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Category: Careers Outdoors

Working the Fields of Antarctica

Por Stephanie Krzywonos

“Please sit,” I asked my mom, then announced: “I am going to live and work in Antarctica.”
She couldn’t speak at first. I didn’t blame her.

Her parents—my grandparents—had emigrated from the deserts of Mexico to California’s Central Valley.

My mom worked in the fields alongside them, in miles-long rows, picking fruits and vegetables since she was only eleven. That was her introduction to “the great outdoors.” As a result, she hates being in direct sunlight, often wearing a huge sunhat outside and sometimes shading herself with an umbrella, too.

Here I was, her only daughter, migrating to Antarctica, the world’s largest desert, for seasonal work, a place with 24-hour daylight from October to February. Instead of tomato fields, my fields would be filled with hundreds of miles of glaciers—ice that is, in some places, two miles thick. I wanted to belong to that frozen world.

But when I first arrived in Antarctica, I quickly felt out of place. I had loved being in nature since I was a little girl, but I didn’t feel “outdoorsy” enough in some of the stereotypical ways my co-workers were. I didn’t have technical sunglasses or the fanciest gear. My backpack wasn’t covered in National Parks patches. I hadn’t “bagged” any peaks to speak of. I didn’t know how to ski. I had grown up playing in creeks, climbing trees, riding my bike, and camping—those were the vacations my family could afford.

I knew Antarctica didn’t have an Indigenous human population, but I hadn’t known (and should have guessed) that I was going to a place that has historically been dominated by white people and culture, more so than any other place I’ve lived.

Mostly, it didn’t bother me. As a white-passing mixed-race Xicana, I often blend in. Sometimes in Antarctica, I wished I didn’t. The ugly legacies of colonialism and racism occasionally reared their heads and reminded me why the global majority was mostly absent in Antarctica. Occasionally, I wondered why—in a place so vast and spacious—it felt like there wasn’t room for all of us.

I spent six summers in Antarctica and one winter, where I didn’t see the sun’s yolk for 131 days. Once, when everyone was told to return to our dorms from the buildings we worked in because the weather was so bad, I nearly got lost outside. During the blizzard, one of my co-workers, one of the other rare Latinos on station, got separated from the group he traveled with, and SAR, the search and rescue team, was activated to find him. He survived by sheltering in a nearby building.

The next day at lunch, my co-workers and I dissected management’s outrageous decision to send us into the storm. The man who got lost spoke broken English; his first language was Spanish. One of my friends said, “that’s why we can’t have those people here,” as if his language skills had anything to do with getting lost. My face burned.

Spain, Chile, and Argentina have a long history of engagement with Antarctica—but, like many other nations, it has not always been respectful. Indigenous people have a long history of engagement with Antarctica, too. In 1985, the bones of a twenty-one-year-old Mestiza were found on an Antarctic island. She had died between 1819 and 1825 and was a descendent of both Europeans and the Yagan people of Chile, Earth’s southernmost Indigenous people.

But being there “first,” or having the technology, equipment, and expertise to survive in Antarctica, are not meaningful measures of heritage in or engagement with the outdoors.

I grew up in a small town in Michigan, which was surrounded by corn and soy fields. Once, as my mom and I were driving past a field, I noted a large tree in the middle of neat green rows.

“Why doesn’t the farmer just chop down the tree?” I asked aloud. “That way there is more room for the crops?”

“That tree is for the workers,” my mom said. “So we can have shade.”

It made sense as soon as she said it, and I felt myself blush. Many years later, I know that the tree in the field shouldn’t just be viewed for its usefulness, but as a life to be respected no matter what.

I learned to view Antarctica in the same way: a living place with agency. Part of what helped me change and contextualize what I was experiencing in Antarctica, especially with the sun and the moon, who became like deities to me, were the stories of my ancestors, which I wrote about in my memoir, “The Blue Hours.”

Xkik, the “Blood Woman,” and her desire to eat the fruit she found in Xibalba, the Mayan underworld, helped me understand my own desire to winter in Antarctica. After the sun disappeared for four-and-a-half months, I watched the blackness of outer space fill the sky. The Aztec and Maya stories about how at dusk, the sun turning into a jaguar made sense: the jaguar, as velvety black as my world became, is a fierce and strong animal, qualities I would need to survive.

Antarctica, no matter how far away she seems, is part of what allowed humanity to evolve, and like a lone tree in a vast field, she shades us from the worst of the changing climate.

In a way, we all belong to Antarctica as much as we belong to anywhere on Earth. Antarctica showed me that as earthlings, the outdoors is everyone’s birthright, and that the most meaningful way to be “outdoorsy” has nothing to do with expensive activities or gear. Instead, it has everything to do with respect, reverence, connection, and living in solidarity with other beings, wherever we are.

Stephanie Krzywonos is an essayist and author who spent 886 days of her life living and working at McMurdo Station, Antarctica. Her first book, “The Blue Hours: My Summers and Winter in Antarctica,” is forthcoming from Washington Square Press on December 1, 2025. You can read more of Steph’s writing at stephkrzywonos.com.

Harvesting Hue

Por Nidia Trejo

I am a Salvadoran-American who grew up in the vibrant city of Los Angeles. As a child, I loved color. I remember going to the L.A. Fashion District with my family to pick out fabrics for sewing projects, and watching my mom spend her evening hours with her rose garden. My life was a blend of textiles and petals, though I didn’t know how they would eventually connect.

When I started college at UC Davis, I had an open mind for science. I began to study the chemistry of colorants—one of my first projects was to dye various natural fabrics with red wines. For years, I felt like I was living in two different worlds. In a science lab as well as in a design studio.

Connecting art and science has been a challenge; both spheres are fueled by creativity, and they often compete in my mind for attention. Recently, I challenged myself to bridge the two worlds.

As a teaching artist at the Richmond Art Center, I created a new class called “Petal Power Art” bringing seasonal flowers into the studio for outdoor engagement. The flowers were provided by the Urban Tilth and the Cloverfield Farms located in the San Francisco East Bay (Richmond and El Sobrante, California). Students extracted pigments, directly, by pounding flowers onto cotton fabric and watercolor paper. We explored the colors from the petals, stem, and any leaves using mini-hammers, rollers, and our fingers.

During this time, my own feelings of stress and exhaustion were a barrier that challenged my access to the outdoors. I typically go on walks with my dog, but the new adventure for me was going into the outdoor spaces of local farms. I pushed through because I believed these “Petal Power Art” sessions would create a sense of calm, progress, and certainty.

It was also inspiring to learn about seasonal flowers. The people at the farms were appreciative of my presence, excited about my purpose and use of the flowers. Standing in the sunshine at the farms, seeing the butterflies, and engaging in Spanish with the people there, I felt a deep sense of belonging—a feeling that this is exactly what I was meant to be doing.

Initially, I worried that the seasonal shift from Fall to Winter would limit the flowers. We started with the bright yellow and orange Marigolds from Urban Tilth in Richmond. I soon realized nature’s inventory was much larger than I thought. During morning walks with my dog, I noticed purples and reds in my own neighborhood—Mexican Sage, Roses, and Hydrangeas.

My visits to Cloverfield Farms in El Sobrante were a lesson for trial and error. In the class we discovered that purple Cosmos and yellow Coreopsis gave brilliant, lasting colors. While some flowers, like Red Amaranth, Agave Zinnia, Anise Hyssop, were trickier to work with because they held more water than expected. These were lessons from nature.

Throughout the class, I connected to my heritage and science background. I pointed out which flowers were native to Mexico, Central America, and South America, connecting students to more places beyond the art studio with the stems in their hands. We talked about the chemistry of the colors — anthocyanins that create deep pinks to purples, as well as the carotenoids and flavonoids for vivid yellows and oranges.

We worked with smaller marigolds as the weeks got chillier, quickly learned to use several parts of the flower, and could extract beautiful color even seven days after a bloom was picked. The artworks from the classes were a blend of organic floral shapes, complimented by embroidery, drawing, and watercolors.

The art studio became a piece of nature, inviting us to take in the scent of the flowers, examine the pollen, and be mindful of any insects we needed to care for during the class. By bringing flowers from farms to the art studio, I showed that the outdoors isn’t a distant destination for both art and science.

Although it may be challenging to bring the art supplies into the outdoors, my future plans are to bring “Petal Power Art” sessions to the local farms and East Bay parks. See my ongoing work at my website, https://www.nidiaktrejo.com/.

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.