Columns

Review by Karina Wetherbee The immigrant experience is the backbone of the American story, as for centuries people have been moving across the landscape of the continent, carrying their culture, their hopes and dreams, and their suffering, inevitably upending the indigenous communities in the process.  El Salvadoran poet Javier Zamora’s new memoir, Solito, is a deeply personal and revealing look at the levels of hardship and misfortune the average migrant undergoes in pursuit of prosperity and peace. Even a brief look at Zamora’s professional successes reveals the human and creative potential that an eager and hardworking immigrant can bring to their...

By Kelly Defaye, Visitor Information Coordinator, Rio Grande National Forest. To set the scene, I’ve been working at the ranger station for about six to eight months. I’ve been through spring’s mud season, summer’s recreation season, and am now experiencing the hunting and woodcutting season.  I play a game when someone pulls up to the office, trying to guess why they’ve stopped by. Sometimes they make it easy when they stop by early in the day with an empty trailer or stake truck bed and a chainsaw. The phone calls are usually more varied, although many times the underlying question is, “How...

By Bruce Becker. Anyone can do the things I’ve done if they’re willing to live the life I’ve led. ~ Fool’s Crow Winter camping. When I was a Boy Scout, building a snow cave seemed like a great adventure. My dad was an advisor for our troop and agreed to take myself and two other boys out on a long hike on snowshoes to a place he knew there were big, deep snowdrifts that accumulated each year.  I was 14 and had just gotten a pair of bear paw snowshoes for Christmas. Bear paws are great for maneuvering through thick brush and...

by Kizzen Laki. Many of the spiritual paths talk about “emptiness”. Letting go of all you know—including yourself, your beliefs, your dreams, your assumptions. Maybe there’s an easy way and a hard way. I was walking the hard way.  Raging and spitting and rebelling. I was always the good girl. The one who in the wild 60s kept it together while my friends were tripping. I was tired of being “good,” tired of being someone else’s rock.  I just couldn’t do it anymore. Time to bust out of here. It was the winter of 1979, I was living in an old log cabin...