Baskadia

Seneca

One of the finest and most-satisfying adventures of my life so far was the time I canoed through whitewater rapids down the lower canyons of the Rio Grande River, just east of Big Bend National Park in southern Texas. Each day of that trip brought new sights and new adventures-as might be expected of such a grand landscape and precarious mode of travel- and it was in my attempt to put this river journey into words that I discov- ered what every other travel writer has probably discovered as well:

• Travel writing is easy, because travel has a natural story arc. We enter the canyon, we are surrounded by high canyon walls for days and days, facing fresh obstacles with each passing mile, and eventually we come out the other side. Think how many novels, short stories, and memoirs mimic that very structure. Have you heard of Homer's epic poem The Odyssey, for instance? Even if you are not on an "adventure" trip, you still have a natural beginning in your arrival, a natural middle with your stay, and a natural ending around your departure. Time and again, the journey structure seems to work.

• Travel writing is very, very hard. As writers, we usually come to un- derstand our topics and our feelings toward them over the course of years, not days. We understand the culture we live in by growing up within that culture. We understand family love and family woes by being members of a family for decades. We write about our spiritual journeys after years of searching and seeking. By definition, however, a travel writer is often just passing through. The result is that a travel writer runs the risk of noticing only the slick, shallow surface of things, not the truth that lies beneath.