A hiking trip away from the intensive care environment helped me begin to understand the restorative effects of nature and planted a seed that (much) later grew into Iris Arts. More photos of Willow Canyon can be found on Rommes Arts
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Well down Willow Canyon, at its junction with 40 Mile Canyon, both tributaries of the Escalante River. Photo: © Donald J. Rommes
Long ago, when I was working full-time in intensive care as a neonatologist, I began to realize that I had habituated to a very stressful environment and couldn't full appreciate its detrimental effects on me, the staff, and especially, the babies. I decided to take a short break from the NICU environment to reassess what "normal" was.
Back then, it was common for me to go in to the NICU on my days off to help my colleagues, so any real “break” would mean getting far enough away to avoid that temptation. I also wanted to be away from the monitors and alarms that were always clamoring for attention, and from the noise generated by staff and equipment—all of which had become a "normal" part of my life. What, I wondered, would it be like to have quiet again?
I decided to take a hiking trip to one of the little-known canyons of the Escalante River in the high desert of south-central Utah. The idea for that location was planted in my head by an article in a backpacking magazine that described the area as “a rarely-visited complex of deep, well-watered canyons in a region of colorful sandstone.” That sounded appealing—especially the "rarely visited" part.
A couple of weeks later, after spending the night in a motel in the town of Escalante, I drove 40 miles down a heavily wash-boarded dirt road to a canyon recommended by a local. Mine was the only car at the trailhead that morning. I hiked in solitude all day, following a gravelly wash in a canyon that gradually became deeper and narrower.
Lower Willow Canyon; beautiful, and naturally quiet. With so few sensory demands for the brain's attention, thoughts have room to wander, sparking creativity. Photo: © Donald J. Rommes
The crunch of my boots on the gravel, the gentle trickle of water, and the occasional caw of a raven were the only sounds. The calm October day was comfortably warm, and my route was straightforward—simply follow the sensuous curves of the canyon until it hit the waters of Lake Powell. Walking downcanyon, a slow, steady stream of thoughts rose to my consciousness and gradually faded—some thoughts I pursued, others I let go.
During a pause for water and a snack, I casually studied the smooth, pastel, sandstone walls. The colors and forms appealed to me, so I pulled my camera out of my backpack, placed it on the tripod, and composed a photo. Actually, I took several photos, tweaking the composition slightly each time until I got what I wanted.
I became absorbed in the process and minutes passed like seconds. When I was finally satisfied, an hour had elapsed. Eventually, I pulled on my backpack and continued downcanyon.
I never did make it to Lake Powell. The lengthening shadows and my tired leg muscles signaled it was time to head back to the car. My fatigue and aches were mild and felt well earned. I was happy and relaxed; mentally less preoccupied; more creative.
After a few more days of hiking in other canyons, I returned home. The feeling of contentment and mental rest I experienced in the canyons persisted for much of the drive and beyond. Reflecting on my recent experience, comparing myself in this moment to the person I was at work, I realized that my life was indeed very stressful.
I may have been unaware of it, but I now saw that dealing with the demands of a noisy, intrusive environment required a huge, but largely unrecognized, mental effort.
My job required prioritizing large amounts of information to properly address life-threatening medical issues. That meant things that weren't important had to be suppressed so they wouldn't compete for my attention. I realized that suppression of unimportant information constantly bombarding our senses requires as much mental energy as dealing with the important issues. Sensory overload is just that—it saps our brain reserves, making us less mentally flexible and less creative.
The day before returning to work, I could feel some the previous feelings returning—the anticipatory stress of re-immersing myself in the critical care environment. But I also retained the new and profound sense of relaxation and mental reserve I had gained, or re-gained, from being away.
Restored was the word that seemed to describe my current state—restored—back to the real normal.
As I returned to work, I knew that while I could not live a stress-free life as a neonatologist, I could strive for better balance. And I now knew that more frequent exposure to nature in my life was one way to get there.
Now, could I take this lessons learned and apply them to the NICU? Could we keep the NICU environment a safe one while also making it more baby and people friendly?
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