Moments with My Abuelita

por Andy Galván

Our family mythology starts with my great grandfather rescuing my orphaned great-grandmother from somewhere in the vast foothills of the Sierra Madres. As my grandmother tells it, they were poor moving from town to town, but very loved and very happy. Like my grandmother, and father before me I have memories of sitting in my bisabuela’s kitchen watching her smile as she meticulously slaps tiny balls of masa in her hands into dozens of perfect tortillas. The adults gather in the kitchen trying to help, but she swats them away like flies. We, children, all scurry around the courtyard like birds scrambling amongst the rocks watching her smile at us through the kitchen window waiting for her to drop us scraps of imperfect tortillas before it is time to eat. By the time I met her in her nineties, she still sprung around as agile as a mountain goat. Even at seven years old I towered over her tiny figure. When the end of her life neared, I harkened the call with my grandmother to return to Mexico to say goodbye to our matriarch. When they asked me to carry her, I feared I might hurt the tiny, fragile woman whose strength passed to future generations of women in her family to seek out education, travel the world, and fulfill our dreams. She started life alone in the hills, but left this world surrounded by generations of loved ones.

Time is such a strange thing. Life has not changed in those many years, but now I stand in my own Abuelita’s kitchen, the adult, being swatted away from helping her. I look around at her kitchen, also strewn full of stone tools, clay earthenware, and Catholic saints serving as a loose replacement for ancient gods. This kitchen though has a smart refrigerator and an oven with so many options I wonder if it might be a suitable upgrade to my iPhone. I browse on my laptop while my grandmother chatters to me about the upcoming recall election and reminds me that the Santa Maria flowers dried and burned will keep the mosquitos away.

I cannot imagine she could have ever guessed this is how her life would end up. My Abuelita left Michoacán with a third-grade education and two babies in tow in the 1960s. She followed my grandfather across the frontera to California. She never learned English well. She never worked outside of the home. She lived in a small world, where only Michoacán and Southern California existed, both connected by a singular long road. After my grandfather passed away, she was bedridden with arthritis and sorrow. I feared her world would grow even smaller.

My grandmother is a sheep herder’s daughter. She knew the world was big and there was more she wanted to see. And so, my cousin Jess and I obliged. We explored the world with her, we went to museums, and restaurants, and even to Rome to see the Pope. She chastised us for being more interested in the bones in churches than the masses, but she also pointed to especially gruesome details quietly. She delighted in every new place, experience, and food. She laughed uncontrollably when Roman waiters flirted with her, and she was in awe of the strength of the espresso in their tiny cups. My grandmother always frets that she might exhaust my cousin and me pushing her around in a wheelchair, but even if she were capable of being a burden, we would not feel it.

I moved home this summer after almost a decade away. I asked my grandmother to go with me to Santa Fe for my birthday. She dutifully crosses herself every time I start the engine as we journey across the deserts through indigenous lands and I can’t help, but hope it is a prayer of thanks too. She smiles in awe at the painted deserts, and we watch the sands shift into wildflowers, and then impenetrable forests. We visit churches and national parks. As we journey on, she shares our history via miraculous stories. She recalls words in Purépecha and Huichol to me. She laments disorder on sacred lands tying it to stories of angry spirits. We visit museums and dine at trendy restaurants. She rubs leaves between her fingers, holds them to her nose and tells me what the plant can be used to cure. She recounts recipes and her own journeys into the world. I partake in an ancient ceremony of learning our oral history while Spotify plays Choosey in the background.

My grandmother asks very little of her fourteen grandchildren, to celebrate our lives with us, to be taken to mass on Sunday, and that we twist-off caps for her arthritic hands. I would do anything for her though, I adore my Abuelita, but of me, she asks nothing. When she turned to me and asked if I could do her a favor, I almost screamed.

I nap through the afternoon at the hotel, to rest for our journey. I helped her clamber into the truck then shut the door behind her. I look up which direction to go on the map and head east out of Santa Fe. We meander through the hills that grow darker and darker. Chavela Vargas plays, her deep, echoey voice guiding us higher still. My grandmother assures me if it does not work it will be ok, and when we stop, she sighs in disappointment. I ignore her confusion and open the passenger side door.

Before her she sees the Milky Way, shooting stars, the endless blur of the universe, all waiting for her. My Abuelita who wants for nothing had only one wish – to see the skies from her childhood one more time. And for one moment the ancient light of distant stars accidentally reveals another time, and in that moment, I see my bisabuela standing in ancient hills beneath the starry skies with her daughter. I learned my Abuelita’s world was never small.


Andy Galván earned an MA degree in Violence, Terrorism, and Security from Queen’s University of Belfast in Northern Ireland and her BA in International Relations and Global Politics from The American University of Rome. Andy stands one foot taller than her beloved Abuelita. This year they have visited three national parks and five national forests together. She is especially thankful for dark sky preserves. Instagram: @andyleegee


I’m a Latina Trail Runner

por Candace Gonzales

My love for the outdoors comes from my parents and my family. When I was a child, my parents took me camping in the summer. We camped at a beautiful reservoir where I learned to swim and play in the water. My tios and primos camped with us along with our close family friends, and it was a wonderful way to grow up. My family would also spend countless hours in the summer in my grandfather’s garden picking peas and strawberries to eat straight off the vine. Not to mention in the fall when we would all gather at my grandparents’ house to roast and peel green chilies. Those memories I cherish, and I believe fostered in me a love for the outdoors.

Although being outdoors and being in nature was something that I was fortunate to be exposed to as a child, as a young adult, especially in my twenties, I got away from the outdoors. The busy city life called to me, and my goals became getting into my career and enjoying the city’s night scene—the partying, the friendships, and just living that fast city life. Late work nights, crazy weekends, and I did not make the outdoors a priority.

However, one priority I have always had is running. I have run most of my adult life. Thanks to my love for running, it’s what brought me back into the outdoors. In 2018, I stumbled upon trail running by signing up for a part road/trail race, the Turquoise Lake 20K in beautiful Leadville, Colorado. After that race, I knew that exploring trails and being in nature on trails was my new calling as a runner.

Of course, I answered this call and immediately started trail running on the local trails in the Denver metro area. I was addicted, and it was so much fun. Not to mention there is something very spiritual and healing about being in the outdoors. It has this way of allowing you to see all the beauty in the world. Although it was so beautiful to be out on the trail, one thing that stood out to me, especially in a community like Denver, where the Latinx population is the second-largest population, was the lack of diversity on the trails. I found this to be challenging. Challenging in the sense that when you are new to a sport, it can be intimidating, and when you don’t see anyone who looks like you enjoying it can feel a bit unwelcoming.

The outdoors should be welcoming to everyone. All humans should have the opportunity to experience the pure joy you get from running, hiking, or walking the trails with the sun shining on you and the mountains as views. The beauty of being outdoors and discovering nature is an experience all should have regardless of gender, class, race, age, sexuality, and nationality. For me, I recognize that I have a role in making the outdoors feel welcoming and that when I pull up to the trailhead rocking my Spanish music on full blast, that’s me saying I’m here, I’m Latina, I’m a trail runner, and I love the outdoors too. When other gente come to experience the trail, I want them to feel welcomed, and I want to help inspire younger generations to get outdoors and experience the outdoors.

That is why Latino Outdoors is such an important nonprofit and one that is close to my heart. The work that Latino Outdoors does to make the outdoors welcoming, from education, conservation, and just teaching people to love the outdoors, is so important. That is why this fall, I have chosen to use the sport I love (trail running) to help raise funds for Latino Outdoors. Just as I was fortunate to enjoy nature as a child, and I want our future generation to also be that fortunate. I believe Latino Outdoors is doing the grassroots work to make this happen. ¡Andale!


Candace Gonzales lives in Colorado’s front range. She is an avid trail runner who has complete various trail marathons, 30K trail runs, and 50K trail runs. She loves being outside and is a passionate supporter of Latino Outdoors.


Finding Happiness in Solitude.

por Jessica Sánchez

Close your eyes for a second and think about being alone in the wild. How does that make you feel?

A while back, I decided to do what is sometimes not fully understood by my Hispanic family, go out and explore the wilderness. I wanted to take the leap and give myself an opportunity to step out of my comfort zone. I knew I was going to be dirty, I knew I was going to be tired, but most importantly, I knew I was going to be alone.

I grew up in a big Mexican family and can remember hearing the sound of my mothers’ laughter as she talked on the phone in one room while my father played Mexican folk songs on the guitar in the other. My childhood consisted of being surrounded by people and the noise that came from them. In the Mexican culture, this “noise” meant community. Community with people, food, music, and our culture. The noise brought a sense of comfort, and in the community, you were never alone.

One thing about the community is that it also comes with it’ own standard of beliefs. “Mija, your skin will get dark, so remember to put sunscreen on when you’re outside.” my mother would say months before I left. I know she means well, and I know it’s hard to break old beauty standards, so obeying mama’s orders, I slathered on the sunscreen. To this day, even though I am miles away, my mother still reminds me to take care of my skin.

“But, won’t you feel lonely out there in the wild?” my cousin asked. It’s not very common you hear of Hispanics backpacking or escaping into the woods. So it was natural to have been bombarded with all of these questions leading up to the trip. Though after hearing them repeatedly through every goodbye, they started to stick in my head. “Will I feel lonely? Will I become too dark and not feel beautiful anymore? Will I hate it?” I had all of these questions in my mind months before leaving. With no answer to any of the questions, I knew the only way to find them was to just go. So, nervously, I drove off.

Hike after hike, campfire after campfire, I started to realize something was changing. At first, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. It wasn’t until 5 months of living on the road that I realized that something was me. I was becoming more comfortable with being in solitude. In times of exploring the cities near the parks, I found myself wanting to just get away. What was happening to me, and why did I want to be alone? That’s not how I was raised. That night sitting by the campfire in solitude, I realized that it wasn’t a matter of being by myself but rather with myself.

In times of solitude, I was able to hear my breath as I pushed hard to finish my long hike, the wind swirling above me as it moved through the valley of the mountains, the trickling sounds of the crystal clear river as it passed through the meadow, and the soft hoots of the owl underneath the starry night sky.

For once, I had mental clarity and could sit down to read, write, and think about what truly brought me joy. I could endlessly practice my yoga, work on the roots of my own anxieties, and unapologetically dream about my future.

I could sing.

I could dance.

I could play.

I could meditate.

In the wild, I could completely strip down and embrace my beautiful brown skin as it got darker with every hike under the sun. In the wild, I could look however I wanted and feel accepted as nature never discriminated. There are no words to say otherwise.

I was in solitude, and I was okay because I was with myself.

Now, I can’t speak for every Hispanic out there, but as you already know, in the past, I found myself struggling with moments of solitude as I felt lonely. I would feel extremely fearful and doubtful about the entire experience; I wouldn’t enjoy the moment. Whenever I was alone, I found myself missing the noise and vibrant sounds that came with always being around my community and my big Mexican family. I love it; it’s what defines my childhood, my past memories, and defines the very person that I am today. I would love to come back home with a message that solitude doesn’t necessarily need to be a bad or sad thing but, on the contrary, a dedicated time for yourself. I have slowly learned to take those experiences of solitude I’ve gone through in my life and turn them around to create inspiration for myself, and now hopefully in yours too. I would like to be an advocate for more voices of diversity on the road, change the way we approach the outdoors, and provide the ability to enjoy a beautiful life of exploration.

As I lay here and listen to the rustle of the green leaves in the trees above me, I will graciously summarize my thoughts with this…


As of late, I found myself more and more in the silence of nature. I found myself within the trees, the mountains, the flowers, and the waters. No sound of people around me. While I’ve roamed deeper and longer into the wild, I’m finding myself slowly being pulled farther and farther away from the crowd, not by choice but by realization. Realizing that when you find time to be with yourself, you’ll find that you start to accept yourself for who you are. You’ll start to notice things around you that went unnoticed before. You’ll go through phases where solitude will start to guide you, educate you, empower you, and even spark curiosity in you. You’ll start feeling inner happiness that roots from a new place inside you.


For me, these landscapes haven’t said a word to me, and I’m realizing now, 29 years later, that that’s exactly what I’ve needed.

So, my dear friend, I’d like to ask you, Close your eyes for a second and think about being alone in the wild. How does that make you feel?