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Author: Luisa Vargas

Abre Los Ojos

por Margarita Vargas Patrón

My mamá immigrated here when she was 20 years old, leaving her home, dreams, and loved ones behind on a questionable promise that she would return. Roughly 40 years later, she is in her home in San Diego talking to me on the phone. We call each other at least three times a week to talk about everything. It almost always ends with my questions about her childhood, my abuelitos, her hometown, and her life before us, her kids. On this particular call, I ask why she thinks I love the outdoors; was there a history of camping in our family?

From her perspective, this question was like most of my probing ones- random and filled with curiosity. This time, there was a purpose because I had never shared my love of the outdoors with her. Now I did, to make up for lost time. I’ve told her about my small hikes, the parks around my neighborhood, and the beaches we’ll explore when she comes to visit me. Before getting to this point, she helped me heal first.

“Allí, tu abuelita hacía de cenar y nos contaba historias bajo las estrellas.”

I considered a biology camping trip my first real encounter with nature. It required all the supplies I thought made it official: a tent (I rented), a sleeping bag (I borrowed), and no indoor plumbing for miles. I loved everything: the fresh air, the campfire, and sleeping under the stars. After that experience, I didn’t question my love for the outdoors. Except for the fact that amongst my friends it was considered a white people thing; it was something that required money- something my family and I didn’t have. Growing up, the common phrase was “no tenemos dinero.” Whenever I overheard a classmate share their upcoming family camping trip or their annual skiing trip, to me there was an unspoken barrier of access and a common thread that only white people had access. That classist and racial distinction made it easier to shrug those experiences as white people things. Internalizing whiteness prevented me from connecting with my mom on something that I didn’t know we both loved- the outdoors.

Because my idea of the outdoors was remarkably limited, I chose not to share my experiences with my mamá. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings; I didn’t want her to say that she wished she could do more. So, I buried this experience and thought I was doing both of us a favor. What I really did was give whiteness all the power to erase my experiences and define the outdoors. Returning to that phone call, her answer was a dose of healing:

“Claro. Íbamos a una casita más allá de la milpa. Allí, tu abuelita hacía de cenar y nos contaba historias bajo las estrellas. Íbamos para ayudarle con las cosechas de frijoles. No mas no le decíamos ‘camping’. Y aunque nosotros no tengamos mucho aquí, sí los llevaba al parque, a la playa, y caminar para tomar aire fresco. Eres libre y la naturaleza está a tu alrededor. Nada más abre tus ojitos, mijita.”

Thanks, mamá.

Margarita is a first-generation immigrant and the first in her family to graduate college. She enjoys reading, cycling, and learning new things. She honors the folks who came before her, who paved the way for any success that has come her way.

Mapping Migraciones: Product of Migration

por Tototl Barajas

Like many, my parents emigrated to California during the 1960s as teenagers in search of a better life. Ironically they were both born in nearby towns in Ajijic and San Miguel el Alto, MX, but they didn’t meet until later in Santa Ana, California. There, they married, settled, and created their own nest and flock, like birds that migrate in search of new nesting sites and food for foraging to provide for their families.

I feel a deep connection to birds. I feed the Wildbirds, provide water sources, and watch them in amazement for hours on end. I engage with my local crows and corvids; they are incredibly smart. I always feel like they converse back and forth in dialogue. They remind me that their flocks have lived in and around the trees longer than I and that I am on their territory. I always look forward to the spring visits of the orioles, grackles, and mourning doves as they begin breeding in the trees. They are incredibly resilient and ingenious with their nesting skills. I see the growth of their fledglings, and it’s endearing. Some birds migrate, and some are natives. Just a constant reminder that we are in their world.

I am no longer a fledgling. I have migrated myself towards Riverside, and am creating my own nest.

What’s Your Migration Path?

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Yo Alcanzo: #SheSePuede

por Dani Reyes-Acosta

Lo alcanzamos? Loaded with meanings, this word stays with me, constantly. At every stage of my life, I’ve discovered different aspects of its significance, complexities unfolding as I ascend deeper and higher into the mountains. For this child of the sun, descendant of Filipino-Mexican immigrants and Spanish-Mexican settlers, alcanzar brings expectation and fear, together with possibility and reaching. Together, these meanings define me. Alcanzo lo que puedo. Sueño en posibilidades.

Expectation and Fear

Born in Santa Monica, California, I spent the first fifteen years of my life near the ocean. Surfing, biking, and swimming ruled my childhood in Playa del Rey, nearly as much as piano practice and extra homework. As my Tata reminded me once: “My little Danielle will be a great doctor or lawyer.” My father would have added “…or concert pianist.”

I’m not quite sure if the expectations on my young shoulders weighed heavier from the memory of recent immigration or our history as Californios. But expectation drove me to achieve in a way that I never questioned and appreciated only later in life. Expectation meant doing well, because no other option existed. It was for this reason that my mother had worked her summer breaks from UCSB in the grape fields. Inasmuch my father seemed to be established in Los Angelino culture, in our church, in our neighborhood, I sensed, deeply, the work he put in. Success wasn’t given: it was earned.

I remember the togetherness of our family’s experiences: annual trips to Mammoth or Big Bear showed me that car trips in the Cadillac could take us to wonderful places. Camping in the mountains of Southern California or gazing out the windows of Yosemite’s Awhawnee gave me a glimpse into a future I never expected I’d embrace.

When life took me to Fresno, in California’s Central Valley, I found adolescent solace in distance runs under the baking sun. I paddled for inner peace in the surf while attending the University of California, Santa Barbara (UCSB). I worked, tirelessly, to make lemonade from the lemons that life had given me.

When my maternal grandmother, who grew up in El Centro, CA, mocked the Castellano accent I’d picked up from studying abroad in Spain after my father’s death, I gazed at the palm trees rustling against an electric blue sky. I belonged out there, with the wind.

“The mountains have my heart, but the ocean owns my soul”.

Possibilities and Reaching

When I moved to Oregon for a competitive corporate job, I had two choices for recreation: volver al mar, a place I knew, or turn to the mountains. Nostalgia me llamó: the mountains held the secrets of my childhood, a happiness I hadn’t known for years. I bought a ski pass. I taught myself to snowboard. It was like surfing, a sport I’d known since 14. My employer had an indoor rock climbing gym; intimidated by the high-tech machines and former Olympic athletes found throughout the rest of the building, I went there to explore. The vertical realm intrigued me.

Six years and six countries later, an urge to explore the upper realm of lo posible has taken me to mountains like the Andes, Cascades, Coast Range, Rockies, Sierra Nevada, and Tetons. I’ve ticked off notable ascents (climbing) and descents (splitboarding aka backcountry snowboarding) not just for the sake of achievement, but often for something simpler. Joy and healing couple nicely with personal growth and empowerment.

My journey to climbing, together with hiking, camping, and snowboarding, didn’t just teach me that recreation could be a declaration of freedom. It was also an act of dissent, a rejection of a broader system and society that often tore me down and betrayed me. It was an assertion to my right for self-care and self-determination. Climbing and snowboarding didn’t just provide the happiness or empowerment many of us seek; they also gave me hope.

“Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”

Audre Lorde

The tiny spark of hope I found hiking on the trail, climbing at the crag, or snowboarding down steep snowy faces turned into something bigger. The fire inside me began to burn brighter, stronger. Si alcancé subir this mountain all by myself, what else could I do? Could I hike by myself, lead climb up a tower, or build a community that supported me, unequivocally, in all I do? Could I put my energy and time into things that really mattered to me, and build a career and life I love?

Mountains give me a lens to see the role choice plays in my life, every single day. From the results yielded by the hours put into training or the support I receive from the community I’ve cultivated, intention guides where my energy goes.

Out here, up here, life looks different, feels newer. I can see that we are just individual musical notes in a symphony beyond our comprehension. So I risk things: playing my own tune, finding my own key. I step out of my comfort zone, often, and find rewards I never thought possible. I risk failure, too, because I know there will always be a lesson.

My experiences in the backcountry have helped me find my truest self and start to realize my greatest potential—whether as an individual or member of a bigger community. This is the joy of embracing that I am part of this ecosystem; this is why I go outside.

En búsqueda de los límites de lo posible o ser parte de la vida que nos rodea: por eso, me voy afuera.

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Dani Reyes-Acosta is a freelance brand strategist, educator, writer, and advocate redefining who plays outside and how we build community with others on this planet. She is also a splitboarder, climber, runner, and waterwoman partnering with several organizations to build a better future. Her work explores regenerative economies in the American West, how heritage and adversity inform identity, how inclusive marketing can pave the way to the future, and more. Learn more at DaniReyesAcosta.com.