Donate

Author: Luisa Vargas

Still Showing Up

Por Raúl Antonio Figueroa

I grew up far from snow.

I’m Mexican. My relationship with winter started late, awkwardly, and without any guarantees that it would make sense. Where I’m from, endurance sports look different. Cold is something you escape, not something you train inside. And biathlon, skiing hard and then trying to shoot accurately while your heart is trying to leave your chest, wasn’t exactly a common career path.

I found the sport almost by accident. What kept me wasn’t talent or early success, but curiosity and stubbornness. I liked how biathlon demanded two opposite things at the same time: intensity and calm. You can be strong and fast, but if your mind is loud, the targets won’t fall.

When Mexico officially joined the International Biathlon Union, it felt historic and fragile at the same time. We were stepping into a world that had decades of tradition, infrastructure, and expectations, none of which were built with us in mind. The first season was rough. We struggled. We learned quickly how unforgiving international sport can be. At one point, we were even sidelined for the rest of the season.

HOCHFILZEN, AUSTRIA – JANUARY 17: Raul Antonio Figueroa of Mexico in action during the Sprint at the FESA Alpencup Biathlon Hochfilzen on January 17, 2026 in Hochfilzen, Austria. (Photo by Benedikt Foidl/VOIGT)

That could have been the end of the story.

Instead, it became the beginning of a different relationship with sport. One built less on results and more on persistence. We came back. Quietly. Without guarantees. Just showing up again and again in places that didn’t quite look like home, but slowly started to feel familiar.

Living and training in the Alps as a Mexican has shaped the way I see performance. I’m always aware that I’m an outsider, and I’ve learned to see that as an advantage. When you don’t fit the mold, you stop trying to impress it. You focus on what actually matters: learning, adapting, staying curious, staying calm under pressure.

That mindset has followed me beyond racing. I’m an engineer and a digital lawyer by training, and a coach by practice. Different worlds, same lesson: clarity matters most when conditions are messy. Whether it’s snow, stress, or uncertainty, the work is the same, reduce noise, focus on the next action, keep moving.

Racing internationally has taken me to places I never imagined. Now, coming to race in the United States, and connecting with Latino Outdoors, feels especially meaningful. It’s a reminder that our stories don’t have to follow straight lines to belong somewhere. Representation doesn’t always look polished or predictable. Sometimes it looks like learning in public, failing, adjusting, and staying anyway.

Outdoor spaces, like high-performance environments, can feel intimidating if you don’t see yourself reflected in them. But they don’t belong to one culture, one passport, or one background. They belong to anyone willing to step into them with respect and patience.

I don’t race to prove that Mexicans belong in winter sports. I race because I enjoy the process of learning how to stay calm when things get hard. If that makes space for someone else to imagine themselves outdoors, in the cold, or in a place they didn’t think was “for them,” then that’s a victory that doesn’t show up on a results sheet.

Some journeys take the long way.
I’m still on mine.

Raúl is a Mexican biathlete, coach, engineer, and digital lawyer living and training in the Austrian Alps. He competes internationally with the Mexico Biathlon Team and works at the intersection of endurance sport, mental performance, and high-pressure decision-making. His work explores clarity, resilience, and learning through sport and outdoor experiences.

How Searching for Killer Whales Connected My Roots to Community Science

Por Gianna Haro Vallazza

Most of my memories feel like a dream, shaped by flawless white sand beaches edged with black lava rock, turquoise waters stretching endlessly into the horizon, and a landscape alive with endemic plants and animals. Much of it happened barefoot, in a place many consider the world’s most ideal natural laboratory. For me, it was simply home.

I grew up on Santa Cruz Island in the Galápagos Archipelago. The Galápagos is world renowned for its role in shaping Darwin’s theory of evolution, but as a child, I did not think about scientific legacy. I thought about wonder. I played with wildflowers, hunted lizards, shared my ice cream with sea lions, and chased iguanas along dusty paths. I collected insects in jars, inventing names for them and carefully cataloging them in a makeshift basement inventory. I spent nearly every day at the beach, snorkeling in crystal clear water and investigating what lived beneath the surface. I brought home hermit crabs and pencil sea urchins, not to keep, but to observe, study, and better understand.

Without realizing it, I was practicing science. More importantly, I was forming a deep, intuitive relationship with the outdoors, one rooted in curiosity, respect, and daily interaction rather than formal recreation. The outdoors was not something I visited. It was something I belonged to.

Paying with baby sea lions as a child in the Galapagos Islands.

Becoming a Biologist and Learning About Barriers

As I grew older, observation became second nature, and with time came clarity. I wanted to be a biologist. My first internship took place at the Charles Darwin Foundation, where I worked as an assistant on the Galápagos green turtle monitoring program. I spent days on Isabela Island observing nesting behavior and watching these ancient animals haul themselves across the sand to ensure the survival of their species.

It was there that I saw myself reflected in the turtles’ journey. Baby sea turtles face overwhelming odds, predators, distance, and harsh conditions, just to reach the ocean. Even after that, they navigate powerful currents to someday return to the same stretch of beach where they were born. I understood then that my own path would require navigating obstacles as well. Access to higher education, moving away from home, and navigating academic systems not designed with people like me in mind were real barriers, even if they were not always visible.

Still, that internship solidified my purpose. I knew I wanted to work in research, conservation, and eventually return to island and coastal communities like the one that raised me. To do that, I had to leave home and expand my world through education. This is why I personally funded my Biology degree at the University of California, Santa Barbara, and my Environmental Management degree at Cornell University, through a lot of hard work, multiple jobs, and the support of many generous angels along the way.


Working as a biologist in the Galapagos Islands! Showing a dolphin skull.


Redefining Outdoor Engagement

Today, outdoor engagement means something broader to me than traditional recreation narratives often suggest. It is not just about summiting peaks or logging miles. It is about listening, observing, contributing, and caring. It is about community science, stewardship, and making conservation accessible to people who already have deep relationships with place, even if they do not label them as outdoorsy.

That belief is what drew me to Adventure Scientists, and specifically to the Searching for Killer Whales project.

Southern Resident killer whales are critically endangered, with only about 74 individuals remaining. While much attention is paid to their presence in Washington waters, far less is known about their movements along the Oregon coast. This project invites coastal hikers, surfers, kayakers, sailors, and ocean explorers to collect observation data during activities they are already doing, whether or not whales are seen.

That detail matters. It reframes science as something people can participate in, not just observe from a distance.

In partnership with Oregon Shores, the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife, and NOAA, volunteers complete a short training, use a simple survey app, and record environmental and observational data from shore or water. Importantly, the training, protocols, and survey app are fully translated into Spanish, an intentional choice I advocated for as a Latina to ensure that more people could access and participate in this work in their primary language. The result is valuable information that supports research and conservation, powered by community members.

Volunteers and Adventure Scientist team member, Gianna Haro Vallazza, Searching for Killer Whales in the Oregon Coast.

My Role and Why Representation Matters

In my role at Adventure Scientists, I support the project management team by leading cross functional planning, coordinating collaboration among diverse stakeholders, and translating complex ideas into actionable, community centered solutions. My background in biology, environmental management, GIS, and bioacoustics allows me to bridge science with lived experience.

But just as important as my technical background is where I come from.

As a Latina conservationist from the Galápagos, I know how powerful it is to see yourself reflected in conservation spaces. Representation matters not just for inspiration, but for effectiveness. When diverse communities are welcomed into environmental work, the solutions become more inclusive, resilient, and grounded in real relationships with land and water.

For many communities, barriers to outdoor engagement are not about interest. They are about access, language, time, safety, and whether spaces feel welcoming. Community science projects like Searching for Killer Whales help lower those barriers by meeting people where they are and honoring the ways they already connect with nature.


Guiding in Alaska, the only Latina in the crew.


An Outdoors for All of Us

My journey, from chasing iguanas in the Galápagos to supporting killer whale conservation along the Oregon coast, has taught me that the outdoors is not a luxury. It is a shared responsibility and a shared inheritance.

When we expand the definition of outdoor engagement, we make room for more stories, more voices, and more solutions. We build an outdoors that reflects the diversity of the people who depend on it and care for it.

The ocean raised me. Science gave me a language to protect it. Community centered conservation gives me hope that we can do this work together, equitably, inclusively, and with joy.

Searching for Killer Whales volunteer group picture, during our November field day event in Oregon.

The Art of Attention

Por Sofia Rovirosa

A smattering of stars hangs cold and sharp in the New Mexico sky when I decide I will climb Mt. Wheeler. I move slowly. Watch the sky shift from soft pink to blue, then head up to the ski valley. It is already past eleven when I arrive at the trailhead.

The forests here are not like those of California. In the coastal woods, the scent is mossy and rich—delicious, with wet bark and the damp perfume of mushrooms. But here, in the Sangre de Cristos, the air carries the dry, fragrant breath of pinyon and juniper—almost incense-like.

I begin the climb. The snow deepens. The air thins. In the distance, the muffled crunch of footsteps—then, a man appears on the trail. Sixty, maybe older, with a gentle demeanor and a kind smile.

“You climbing to the top?” he asks.

“A ver,” I say.

“Me too.” He says back.

We climb together in silence. The trees begin to thin, and the wind comes harder now, sharp against our cheeks. The slope steepens. My breath grows ragged. My kind companion moves ahead, breaking trail. I follow in his footsteps, shin-deep in powder, hands frozen, nose dripping, lungs burning. There are moments when I want to turn back, and my mind floods with doubts.

But then, a thought rings clear and piercing as a bell. This is what is real. Just one more step. I take it—ten seconds at a time, counting, then looking up. The summit is still far. The wind stings. The sky is a blue so deep it feels like it could swallow me whole. My companion’s face—pink with cold, radiant with effort—tells me everything. This is what it means to be taught again how to pay attention.

To breathe.
To listen.
To place one boot in front of the other.

At last, we reach the top. He turns to me. Whether it is the wind or something else that wets his eyes, I do not know. But in this moment, we are quiet. A stranger and I—brief companions—wrapped together in the stillness of awe. The mountains, the woods, the high desert beyond us. All of it too vast to hold.

It is too cold to linger.
We descend.
We embrace.
We part ways.

Once again, I have been reminded: Pay attention.
The mountains are full of instruction.

Sofia is an adventuress, novice surfer, and long-haul road tripper with a soft spot for big skies, coastal mountains, and vast wildernesses. Born in New Mexico, she’s lived in Southeast Alaska, Washington, Northern Arizona, and now calls California home.