’ve come to expect this. Recently, however, I popped into a less advanced Temple of Commerce. Or rather, I intended to pop in. But I was brought up short by a glass door that stubbornly refused to give way as I approached. Only after I’d stood in front of it for some seconds did I realize that this door was an anachronism—a relic of the Muscle Ages, perhaps—and that if I wished to gain admittance, I’d have to open the door myself.
You can imagine my disappointment, I’m sure. Especially after someone had gone to all the trouble to pave paradise and put up the parking lot. Still, the obstinate door was a salutary reminder that we haven’t yet engineered all need for consciousness out of our world. Despite our best efforts, it is still necessary for us to pay attention to our surroundings and act accordingly. Not all doors will fly open automatically before us.
You may be wondering what this has to do with canoeing and kayaking. But there is a connection. Despite the growing number of purpose-built whitewater parks (and the steady proliferation of carefully calibrated releases from hydro dams, as advertised on the websites of uncounted Chambers of Commerce), most paddling is still done in what can best be described as Minimally Engineered Environments™. And the thing which distinguishes such MEEs from your run-of-the-river water fun park is this:
You’re on Your Own
Not literally, of course. You probably paddle with family or friends. And that’s a very good idea. Except when it’s not. But whether you’re alone or in company, you can’t count on headwinds dying away as you tire, nor should you expect mid-river rocks to submerge as you hurtle toward them, broadside on. So if you wish to make it from put-in to take-out without adventures—that’s “adventures” in the Stefanssonian sense, by the way—you’ll need to stay alert. And you’ll have to be ready (and able) to take independent action as warranted, too. The river jinn simply can’t be counted on to anticipate your every wish.
You will, in short, have to cultivate an active awareness of your immediate surroundings. This, despite the proliferation of such electronic aides as GPS receivers, cell phones, tablets, and wi-fi-enabled e-book readers. These can do all manner of useful things, to be sure, but they’re no substitute for alert senses and a receptive mind. The backcountry remains a place apart, a wilderness in spirit if not in fact. And therein lies the problem. Our day-to-day, workaday world nudges us ever closer to a state of chronic dependence and passivity, reinforced by a sort of willful sensory deprivation. But these habits—and make no mistake, they are habits—don’t serve us well in the backcountry, where independence, activity, and awareness of our environment are necessities, not luxuries.
What, then, can we do to check the many subtle (and not so subtle) pressures urging us toward dependency? Well, paddling is itself a useful antidote to this slow, insidious poison. Canoes and kayaks give no one a free ride. We are the only engines in our craft. Even on those rare occasions when the Old Woman deigns to help us on our way, we must still work with her to reach our destination. Seldom (if ever) can we simply go with the flow. This is not a handicap. It’s an advantage. If you need convincing, consider the fate of the solitary jet-skier who runs out of gas five miles from the launch ramp where he parked. The return journey would take him only minutes under power, but unless he can beg a tow, hours will elapse before he’s reunited with his car—even longer if he doesn’t have a paddle stowed somewhere on his stricken craft. It’s no wonder that jet-skiers almost always travel in packs. Their dependence on mechanical technology is nearly absolute.
Now contrast the unhappy jet-skier’s fate with that of a kayaker. A five-mile return paddle isn’t a test of endurance for the kayaker. It’s part of the day’s fun. No more, and no less. And there’s little danger the kayak’s engine will run out of gas. For the kayaker, independence and activity go hand in hand. Her sport emancipates her, whereas the jet-skier merely entrenches the habit of dependency.
That said, there are other ways to foster independence, activity, and awareness than by picking up a paddle. Practicing “traditional” map and compass navigation, for instance, or—for coastal kayakers—mastering the skills of classic pilotage, skills that were already old when Odysseus and his companions smote the sounding furrows on their way back home from Troy. Old-fashioned woodcraft has a role to play, as well. Any paddler who can start a fire in the rain without recourse to a can of gasoline has already taken a giant step toward freeing herself from the shackles of total technological dependence.
And it’s this stealthy, creeping dependence—on mechanical propulsion, electronic navigation, guidebook-sanctioned destinations, even precooked food—that is the self-reliant traveler’s greatest enemy. As my brief astonishment when confronted with the door that didn’t open demonstrates, once the habit of dependency is established, it’s a difficult fetter to break. But it can be done, and the keystone in the arch of independence has already been alluded to: It’s the skill set labeled …
Situational Awareness
This somewhat ungainly phrase—it bears the unmistakable stamp of the briefing room and the flight deck—is now mercifully abbreviated to “SA.” (Some older readers may be tempted to read those letters as “sex appeal,” an unfortunate but unavoidable confusion for which I can take no responsibility.) And just what is SA, then? One definition was proposed by M. R. Endsley. Situational awareness, he wrote, is “the perception of elements in the environment within a volume of time and space, the comprehension of their meaning, and the projection of their status in the near future.” Wikipedia characterizes Endsley’s definition as “firmly established and widely respected,” and this may well be true, but I much prefer E. C. Adam’s formulation, namely,”knowing what is going on so you can figure out what to do.”
When viewed in that light, the recipe for enhancing your SA is easily stated: Keep your eyes and ears open and your brain housing group engaged. Keep your head on a swivel, and leave your ear buds in your pack. This may seem a self-evident prescription, and it is, but I’ve lost count of the number of times that hikers—including several ROTC cadets on field exercises—have walked past me as I stood in plain sight a few feet off a popular trail, making no sign they’d noticed me until I startled them into an awareness of my presence by speaking.
It goes without saying that these hikers’ failure to maintain SA had no adverse consequences—unless you count embarrassment as an adverse consequence. But paddlers can’t afford similar lapses. Rocks, waves, and wind gusts give no quarter to the unwary. Neither do speeding power boats. A further cautionary word is probably in order here: Amphibious trekkers, those paddlers who haul their boats in trailers pulled behind their bikes, can expect no greater consideration from speeding cars than from boats towing waterskiers. A rear-view mirror is an essential accessory when navigating the asphalt seas. Satchel Paige notwithstanding, you need to know if something might be gaining on you.
Perhaps you’re now wondering if there isn’t more to SA than I’ve suggested. If so, you’d be right. In its original form, SA was about making the most of information gleaned by the Mark 1 eyeball. This is easily explained. A fighter pilot’s other senses don’t have much scope for deployment in the cockpit, save perhaps when Nagging Nora or Hank the Yank is clamoring for attention. But paddlers aren’t forced to labor under this handicap. Farwell even makes use of his preternatural sense of smell when navigating the backcountry, sniffing the air like a bloodhound on the scent. And while my nose isn’t in the same league as Farwell’s, the indefatigable efforts of generations of fragrance chemists have left their mark. I often smell other hikers on the trail long before I see or hear them.
The sense of touch also comes into play in SA. Sailors, who’ve long relied on the Old Woman’s chilly caress to alert them to shifts in the wind, need no reminding of this. And Farwell, who places his feet with some care when walking off-trail, once felt the subtle pressure of a concealed nail coming through the sole of his shoe in time to unweight the foot, thereby avoiding a crippling puncture wound. His sense of touch came to his rescue. My point? Just this: Every sensory input contributes to situational awareness in the backcountry, and there’s a fair degree of redundancy. The vital thing is to avoid tuning out. Alertness is all-important.
Which brings me to another, and final, point. If you want to see more and hear more—and you do; seeing and hearing take pride of place among the senses—it pays to dress drably and move quietly. There are a couple of obvious exceptions, however: the hunting seasons and bear country. A “hunter orange” vest should be the highlight of your outdoor wardrobe during deer season, and during the spring and fall wild turkey seasons, as well. (If you ride a bike to the put-in, similar high-viz attire makes sense in all seasons, at least when you’re on the road.) As for bears—well, suffice it to say that they don’t like being surprised, and if your travels take you to places frequented by North American brown bears, it pays to whistle while you walk. Wear a bell if you can’t whistle. Or recite “The Call of the Wild.” Or “Kubla Khan,” if that’s more to your taste. The vital thing is to make your presence known. In fact, this is also a good idea during berry season in black bear country. Black bears don’t like being surprised, either.
Most important of all, though—and this warrants repeating, I think—keep your eyes, ears, and mind open. If you do only that, and no more, situational awareness will come naturally.
Our everyday sensory world is increasingly impoverished and distorted. We’re also herded, hectored, and humiliated at every turn—all in the name of safety. Moreover, independence is penalized, activity is discouraged, and awareness of our environment is diluted by our growing dependence on filtered electronic inputs. This may not matter if your idea of a good time is total Netflix immersion. But if you like to wander in the backcountry, you might decide you need a refresher course in self-reliance. And the foundation on which self-reliance is built is situational awareness.
It isn’t something for fighter pilots only. The sensors you need are built-in. They’re literally at your fingertips. And the essential circuitry is hard-wired into your brain housing group. All you have to do is start heeding what your eyes and ears (and nose, and skin and tongue) are trying to tell you. It’s that simple. Or that hard. But simple or hard, it’s worth doing.
