Tranquility ~ the state of being free from commotion or disturbance; the absence of agitation

The mere anticipation of being in my favorite hotel room overlooking Haystack Rock (which grows out of the Pacific in Cannon Beach, Oregon) triggers an impending sense of tranquility somewhere deep inside of me. Once there, the peacefulness in my soul is palpable.

We’ve been going to Cannon Beach for over thirty years – to veg out, to watch the water and the sun and the storms and to just simply marvel at the beauty of the place.  It never grows old.  It always seems both familiar and new.

This December, it was a three day storm watcher.  The sand ran down the beach and the rain blew sideways in sheets.  The water roiled and thick mist floated from the wavetops.  Groups of seagulls played in the wind – swooping, floating, hanging in the air like kites on a March afternoon. It looked like they were having a blast out there. A handful of hardy souls walked on the beach leaning back into the wind, hoods up and heads down.

We watched from inside with a fire crackling, hot coffee, and books at hand.  I had trouble keeping my nose in the book, choosing instead to just sit by the window and watch.  Somewhere in my head is a childhood memory of a line that my mom used to say (variously attributed to Satchel Paige, Winnie the Pooh, and Pogo)…”Sometimes I sits and thinks, but sometimes I just sits”.  And that’s what I did for the better part of three days – just sat and watched, savoring the beauty of the beach and relishing the time to just sit.

On the third morning, the rain and wind stopped for a while and folks magically appeared on the beach.  Most of them had dogs with them.  Dogs of all sizes and shapes – joyously running on the beach.  Chasing balls and sticks, romping in the water, rolling in the sand, teasing new playmates.  I love to see dogs at play and I am especially fond of watching them romp unrestrained on the beach.  I know that they are experiencing their own  version of dog tranquility – the absence of the agitation induced by a leash. Their rowdy exuberance is infectious.  There is no better anti-depressant for me than a wet waggy greeting from a happy dog on the beach.

The respite on the beach was brief. The wind and rain returned as quickly as they’d stopped, and we were back inside with the fire and the coffee.  And soon it was time to leave. I brought the tranquility home with me, though, and it will linger until the next time my spirit needs nourishing.  When it does, I’ll go back to the beach and just sit.

Lynn Hancock is a retired teacher and elementary school principal.  She is not a blogger, but is a regular reader of Nerd’s Eye View and Road Notes, written by her son, Ben. Her husband is still working, but they travel whenever they can.

Photo: Cannon

We’re doing it again. At the Urban Coffee Lounge in Kirkland, Friday, February 10th.

Event details on the Facebook. “Like” us to find out where we’re playing next.

Oh, and we have a snappy new website.

“Oh, well, I’m a freelance writer,” I started to explain. “Before the book, I wrote for magazines, mostly science and a lot travel stuff…”

“Wait—you’re a travel writer?!” he interrupted. The man almost popped out of his seat with excitement, mustering more enthusiasm for the t-word than any of our previous exchanges about sex, love and brains (the subject matter of my new book). He couldn’t wait to hear all about my “exciting” career and peppered me with questions for the rest of the flight.

Okay, I get it. Travel writing sounds awesome, the kind of career that most 9-to-5ers only dream about. Admittedly, for the most part, it is awesome. I own that. My travel writing career has allowed both my son and myself to explore some incredible places and, more importantly, meet even more incredible people. But, as hard as I’ve worked to earn my chops over the past decade, I find that I’m not interested in being defined solely as a “travel writer” anymore.

Why, might you ask? It’s simple. As I get older—and the more I get to traipse around this big, bad world of ours—I realize there is more to write about, and more to life, than just traveling. A lot more. There’s as much exploration to be had in science, in policy, in health and in family, provided you care to look. But, beyond that, I have started to worry a bit about what being a “travel writer” represents to others. And, what’s more, if that persona may actually result in discouraging others from travel, which is the exact opposite of my intended goal.

Let me explain.

Ask your average person to describe a “travel writer.” Chances are, you’ll hear something about a fearless adventurer, a rebel, a bit of a Gonzo-esque personality with a well-used neck pillow and a zillion frequent flier miles. As I spoke with my new airplane friend, I could see his image of me changing from a sort-of-interesting author to this larger-than-life persona. And that’s a daunting thing to have to put on—and an even bigger one to live up to.

The “travel writer” requires you to go farther, do more and find new and tougher boundaries to push to try to fit into this jacket. I’m not afraid to admit that I’m not this person, despite some of the incredible destinations under my belt. I’m a Mom, a nerdy professional and a bit of a homebody. While I may relish the opportunity to explore the Galapagos, I also get excited about an all-day Law and Order marathon. Trying to keep up with this “travel writer” persona (as well as play one-up all the time with your travel writing peers) is exhausting—not to mention darn near impossible.

But worse, this “travel writer” can often unintentionally scare the very people we hope to inspire. The “travel writer” may inadvertently tell folks that the best and only way to travel requires peril and a hefty expense account. It demands ambition, fearlessness and a magnetic personality to rival Ryan Seacrest. It says that the destination is more important than the journey—and that transformative experiences are impossible without first boarding a plane or booking a $500/night hotel room. And I hate that because it’s so not true.

As I talked about my time in Europe with my seat mate, he kept saying things like, “I could never do that!” Once he grabbed on to that “travel writer” thing, he lost the ability to understand that, yes, indeed, he could. Anyone can travel. You don’t need to be a “travel writer.” And most “travel writers” are not the gallivanting extroverts he imagines. I wanted to tell him to let go of that “travel writer” thing. That he could get out there and explore, too—the only real requirements are an open mind, a desire to learn and a willingness to explore—whether you are in Antarctica or your own backyard.

As I see it, a writer’s job is simple: to offer escape and the occasional epiphany and to tell wonderful stories about places and people. Travel is not required, though, admittedly, it is a nice-to-have.

So while I’ll continue to wear my “traveler” mantle with pride—“writer,” too—I think it’s time for me to let go of the “travel writer” (even if my random airplane neighbors can’t). And I’m doing it so I can shrug this wannabe Hunter S. Thompson off my back and inspire more people to get up and start exploring.

Kayt Sukel is a passionate science and travel writer. She’s one of the faces of Travel Savvy Mom  as well as the author of the controversial new book, DIRTY MINDS: HOW OUR BRAINS INFLUENCE LOVE, SEX AND RELATIONSHIPS (Free Press, 2012).

We were in Richmond, BC in January our guides (the stellar ladies of Richmond PR, thanks Kristen and Stacey!) took us to Mrs. Ma’s bubble waffle stand in the Parker Place food court. Mrs. Ma was quite the waffle show-woman, delighted to show off for us gringos. Plus, the waffles? Yummy. Warm, a little eggy tasting, and sweet and crunchy, nothing short of a perfect snack on a cold afternoon.

When the plane starts to head for the ground, I crane my neck to see what’s ahead. Seated in the co-pilot’s seat of a six-seater bush plane, all I can see is the same thing I’ve been looking at for the entire 45 minute flight, a vast pincushion of endless green forest canopy. We skim the treetops and finally, seconds before hitting the ground, I see the grass landing strip. A couple of bumps, and we have arrived in the tiny village of Quehueri’ono in Ecuador ’s Amazon rainforest.

My husband and I are here to spend five days at Huaorani Ecolodge, a community project organized by the indigenous Huaorani people. The Huaorani, who have lived in this forest for thousands of years, practice a traditional lifestyle where almost everything they need is provided by the land. When missionaries arrived and tried to exert their influence, the Huaorani responded definitively with spears. In recent years, a new threat has emerged with oil and logging companies taking a growing interest in the natural resources present on the Huaorani’s territory. Huaorani Ecolodge is a way of creating awareness for the culture and natural environment of these rainforest people, and also gives the Huaorani an income for basic education and medical services.

On the ground we are met by the local people and yes, some of them are carrying spears. We meet our Huaorani guide, Nenkerey, who supervises loading us and our gear into a dugout canoe that he and a second guide will pole down the shallow Shiripuno River. On sensory overload, we settle into the journey and start to relax to the sound of countless birds and the sight of brightly-coloured butterflies. I cross the blue morpho butterfly off my wish list as we spot its startling wings, each one bigger than my hand.

The lodge is invisible from the river, looking like any other thick swath of jungle except for the motorized dugout canoe out front that is used for emergencies and to transport supplies. We climb into the forest and discover a pathway to five meshed sleeping cabins. We shudder at the creepy crawlie creatures that have already made their way into our cabin and decide we’d better get used to it. After all, this is the jungle.

During our stay here, we do several hikes with Nenkerey who glides silently through the forest, machete in hand. One day he gives us a hunting lesson and attempts to teach us the Huaorani method of tree-climbing. We are astounded at how in tune he is with the natural environment as he points out animal tracks, finds a tiny poison dart frog, and shows us a trampled spot where a jaguar has slept.

The forest walks and natural environment are fascinating, but it is the visits with the local people that will linger in my memory. One of the first people we meet is Moi Enomenga who is the central figure in Joe Kane’s book Savages. As described in the book, Moi has worked tirelessly to help his people preserve their land and culture, especially speaking out against the destructive practises of oil companies. Moi has travelled to the U.S. and London to plead the cause of his people, yet he continues to make this isolated spot his home.

When we arrive at his modest home in a clearing in the rainforest, Moi is carving a blowgun. Cultural barriers and language differences dissolve as Moi’s two-year-old daughter laughs and engages with everyone, visitor and local alike. Soon we are all laughing as we gringos demonstrate our dubious spear-throwing skills and try to light a fire Huaorani-style, without matches. Moi’s wife welcomes us by painting the red dye of a local plant on our faces, a custom we will see repeated on all of our Huaorani visits.

We visit a total of three villages and encounter, quite possibly, the most generous and welcoming people we have ever met. It doesn’t matter that we often need two translators to communicate or that many of the Huaorani perceive Canada simply as “a very cold place that takes more than 60 days to walk to.” We tell them about snow and they tell us about the forest and the pressures impacting their lifestyle. Moi’s mother shakes her head sadly and says she does not like “the Company”, meaning the oil companies. I ask if any of the kids can climb trees and two eight-year-old boys laugh and dart up a couple of tall trees faster than I can grab my camera to photograph them doing it. Some of the women sing for us and ask for a song in return. After some initial panic, we settle on an off-key version of Row Row Row Your Boat. They tell us they will never forget it.

The people at each village lay out a neat row of handicrafts to sell, all made from materials found in the forest. There are string bags, baskets, blowguns and spears, along with jewellery made from colourful seeds suspended on finely woven twine. We select several items for purchase, but it quickly becomes evident that the Huaorani are hunters and warriors rather than merchants, as they either charge us ridiculously low prices or give us whatever we want as gifts.

On our final day in the rainforest, we are in the canoes at 5:00 am. It is surreal to move silently down the river before daybreak as we pass shadowy vegetation and are immersed in the sounds of the jungle, a cacophony of chirps, birdsong and howls. It feels like being in a movie, maybe an escape scene. A piranha jumps right beside the boat, and another time Nenkerey points out a caiman that silently submerges its head as we draw close.

Our final visit is to Nenquipare, which is Nenkerey’s home. Nenkerey’s quiet demeanour changes to animation as he shows us around the village and introduces us to his family. We detect in Nenkerey a deep sense of pride in the Huaorani traditions and skills. He wears the traditional woven headband and consistently begins his explanations of Huaorani life with “We, the Huaorani …”

We finally pull ourselves away from Nenquipare and continue our river journey, soon passing a weather-beaten sign that marks the end of Huaorani territory. We notice a seismic device set up to test for the presence of oil. Two hours later we arrive at a bridge and a road where we board a pickup truck for the rough trip out to the oil-rich town of Coca. We see increased oil activity, noisy processing facilities and huge flares, an unbelievable departure from the pristine environment we’ve enjoyed for the past several days. Startling poverty and unhealthy living conditions provide a chilling reminder of the challenges faced by the Huaorani.

We feel glad that we have supported the Huaorani in a small way through our travels with them, and will not soon forget our kind and generous hosts in the jungle. As we say good-bye, Nenkerey invites us to return. He says, simply “I will always be here, in the forest.” We believe and hope this to be true.

Debbie McKeown is a Canadian travel writer who, before travelling to Ecuador’s Amazon rainforest, considered the only places worth visiting to be cold, high elevation, and devoid of people. Check out her writing at www.djmckeown.com.