The Thinking, Walking Biped, part eight. Famous Nature Walks: Henry David Thoreau

Probably every American student has had to read something by Henry David Thoreau. His literary immortality is thus guaranteed forever. Pretty good for a man who never had a steady job. He published a few books, gave a few talks, and walked for (he says) four hours every day as he lived out his life in Concord, Massachusetts during the middle nineteenth century. He was one of many writers who walked a lot; Thoreau mentions William Wordsworth as a writer who walked. He was a friend of (and, I suspect, a dependent upon) Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Thoreau is most famous for living out in the woods (on Emerson’s land) in a little hut that he built himself, at very little expense near the shore of Walden Pond. In case you think he lived in the hut all of his life, this is not true: he only lived there a couple of years. He just wanted to prove that it could be done.

I thought I would find a well-thought-out explanation of how and why he walked in his essay Walking. Given the essay title, it was not an unreasonable thing to expect. But in this essay, Thoreau actually had very little to say about walking other than that he would start off with no clear destination in mind and usually find himself heading southwest “toward Oregon” (which is not southwest of Concord).

But maybe this is the point. He would start walking with no particular topic to think about or problem on his mind. He would wait until he saw something that made him think, and then he would write about it later. That’s what I do, only I do not have a very good memory, so I make notes on my cell phone to remind me what I was supposed to write about. Thoreau was very observant, although (or because) he did not know what to observe.

He noticed patterns that others overlooked, especially Emerson. Emerson thought in big brush strokes and ignored details (or, in some cases, made them up). It was the details that mattered to Thoreau. As I walk around in French forests, I notice that the wild cherries ripen first, then the wild blackberries a couple of weeks later, and the wild dewberries last of all. Blackberries and dewberries look enough alike that it is easy to mistake one for the other. Thoreau had to notice the seasonal patterns of flowers and fruits, as he was passionate about eating wild fruits, especially huckleberries. I also eat wild fruits on my walks, cherries first in the summer, then blackberries, then dewberries toward autumn. Thoreau said that young people can learn more about the world in a day of huckle-berrying than a year of learning Latin.

One major example of Thoreau’s attention to detail was that many people assumed the pine woods had always been pine woods and the hardwood forests had always been hardwood forests. But Thoreau saw birds in pine trees dropping hardwood seeds onto the ground. Apparently pine woods became hardwood forests, which, when they burned or were cut, reverted to being pine woods. Thoreau may not have been the first to come up with this ecological observation, but he certainly came up with it himself. He even reconstructed the population history of pine woods by counting tree rings.

Thoreau was also a man of scientific faith. That is, he wrote down observations in his voluminous notebooks for which he had no use, but which he thought might be useful to somebody someday. Among his observations were the dates on which various species of wildflowers bloomed in the spring. He was not the first person to keep such records, which we today call phenology; in Japan, some records of cherry blossoms go back for centuries. But Thoreau’s records came in very handy when modern botanists such as Richard Primack and Abe Miller-Rushing compared Thoreau’s data with recent data. The flowers bloom much earlier today than they did in Thoreau’s time, consistent with global warming. Many other scientists, including me, have come up with similar results based on entirely separate sets of plants.

Another thing about Thoreau’s scientific faith. He kept walking because you never know what you might see, and if you are not out walking you might miss it.

And us modern scientists acknowledge the details that Thoreau noticed on his nature walks, even though he did not set out with the intention of noticing them.

The Thinking, Walking Biped, part one. Pascal Picq and Human Evolution

This essay begins a series about the importance of walking in human evolution and history.

Cogito, ergo sum, said Pascal, or someone. I think, therefore I am. In French it would be je pense, donc je suis. But one French writer, an anthropologist named Pascal Picq, has changed this a little. He says, je marche, donc je pense. I walk, therefore I think. He has made the case that we are not just bipeds who think, but we think because we are bipeds. He attributes the evolution of human intelligence not just to the fact we are bipeds, but because we are bipeds who can walk and run for long distances, with outstanding endurance not found in other mammal species. Maybe this is obvious to you, but I’d never thought of it until I read Picq’s book La Marche.

Picq overviewed the history of scientific explanations for why humans walk upright. This has always been somewhat of an enigma. Quadrupeds can run a lot faster than we can. Anthropologists have come up with all kinds of advantages that bipedalism conferred on our ancestors, such as being able to look out over the vegetation to see either danger or opportunity, or to use our forelegs as arms that can carry things such as food and kids and weapons. Long distance migration is what evolution has favored in our species: even old people can walk long distances unless they have health problems or are injured (I do it nearly every day), and there are a lot more elderly marathon runners than elderly speed sprinters.

While these things are all true, Picq has added another: bipedalism has altered the evolution of our minds. Bipedalism (as in Australopithecus) preceded intelligence (as in Homo), and here are some reasons why.

Humans are superb wanderers and have been so throughout our evolutionary history. National Geographic writer Paul Salopek is retracing, on foot, the epic journey of humankind from our African genesis to the end of the journey in South America. Other mammals run faster, but do not migrate as far as humans have. Starting about a hundred thousand years ago, prehistoric humans spread from Africa to every continent except Antarctica. These migrations set up an advantage for intelligence, because our ancestors had to decide whether to migrate (that is, is migration worth the cost of leaving home), and then how to get someplace and know that the new place was where we wanted to stay. This required superb observation and memory of the environment and ability to analyze opportunities. This was true on the short scale (we want to go this way, but there is a river, and we have to figure out how to cross it, which may involve turning around and going back the way we came) and the long scale (we want to get to that hill, from which we can see into the distance and plan what to do next, if anything). Homo sapiens was apparently better than this than Homo neanderthalensis. Our intelligent ancestors also had to think ahead about, and remember, the migration routes and habits of their prey. Neanderthals killed mastodons; humans planned ahead about where the mastodons would be before trying to kill them.

In all these ways, our thinking evolved as a series of logical steps. That is, it required reasoning ability. A primitive (or modern) philosopher or scientist will try out ideas to see if they work, then come up with a backup plan if it doesn’t. This, Picq speculates, uses a similar mental network to figuring out where to go and how to get there on foot.

On top of all that, walking and running makes us feel good and releases us from stress. Picq said he got some of his best ideas while walking. I have the same experience. And perhaps the best example is Charles Darwin, whose “walking path” at Down House was where he got, and perfected, his major ideas. He did not get them sitting at his desk. Many famous composers, as well as other scholars, carried writing equipment with them. I have heard that Beethoven and Dvořák wrote musical ideas as they walked (see a later essay on this topic). Today, we have cell phones on which the thinking walker can record ideas.

According to Picq, what science and philosophy needs more of is people who walk and think, rather than sit at desks and read what other people have written.