My mom passed away in 2021. We were very close, and losing her broke me. I went through a tough time: depression, loneliness – I felt I was in a deep hole with no way out. I had thought about doing the Tour du Mont Blanc (TMB) earlier that year – a 10-day hike through the French, Italian, and Swiss Alps – but hadn’t made any plans. I didn’t see how I could now, in the state that I was in. A close friend told me, “Flaco, go! It would be good for you.” Still unsure about it, I decided to do it. Last minute. Self-guided. Solo. Just me, my backpack, and a yearning to explore, a yearning to catch myself. I’m so happy I did.
I didn’t grow up hiking or in the outdoors. I grew up in Los Angeles – a concrete jungle. My family wasn’t particularly into nature, so there were no camping trips or hikes planned, not even to the nearby mountains. Possibly because my family had other things to worry about. The outdoors felt out of reach. It wasn’t until I moved to Portland, Oregon, that I started immersing myself in nature. A friend invited me along on hikes, and little by little, I developed an appreciation for it. But even then, I saw hiking mostly as an activity, a challenge, something to do with friends. I never saw it as healing. Not until the TMB.
On the third day of the hike, crossing into Italy over the Col de la Seigne, something happened that I wasn’t expecting. I reached the top of the climb and stopped. There was a huge valley, mountains on both sides as far as I could see. As I started the descent, taking one step in front of the other, immersing myself in all of it – suddenly, looking at the sprinkle of flowers here and there – deep emotions resurfaced. Feelings I’d been carrying for months.
I stopped. I knelt down. And I let some grief out. This huge, breathtaking valley, and I, grieving in the middle of it. It was one of the most healing experiences of my life. And I was able to continue lighter, brighter for the trail ahead.
Nature doesn’t judge. It doesn’t rush you. It just holds the space and lets you feel what you need to feel. That’s when I understood what my friend meant, that it would be good for me. This is what the trail does: it grounds you. It doesn’t fix anything. But it gives you something to hold on to, to stand on.
I finished the TMB ten days later. I walked back into Chamonix lighter than I’d left. Not because my problems had disappeared, they hadn’t. But because I’d been reminded that I was still capable. Still moving. Still here.
Since then, I’ve hiked the Alta Via 1 in the Italian Dolomites. This summer I’m doing the Walker’s Haute Route from Chamonix to Zermatt, fourteen days through the Swiss Alps.
I want to share my story to encourage people to get outdoors and experience nature. Because I want to be for someone else what my friend was for me. The voice that says: “Go. It will be good for you”
Nature always has your back. I’m living proof.
¡Vamos!
Richard “Flaco” Flores is a Latino hiker based in Portland, Oregon. He grew up in Los Angeles with no access to the outdoors and discovered hiking as an adult — and eventually as a lifeline. He documents his hikes on YouTube and Instagram at Andar con el Flaco, creating content for the Latino outdoor community in English and Spanish. This summer he’ll be doing the Walker’s Haute Route from Chamonix to Zermatt through the Swiss Alps.
Tenía 19 años cuando subí por primera vez a ese cerro que contiene todo el amor de quienes nacimos en Caracas.
Me llevó mi novio y todo era verde, espléndido, feliz. Todo lo que sucedía mientras ascendíamos era perfecto, a pesar de la ruta empinadísima, el terreno irregular y las vueltas sucesivas que serpenteaban la vista de la ciudad empequeñeciéndose.
Casi dos horas para llegar a una explanada que me mostró que el amor sí sucede a primera vista. El viento y sus susurros, los trinos curiosos de los pajaritos y esa llenura de vida que se me metía en el cuerpo a partir de mis ojos serenos. Allí sentí que algo me estaba sucediendo desde adentro. Lo que veía y sentía eran una misma cosa, imprecisa, indescriptible, como la constatación de estar enamorada.
Hoy a mis 60 permanezco junto a mi amor de 62, y seguimos transitando la madre naturaleza desde otras latitudes. El amor por la tierra y sus bellezas diversas solo ha crecido y sigue en expansión.
Florángel Quintana es escritora, licenciada en Letras (Ucab), docente de literatura y Mentora en Escritura Transformadora con más de 20 años de experiencia en el manejo de la expresión escrita con propósito. Autora de 4 libros.
I walk, I breathe, I can feel the heat, I appreciate the birds singing, I feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, my earth-colored skin, where flowers bloom. I look to my left and I see construction workers, building an apartment building, each of them working hard to give opportunities of a better tomorrow to their families. Many of them will never be able to hug their parents or grandparents again. The day they left was never to return, their footprints marked the path they had to walk, early one morning the dew covered the crop and the roosters crowed to say goodbye.
In that walk all the stories of childhood passed through your mind. You were on your way to meet with a group of people leaving north, that day the coffee did not taste the same, that day the sky was witness to another departure. They told you not to take much, but your grandmother never got that information, she woke early to prepare tortillas to take, the smoke from the fire wrapping you like a farewell hug; she packed that last meal loaded with hope. The neighbors said goodbye Tachajil awi, you will no longer be part of Tachajil awi the plantation this year. Your mother gave you a blessing and with tears in her eyes and a broken heart, wishing you a good trip and knowing the Yuum K’aaxo’ob protects you. You leave. You get on a truck, the next stop is uncertain, it is uncomfortable, it is hot and there is barely any water or space. Above all there is a smell of fading earth, as the hours pass and the mountains of your village become distant, everything is more real, you are going north. After several hours you remember that backpack and take out the meal, which will fill your stomach but also your heart. The backpack is heavy because you realize that it is loaded with dreams, but above all it is loaded with sorrows, anguish and fear. Suddenly in the crowd you notice there is a child watching you. You not only share a smile but food as well. The main ingredient is resilience because your grandmother, who is a widow, suffered from the internal war that lasted 36 years, a war that was called the Mayan Holocaust.
It is getting dark, the air is cold, while dozing off in the middle of the desert. You remember that your family had to sell their few possessions, your mother’s wedding hüipil and your grandmother’s precious silver necklace, they sold that so you could undertake this journey, and in this way become a weather vane that can change the course of the ship. You have to get there no matter how you have to get there, because the remittance will pay for the trip and you will finally be able to buy that stove for your mother. How she wishes she could keep cooking like her mom over an open fire, but she does not have the time now that she works for a salary that is barely enough to pay the rent.
Years have passed and that story has been forgotten, traditions live in your heart and grandma is no longer around. Now you go back to work, strapping on your toolbelt ready to finish the day’s work. It is extremely hot. Something the occupants may not notice as the apartments will be air-conditioned once your work is complete. I keep walking and I see day laborers, it is lunch time. There is nothing close to provide them with shade, they eat their lunch from their van to get a break from the sun. A quick lunch and silent talk. They have to make a better life for their children, now they have a house and don’t have to share the same room made out of corrugated steel.
Days pass and I call my friend to find out how she is doing in the suburbs of Los Angeles, they are living in fear. They do not want to go out even to the supermarket, their children are locked in an apartment in the middle of the summer, she says this is worse than the pandemic. She tells me to please use my privilege to share her story. She lost her husband two years ago, she came when she was young and has no papers because the system did not work for her. A system that has left her in this undocumented status even after both her husband and mother were granted legal status. She asks, “what happens if they deport me when my children are in school, who will cook dinner for them that night?” These stories are of people that are working in a country that has benefited economically from immigrants, illegal, legal, and all the different stages in between.
Our government set up these systems to benefit many sectors in the United States and now the very same people who have worked are being punished for supporting those systems.
My story begins in this country 20 years ago, when after graduating from college I was traveling and met the person who would become my husband. We got married 18 years ago, after moving to the US, I received a box full of souvenirs, some junk, and a clay pot, which has drained after I emigrated leaving my family, friends and a country full of esotericism, history, and a culture that pulsated in my heart. I was now in a foreign country with a culture I did not understand. After trying to fill this vessel with tears and longing, in human connections, I found empathy and new stories of resilience. In the community, I found hope.
My work with the Latino community began two years ago with Irene Vilar the founder of AFC+A. Providing opportunities for access to open space, forest bathing, and cultural events to communities that have historically and systematically been discriminated against. It has been a world-wind of change where I could see my actions directly affecting the lives of many people.
Unfortunately, after the election everything changed for the worst. Our DEI (Diversity, Equity and Inclusion) programs were presented in a way that made it look like we were doing something illegal or bad. Our funding was withheld and we have only been able to hold a few events this year. These programs are used to create community, understanding and create safe spaces where families can find peace and hope, but these spaces are shrinking daily.
When raids began in one county in Denver, 50% of the children in that county did not attend school for several days. The stories are nuanced, and this generational anxiety over federal immigration detentions and policies rooted in fear and exclusion has gripped thousands of immigrant residents and led many to limit the time they spend in public. In a divided times leading with compassion and respect, is how we can heal and grow together. Check on your immigrant community, help create an emergency preparedness plan, and use your voice, and privilege. You can learn more on Latino Outdoor’s Know Your Rights Resource page.
“Immigrants are a backbone, yet they’re being targeted and mistreated. This isn’t just wrong, it’s unacceptable. Our community deserves respect, dignity, and protection”. -Casa de Paz
Reforma Migratoria
Partiendo de la premisa
De que el pueblo inmigrante es la leva-brazo impresindible
De esta colosal máquina
Denominada Estados Unidos
Esta desesperanza tiene más de tres décadas
De ingerir el mismo caldo de cultivo
Charola con falacias de ambos partidos
Además del trato de indole tercermundista
No más seudopromesas
Ya basta de convertirnos en trampolín político
De retóricas trilladas estamos hasta el hartazgo
Por eso y muchas cosas
más
Nos encontramos en pie de lucha.
Urge reforma migratoria
Comprensiba, inclusiva, humana e imparcial.
– J.M. Patraca
Books recommendations:
A Magnificently Ordinary Romance: A Poetry Collection. – Celia Martinez.
Serving the Underserved: Strategies for Inclusive Community Engagement. – Dr. Catharine Bomhold
IMMIGRANT: I am a Mayan Q’anjob’al, a Guatemalan, an immigrant, a son, a brother, a husband, a father, and a tech entrepreneur: my ancestry roots are my strength, and my people’s history my testimony. -Marcos Antil.
Say the Right Thing: How to Talk About Identity, Diversity, and Justice. – Kenji Yoshino , David Glasgow
La distancia entre nosotros. -Reyna Grande.
No somos de aquí. – Jenny Torres Sanchez
Stamped. Rendi Racism, Antiracism and You. – Jason Reynolds and Ibram X.
The Wind Knows My Name. – Isabel Allende
De Pánama a Nueva York: La historia de Jacquelina. – Jacqueline Atkins
