for the other. Although I grew up in New York City, I dreamed of
wild summer landscapes unfurling before me. They lay loosely
threaded together by the rivers my Dad and I ran, including this very
one, launching from this very campground twenty-nine years earlier.
The main watery artery of this region, the San Juan River seeps
and then gushes out of Colorado’s southwestern mountains, joining
the Colorado River some 380 miles farther down. At that point it is
technically no longer a river but a giant, placid lake created by Glen
Canyon Dam. Like us, the river fully transforms from wild to
domesticated, but it has no option for reversal. Packed into my EEG
cap, I watched the river as delicate fractal patterns of flow played
against the light. The milky chai-colored water rippled and coursed,
shallow in sections, braiding along its main channel.
Sitting here, I felt washed over by the calm of the scene, but it was
also mixed with a little anxiety about another weather system
approaching from the west. We had no cell reception to check our
weather apps. Anxiety may thrive in cities, but it’s also at home in the
wilderness—another paradox.
LATER, WHILE HIS enchilada pies were baking in their cast-iron Dutch
ovens, I asked Strayer what he thought of the fractal/visual theory of
brain restoration, the idea that when our visual cortex finds a sweet
spot of information, it can trigger our pleasure centers and help relax
us. He wasn’t overly enthused. What he’s getting at, he explained, is a
change in mind-set that occurs over hours and days. The kind he and
his students have just experienced, with their mild sunburns, loosened
limbs, easy laughter and fresh insights.
“If it’s just the visual cortex,” he asked, “why can’t I watch
National Geographic videos and get this sensation? I don’t feel this
and I couldn’t watch four days of it, and those are amazing videos.”
“But a few minutes out a window can improve your mood and
drop your blood pressure,” I said, citing studies as Strayer lifted a