On the Observer Effect, Heisenberg and the Subjective Fallibility of Judgment
In science, the term observer effect refers to changes that the act of observation will make on a phenomenon being observed. … The observer effect on a physical process can often be reduced to insignificance by using better instruments or observation techniques. However, in quantum mechanics … it is not possible to observe a system without changing the system, so the observer must be considered part of the system being observed.
In simplified terms, this means that, at least in the realm of quantum physics, the closer you are to an object the less accurately you can measure or assess it. In common usage, this effect is often confused with the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, which poet Shane Koyczan defines with his typical elegance: "Nothing is fo' shizzle"
And the interesting thing about that
Is that it ensures that the principle itself can't even be a fact.
But we still act as though
This time we can see the forest through the trees.
- from the poem, “Atlantis”
Mashing-up, over-simplifying and bastardizing these two principles, extrapolating their physical truth to conjecture about human behavior, leads to the following hypothesis:
The closer we are to another human being, the less we are able to objectively, accurately, assess their condition. Taken to the ultimate limit of observational closeness, this would suggest that humans cannot with certainty assess themselves.
We’re kinda crap at knowing ourselves, hard as we may try.
I’ve learned myself well enough over the course of these years dealing with a heart condition to know that when I get symptomatic out in the woods I get first frustrated, then angry. A sadness often follows in the days proceeding an episode out on the trails, but while still out there and fighting my limitations I get single-minded, bullish – I rage. On a particularly bad day during the 2010 TransRockies Challenge mountain bike stage race I was raging as my teammate and I approached the Continental Divide, me reduced to pushing my bike, head limp, wheezing, unbalanced and zigzagging on either side of the trail. I was lucky that day to have my 200+ pound teammate with me because after a few minutes of watching that debacle playing out in front of him, taking on the chin my swearing back at him when he suggested I stop, he finally got tired of it and simply knocked me over, then hung me upside-down from the ankles to get some blood back into my by-then grey and numb face. I suspect this episode of lycra-clad couples yoga, witnessed by dozens of our competitors as they passed by, will live on in TransRockies mythology for years to come.
I’m not romanticizing this behavior – I recognize it for its futility and its stupidity. But I also recognize it for its genesis and its (lizard-brained) rationale: It’s a fight for control. Due to some still-undiagnosed fault of physiology I no longer have control over my cardiovascular system and its ability to perform. When this system breaks down I’m left with the things I can control – my will, my desire, my perseverance – and I put those into overdrive. I try to overcompensate for the failings of my body with an exaggerated effort of my mind. The rub, though, is that in placing this disproportionate effort into tenacity, to tax my mind with that effort, I leave my mind too depleted to perform what should be its primary function when heading out into the woods: Judgment.
Our exercise of judgment is not limited to outdoor adventures; its effects are certainly not limited to us as individuals. In terms of the outcomes resulting from our judgment, as social creatures our families, friends and broader networks are affected by the implication of our decisions. On the flip side of the coin, individuals of contemporary society are under the influence of a multiplicity of decision-making inputs, information and opinions. How we filter and weight these – and the extent to which we are aware of the effect the outcomes of this process will have on the people around us – are key to making sound decisions. Outside, in unforgiving terrain that doesn’t give a damn how its behavior will affect us, clarity of judgment becomes paramount. But no matter the context – whether making a go/no-go decision about traversing a loaded avalanche slope or your choice of language in the midst of an argument with a loved one – having an understanding of the factors that cloud that clarity of judgment is critical.
Months after surviving a massive avalanche on the slopes of Mount Manaslu, in the Nepali Himalaya, that killed 11 other mountaineers, honch backcountry skier, Greg Hill, reflected on his blog on the decisions that put he and his teammates in harm’s way:
I realized that the more I want to summit something, the more I will justify things and ignore signs. This has happened to me in the past when I was way out on a traverse and really wanted to climb this 10 000 foot peak that is on my list. The mountains let us get away with an amazing descent in the morning and I wanted one more summit. The signs were all pointing to turn around and all I was doing was justifying to keep trying. Eventually as I skinned across a slope I was sent flying down a 500-foot slope. Luckily nothing significant happened. But from now on the more I want something the more I will double check that I am not ignoring signs.
For Hill, his judgment was clouded by the seduction of a stretch goal; in the general case the diminution in judgment resulting from the pursuit of a particularly enticing positive outcome, thing, or state of being. In theory, in the abstract, I recognize the opposite and equally powerful manner in which our judgment can be compromised: by the drive away from a negative outcome, thing, or state of being. I just hadn’t recognized how it has been affecting me.
The perception of this risk usually changes with the objective, quite often becoming clouded as the objectives get personally more important.
I’m in the midst of an extended period of cardiac symptomatology. Since my very long day on the Spearhead my heart simply hasn’t been right – everything I try to do leaves me challenged, breathless. Nonetheless, the weekend following the Spearhead Traverse I put in long days of ski touring, solo, on both Saturday and Sunday. On the following Wednesday I jumped into a road-running group’s workout – my heart suffered badly and I had to quit, going home to lie in the bath with a 140 bpm heart rate before passing out with panting exhaustion. The following day was a write-off, more or less forced onto my back for the day. That Friday I considered my options. I wanted to tour. I wanted to go on an adventure. I wanted to put in a big day. I felt the entire gravity of the earth dragging me outside and into its wilderness.
I felt it dragging me back north into the meat of the Vancouver Island Mountain Range, towards my old friend, Mount Albert Edward, who I’d flanked but been able to summit the previous weekend. The trouble was, the previous weekend I was skiing on top of a bulletproof crust of snow and in the intervening days over 30cm of new snow had fallen. You don’t need to be an avalanche expert to understand the physics involved – imagine tilting a layer cake with slippery icing between the layers. No one wants to get caught underneath a foot of gravity-assisted sponge cake. The Vancouver Island Avalanche Bulletin pegged the outlook in the alpine at high. More snow was scheduled for the following day; visibility was going to be marginal. I tried to co-opt my buddy George into joining me – more to the point I tried to co-opt his avalanche transceiver and shovel into joining me.
“Dude, I don’t have the fitness for that – how long would it take?”
“Shouldn’t be more than 8 hours with the new snow, but I’ll break trail the whole way.”
“Get bent, I’m going to the resort.”
No problem. I can do this. I’ll be smart. There’s not a lot of high-angle, avalanche-prone terrain on the route. I’ll be fine. I’m getting this done. I packed my heart medication and the rest of my gear before heading into town to meet up with friends for a gentle beer and a blether, anticipating an early start the next day.
At the pub, I told one of my friends about all this, about the gravity, about the plan.
“What do you mean, you know? What do you know?”
“I know how you’re feeling, that itchiness, that sense of being caged. Look at you. Don’t you realize that for days after a heart episode you’re not yourself? You’re grumpy, agitated…approaching frantic. It’s so obvious you’re pissed at your body and that all you want to do in response is to do more, to push harder. Honestly, you become a bit of an asshole.”
No, I hadn’t realized. Hadn’t realized that my stubbornness persisted beyond the day of an acute episode and that following those days I would continue to fight my heart, to push, to try to disprove my physical limitations, to repel that negative reality.
While I recognized the fact of my failing judgment when I’m in the midst of a cardiac episode, what I’d failed to recognize – where I’ve proven to be crap at self-knowledge – is that my questionable judgment persists beyond the narrow-scale circumstances of being symptomatic on the trail and extends in the broader-scale context of my mindset and decision-making in the following days.
“And I also know you're not going to ski that mountain tomorrow.”
Notwithstanding the realization that had begun to establish a tenuous hold on my psyche, my back started to come up.
“No. I may not ski, but I figure I can interpret avalanche reports that say ‘high risk’ and translate that to ‘incredibly low intelligence if attempting to ski alone.’ You’d be an idiot – consider yourself disowned if you go.”
Naturally, in my state, my back came up all the further, very nearly pulling me out the door and back to my condo for the few hours sleep before I was scheduled to leave. But then the soundness of her observation poked a hole in the shroud of my faulty judgment, and through it came tearing the full reality of the foolishness I had been considering, but hadn't been able to see in myself, for myself.
I stayed seated. I pushed back, created a little distance and observed the forest for what it was. I turned the trip off.
This one's for friends and the way they know us sometimes better than we know ourselves.
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