Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [37]
Human echolocation, as it is sometimes called, also works with finger snaps, light foot stomps, or clicking noises made with the mouth. While it’s similar to the sonar and echolocation used by animals, humans make sounds with much lower frequencies and slower rates than bats and dolphins, so echolocation works for us mainly on larger objects. In other words, I can’t locate and dispatch a pesky mosquito via mouth clicks or cane taps. I’ll have to leave that to the bats. But human echolocation works well enough for a blind man named Daniel Kish to train people how to use the skill for activities such as mountain biking. Another man named Ben Underwood has used echolocation for running, Rollerblading, basketball, and skateboarding.
Since I’ve been using a cane since my teens, I walk pretty quickly. I like to use a long cane so I can extend it out about three feet in front of me.
With Roselle I can move just as fast except that she handles the job of avoiding objects, helping me travel more efficiently because she makes the choices of how to best avoid obstacles. Roselle studies me constantly, matching my speed. More than once I’ve jogged down an airport concourse to catch a plane, probably turning a few heads. Roselle can usually keep up.
The slow pace on the stairs is frustrating, although understandable. Between the firefighters now taking up the left side of the stairs as they climb up, and the increasing size of the crowd in the stairwell, we are creeping along now. “Twenty-eight . . . twenty-five . . . twenty-two . . .,” David says.
On the 20th floor now, the floor feels slippery. Why? What is it from? Spilled water? Sprinklers? Sweat? No one says anything, so it must be some sort of clear liquid. I’m guessing water. But whatever the liquid is, it makes my job harder. I focus, gripping the stair railing a little tighter. I’m even more careful with my feet. Roselle’s movements and pace aren’t changing; she doesn’t seem to notice the slippery stairs. But I need to be aware of her every move in case she slips, or in case I need to move quickly, increasing my chance of slipping.
“Eighteen . . . fifteen . . . thirteen . . .” I try to control my breathing. Roselle’s breaths are coming fast. Will we pass out from inhaling the fumes?
I check my watch. It’s 9:35 a.m. It took us just twenty minutes to travel from the 78th floor down to the 30th. But after we met the firefighters, progress was slower, and now we are down to a crawl. But we’re getting close.
“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . .” Now I want out of the stairwell. I’m tired of counting. My legs are starting to feel wobbly. I want fresh air. I want to call Karen.
“Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .” We are so close. If I weren’t hemmed in by people, I’d run.
“First floor,” David calls back. “The sprinklers are on, and we’re going to have to run through a waterfall at the bottom of the stairs.”
He’s not joking. Seconds later, when we reach the 1st floor and leave the stairs, I hear the sprinklers vibrating and water gushing onto the tile floor of the lobby. Roselle pulls down and dips her head to drink water off the floor. I know she’s parched.
Wait! What’s in that water? With the smell of the jet fuel still strong in my nose and throat, I’m afraid the water might be contaminated. I hate to do it, but I pull firmly up on Roselle’s harness to stop her.
“Hop up!” She responds, gracious as always, and looks up at me. I pause for a split second, the waterfall directly ahead. Then I take a big gulp of air. It’s time to run.
“Forward!”
A torrent of water floods over me. It is colder and more powerful than any shower I’ve ever known. After the heat and the fumes