Consciousness in the Wilderness

The former posts were written to introduce the subject of intelligent awareness displayed by the living things that have emerged on this planet. When you look deeply at the biosphere, it seems that it’s delicacy, power, and beauty convey something of the underlying consciousness behind it. When one follows that realization to its end, one has to stand back in breathless awe at the refinement and splendour of the universe that produced it. All the details we see around us are clues, windows into that deep mystery. I used to go underwater to remember I lived in a magic world, but really any excursion into nature will do. And the more you look, the more you see!

Yet in the quest to glimpse nature's mystical and still largely unknown realm, one swiftly discovers that wild animals are highly sensitive to being looked at, especially when they don't trust you. Crows can vanish in seconds if they are noticed by the wrong person. They fly straight away from your face, so that all you see is a flicker in the trees as they disappear through the branches; no motion is apparent. Given that our eyes, as well as those of most other animals, are attuned to movement, the effect of instantaneous vanishment is startling, and an excellent survival strategy, especially given the way some people shoot at them.

Each creature is an individual and some are very different from the others. Often it is a special individual who is willing to make contact with an interested person, while the rest pay as little attention to you as you pay to them.

An example: I used to give the local pair of ravens some pieces of fat each morning, and in this way I gained a window into their world. Year after year they came, and when they had offspring, they brought the kids to meet us too. One day a chickadee intercepted me as I walked out with the ravens' plate of fat. The tiny bird shouted as I went by, and flew to the plate, but the pieces were too big. He came close again as I returned to the house, so I took him a saucer of fat cut into tiny pieces. The chickadee came right away and took one; he seemed to have understood that I was bringing it for him!

This chickadee had to get my attention each time he wanted a piece of fat, and he became adept at the challenge. Sometimes he would hang from a twig to look into the house through the window. Once when I was painting outside, unfortunately too close to his bits of fat, he suddenly alighted on a bare stalk just beyond the painting, practically within my arm's reach. I couldn't help but look at him, and he looked straight back. Then, when I returned to my careful brushing, he did not hesitate to alight on his plate and begin to eat.

It appeared that he had put himself in front of my face, so that I could not help but react to him, for the purpose of finding out what I would do. Was I really as unaware of him as I appeared? Or would I try to catch him, or show another reaction that would reveal a different attitude? It was reminiscent of predator inspection, as described in fish, in which an animal, sometimes with companions, comes close to look at a predator.

Weeks later, I was serving coffee to guests on the deck, when there was a wild little chitter beside my ear, and the momentary touch of tiny claws and wing-tips! When I looked up, the chickadee was hanging off a twig towards me, his eyes fixed on mine. That was the only time I was ever buzzed by a bird.

Needless to say, I hurried to produce some fat, but there was too much activity outside, and in the end, the chickadee would not come near.

The next year he reappeared again in February, shouting at my elbow as I took out the ravens’ fat. And when I paused to cut bits of fat small enough for him to take, he alighted on my head!

Other special individual birds I got to know would also try to get my attention by perching near and looking at me.

Along a similar vein, the male raven, on arriving at my house each morning, would often watch for movement at the window before coming in for a landing on the road. Large birds like ravens use a lot of energy to take off, so he would not alight on the ground unless he had a good reason. But when he saw me in the window he would suddenly appear, floating across my line of vision, his wings a parachute as he descended from some invisible height into the open space in front of the house. Then he would come in like a plane to alight on the road.

One morning, he walked down the driveway to the house as usual, but as I went out, he suddenly flew up into the forest. I continued out to the road, and his mate glided out of the trees to soar in a wide spiral around me. I threw her a good chunk of food, which she romped forward to get, but by then the male had flown down, and was hurrying over to take charge of any more forthcoming food. He usually insisted on taking it all each time and then he would give her permission to eat some. But this time, he took a piece and left the rest for her.

This was his way of trying to tell me that it would be better to put the food I gave them out in the open at the side of the road. It was not until later that I found out how wary these large birds are of thick bush where a predator could hide, and our driveway was lined with greenery where such terrors as bobcats could hide.

On another morning, I could scarcely see the male peering out towards the house from the other side of the road. He was actually hunched as he looked down at my window, nearly out of my view. Evidently, however, he understood that I could see him. When I went out, he walked a short distance and stopped and seemed to indicate the ground in front of him as if suggesting that this was the place to put the food. And just at that moment, above, a branch waved, and his mate swept down. It seemed that while waiting for me that morning, he had chosen a place where he was in my line of sight while also remaining in view of her!

Curiously, his action is the opposite of hiding, in which one places oneself out of the line of sight of another.

One morning I looked outside from a second floor window, and saw a bear standing directly below. Just as I withdrew, he seemed to notice my movement, so I peeked out again to see. He had vanished, though not a sound had disturbed the spell of silence that lay over the forest.

It took a moment to see his bright eyes, peeking back from between the spreading leaves of a devil's club plant growing beside the trail there, that now effectively concealed the bulky creature from view! 

He had seen me and hidden. Cognitive ethologist pioneer, the late Donald R. Griffin, formerly of Harvard University, suggested in his book Animal Minds, that when an animal hid itself from view, it was demonstrating self awareness. He described how naturalist Lance A. Olsen, President of the Great Bear Association, reported grizzly bears seeking places from which they could watch hunters while remaining hidden.

Other early observers such as William Wright (1909) and Enos Abija Mills (1919) reported that grizzly bears tried to avoid leaving tracks. The researchers concluded that these bears were aware of being present and observable, as well as creating effects―their tracks―through their movements, which could be seen by others. They were self-aware.

Not only birds are sensitive to being looked at and photographed; photographing fish was often problematic because they energetically searched for a hiding place, so my photos often revealed not much more than fish trying to hide! The sharks I studied used the visual limit for concealment, suggesting that they, too, are aware of being present and observable, and hence self-aware to that degree.

Each animal is a self-serving entity: seeking food for the self, protecting the self, saving the self, and so forth. So to be aware of the self, as distinct from others and the environment, would result in survival benefits. Thus, evolution, through natural selection, would tend to favour self-awareness.

The way crows instantaneously vanish by flying straight away along your line of sight, without giving the impression of any movement, is another way an animal has found to use lines of sight to its advantage. These are interesting clues to the differences in the ways that birds view the world. After all, their brains have evolved to deal with three dimensional movement, something we know next to nothing about.

The raven's perch is high above it all, his realm the sweeping landscape as seen from tens of metres above. From his perspective, how could there be a question about who is superior? Us or him? Even our cars cannot fly. Given my difficulty in seeing him in the crowns of nearby treetops, doubtless he considers himself the brightest light while he wonders how to attract my attention. Surely only that could explain the circus performances he would give as he suddenly appeared in my view, as I gazed upwards.

These ravens were so aware of things happening across the vast expanses below their high lookouts, that I often saw them fly low over the car when I drove back into the mountain valley from below. They would be perched above the highway at the mountain pass, and recognize my car, from among all of the others, as I returned. By the time I arrived at the house, they would be gliding in over the trees. 

I have published several videos showing this pair of ravens on YouTube, most under the title of "The Raven Lovers." There are other videos that focus on their calls, song, and chatter.

 

Such intelligent behaviours are signs of consciousness. Maybe one day when we understand things better, people in the future may see humans as just one of countless intelligently aware, and specialized life forms on this planet, all interdependent in the beautiful, transcendent web of life.

(c) Ila France Porcher 

    Author of Birds are Impossible: The Supernatural Ways of the Fliers