Blind in Wild Nature

Blind in Wild Nature

Braille Monitor
March 2014

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Blind in Wild Nature
by Geerat J. Vermeij
From the Editor: Geerat Vermeij is distinguished professor of earth and planetary sciences at the University of California, Davis. As an evolutionary biologist/paleobiologist, he has published more than 255 scientific papers and is the author of six books including, most recently, The Evolutionary World: how Adaptation Explains Everything from Seashells to Civilizations.
Offering a view that runs counter to several items we have printed recently about blind people and independent exploration, Dr. Vermeij reminds us that some information can be perceived only with sight and explains how he has managed to get this information and build mutually enriching relationships in the process. The professor is a frequent contributor to the Braille Monitor, but he warned me that this article might be controversial. I differ with him about this, considering it yet another variant on the theme so popularly captured and remembered in the 1993 speech by Dr. Kenneth Jernigan on “The Nature of Independence.” There is more than one way to skin a cat (feline lovers forgive me), and Dr. Vermeij reminds us of this in these thought-provoking remarks. He can be reached at <[email protected]>, and here is what he has to say:
One of the many enriching dimensions of my life is the frequent exposure to truly wild places away from the bustle of cities and the familiarity of home and work. As a scientist I rely on these experiences for inspiration and for clues about how nature works. As a naturalist I crave the esthetics that total sensory immersion in the world's remaining remote habitats permits. As a blind person I have been privileged to work and share my enjoyment with colleagues and loved ones in spectacular settings ranging from tropical rain forests in Panama, the coastal meadows and redwood forests of California, the dunes and beaches of the Wadden Islands in the Netherlands, the seaweed-choked rocky shores of Iceland and New Zealand, the incomparable coral reefs of Palau, the mucky mangroves of northwestern Madagascar and Ecuador, the truly barren deserts of the Sinai Peninsula, and the alpine tundra of Colorado, to the razor-sharp limestone cliffs of Jamaica. In all these wonderful places and many others, I have learned that no amount of reading or armchair travel beats careful observation with the brain in gear.
Sadly, such experiences have been closed to the vast majority of blind people. Some time ago I was approached by a blind student who asked me a simple question: how does someone who is blind do field work or, more broadly, become a dedicated naturalist who goes off the beaten track? This article is my perspective on this question.
Because of an all-consuming curiosity about and love for all things nature has to offer, I have worked to create opportunities to go places. In this pursuit I have relied on one overriding principle that on first blush will seem contradictory to the aims of an independent blind person: I am in the company of a like-minded sighted person, and I leave my cane at home.
Let me explain. First, anyone engaging with wild nature should go with another person. Modern people have a romantic concept of nature as a harmonious, benevolent refuge; but the reality is that, despite its obvious appeal and beauty, unkempt nature is full of unpredictable dangers and challenges, and accidents happen. It is therefore always better to be with a partner.
Second, a sighted companion is essential for orienting a blind person to what is inevitably a highly complex, unfamiliar environment, and for efficiently guiding and directing a blind person's movements. Vision has the extraordinary advantage that an effective route can be scanned from afar and that hidden crevices, drop-offs, and other dangers can be evaluated and avoided efficiently. I cannot imagine how I could have found my way to remote areas without public transportation, much less walk with reasonable speed from shore to the reef edge in Guam or safely negotiate a narrow, cobble-strewn path alongside a precipitous canyon in remote Baja California without sighted companions. If I were to do these things using a cane, I would spend all my time painstakingly deciding where to take the next step. With one hand clutching a cane, the ability to stay low and crawl on all fours would be severely compromised. Besides, where would I leave the cane when my hands are busily engaged under water, beneath ledges, or delving into the undergrowth? In short, reliance on a cane would require me to devote all my time and energy to the mechanics of locomotion rather than to the tasks of observing and collecting. A cane is therefore an impediment, a hindrance, and indeed a limitation in such circumstances, rather than a key to independence.
Once at an interesting location, the blind naturalist can perfectly well be left to observe and to move unaccompanied, as long as a companion is within shouting distance. At this point, unencumbered by a cane, one's full attention can be devoted to listening, smelling, feeling, tasting, and thinking, all the while being aware of potential threats. Just as important, a blind observer can contribute meaningfully to an enhanced experience for his or her partner. Under the best circumstances—and in my experience these are the rule rather than the exception—the outing is a mutually beneficial event, in which the participants bring their own diverse skills of observation to the enterprise.
There is a third, perhaps more intangible, benefit to this arrangement. A shared interest in natural history cements friendships and, for the blind partner, promotes integration into the world of the sighted. In my student years I frequently went on field trips with sighted peers, either as part of a course or, equally often, as impromptu excursions. Willing colleagues would often arrange for complete strangers to accompany me, invariably with good results. On a UNESCO-sponsored trip to Fiji, for example, while everyone else in the visiting party went diving, the village chief engaged a very capable fourteen-year-old boy to take me to shore sites around the island of Dravuni. Early in our courtship, my wife Edith and I explored volcanoes and rocky seashores in the eastern Caribbean, the formal excuse being that I needed more data on the body temperatures of snails in order to complete my PhD thesis. On a scientific cruise aboard a research ship to the Aleutian Islands of Alaska, I went ashore by small boat on eleven islands with my trusted colleague, A. Richard Palmer, then (and still) at the University of Alberta. On yet another expedition, this time to the recently erupted volcanic island of Pagan in the Northern Marianas, I had to launch myself from a small boat to a slippery boulder shore the moment that one of my companions, a seasoned Vietnam veteran with extensive field experience, gave me the go-ahead to jump. In all these escapades and many more, I clearly benefited from the expertise and competence of sighted companions. Meanwhile, my partners gained a new appreciation for the capabilities of a blind naturalist and scientist.
Obviously, this kind of intense field exposure entails risks. Over the years I have been stung by bees and sea urchins, bitten by crabs and moray eels, impaled by sting rays, thrown off balance by incoming waves, nearly tossed overboard on small boats, scraped by coral, and assaulted by poison oak. These are the common experiences of everyone who ventures into the wild. They come with the territory, and, although we do what we can to be prudent, the benefits of learning first-hand about undomesticated nature cannot be had without accepting some risks.
To some readers my perspective may seem to fly in the face of our goal as blind people to be as independent as possible. I would argue, however, that instead of conflicting with this goal, reliance on sighted companions in the field substantially broadens our range of experience and thus places us at a more equal footing with our sighted peers. There is an apt analogy between our situation and that of any self-sufficient individual in society. Many things can be done most effectively by individuals acting alone, but there are other functions—education, food production and distribution, and the provision of all manner of public services—that are best done collectively, with the aid of others. Independence, it turns out, is a desired state arising both from one's own actions and from the cooperative efforts of others. By finding the right balance, we can gain as individuals in our own capacities and experiences while at the same time engage with the larger world—natural as well as human—around us.

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