XELA, Guatemala – At 4:45 a.m. on Saturday, eight sleepy people from five different countries showed up at Casa Argentina, bracing themselves for the adventure ahead: a two-day trek up Volcan Tajumulco, the highest point in Central America. I was among them.

The three volunteer guides from Quetzaltrekkers were going over the final details. Yesterday we had already met for a briefing and gone over the checklist for the trip. Below-zero sleeping bags? Check. Headlamps? Check. Down jackets and fleeces? Check. Rain gear, gloves, hats, thermal underwear?

Wait, I said, this was Central America, not the Andes!

Yes, but it was rainy season and our destination was 4,000 meters above sea level, where wintry conditions prevailed, especially at night and in the pre-dawn hours when we would hike to the summit of the old volcano.

I had heard about this group, Quetzaltrekkers, from a Guatemalan journalist who volunteers for the local Escuela de la Calle, the school for street children that it supports. For 15 years, the guides who come from all over the world donate three months of their lives to not only guide the treks but also run the organization, so that all the proceeds go to support the school and an affiliated shelter for the kids.

Later I would go visit the school and the shelter and learn more about the program. For now, I wanted to experience one of the treks for myself.

I had chosen this one because of the stunning vistas it offered in all directions: to the south, it overlooked the lava-spewing Santiaguito Volcano, and to the north, sleepy Tacaná Volcano and the south of Mexico. On a clear day, you could see to the Pacific Coast. The rainy season had just begun, and the mornings recently had tended to be brilliant and sunny, with the rains arriving later in the afternoon, so I decided to take a chance.

That’s how I found myself clinging to the edge of the seat in a crammed chicken bus, bracing myself on the switchbacks to avoid being flung to the floor or into the lap of the young Guatemalan man next to me.

The foggy drizzle of the wee hours had given way to bright blue skies. By 10 a.m. we had breakfasted heartily in a restaurant along the way and endured two hour-long seat-gripping rides before the fuming bus screeched to a halt in a tiny pueblo in the middle of nowhere.

“Tajumulco!” shouted the driver, and the compacted mass of people somehow parted to let us pass. Our packs were quickly passed down to us from the roof, and we saddled up and setting forth.

It had been 15 years since I strapped on a pack and made my way up a mountainside into the backcountry, and my body had forgotten the excruciating pain-laced exhilaration that one earns at the top of a mountain. I had just passed my mid-century point a month earlier, and I was eager to prove my mettle. But I was teamed up with a group of 20-somethings from Israel, the Netherlands and South Korea; the only hiker approaching my age was the indefatigable Sara, a 39-year-old beach volleyball-playing dentist from England who had trekked extensively in the Andes and Central America. Regrettably, I had lost my workout routine on the road and was already feeling the burn, just a few minutes into the climb.

Had I made a mistake? My shoulders, then my legs protested mightily, and I struggled to catch my breath in the altitude.

“My legs are really feeling this!” One of the Israeli girls exclaimed next to me. Both Israeli girls were named Mor, the name of a common flower in the region. “It’s a very popular name in Israel,” one of the Mors explained to me. “That’s why we are two.”

I was heartened to know that I was not alone in my pain, and as we settled into a rhythm, it abated and I began to enjoy the view. A cottony mass of clouds settled into the blue valley on our right, right below a patchwork of verdant green fields rising up the hill. Above it all loomed the stony, foreboding peak of Tajumulco, our ultimate goal.

Dave, our laconic guide from Wales, took up the lead, flanked by Sara and Suki, an amiable young photographer from Seoul, and Guy, the third Israeli. Yvonne and Martin, the blue-eyed Hollanders, followed up with Dara, the guide who was designated as the “floater.” I accepted with due humility my place in the rear with the Mors and Alexa, the guide at the rear. I consoled myself with the conviction that my place in the line was due to my lack of conditioning, not my age – and time bore me out, thankfully, as the young Mors straggled behind.

I looked up and saw a line of trekkers working their way up against the rich black of the volcanic soil, a Maya woman in colorful traditional dress striding past with ease, an enormous bundle on her head and another on her back. Corn milpas and potato fields dotted the landscape, along with the occasional cow.

Soon we took a left off the road and began picking our way through the mossy green landscape, laced with a network of pitch-black trails. Some gentle footpaths had evolved into deep ravines, making the patchwork a treacherous obstacle course. We were spreading out, with one of the Mors lagging far behind, and the other Mor and I puzzling our way through this maze alone. My shoulders ached from the exertion and I wasn’t sure how I was going to do it, but I pressed on.

Finally we reached the others, sprawled happily across a flower-strewn pasture, and rejoiced at the chance to unburden ourselves. Suki and I tested our macro lenses on the strange pointy red-and-yellow flowers bursting from the grass. We gorged ourselves on trail mix and headed on.

Soon, however, I regretted the trail mix, as the altitude began to affect my stomach. Now my attention shifted from my aching muscles to my inner body, which began protesting in annoying ways, and I wondered again if I had made a mistake. Was I really up for this?

I looked up and caught my breath: the landscape spread out around us magnificently. Purple mountains silhouetted in the distance, valleys filled with dense clouds, smoky wisps of vapor wafting across the trail. We were literally walking among the clouds.

We made our way up into a rare alpine pine forest, where a man was gearing up to head down the hill, strapping the load of leña or firewood on his back and supporting it with a strap across his forehead in the way his Maya ancestors had done for centuries. Suddenly, with my back aching from all the weight, this strategy made a good deal of sense to me. I asked if I could take his photo, and he obliged and sent me on my way with a buen viaje.
We stopped for a repast of vegetarian gourmet, complements of the Quetzaltrekkers volunteers, and the wisps became an enveloping mist. Sara’s feet were covered in blisters, but her outlook hadn’t dimmed.

“It doesn’t hurt when I stop,” she said brightly.

Soon the booming we had heard in the distance became a steady drizzle, and we scrambled for our rain gear. Fortunately it soon subsided and we shouldered our packs and soldiered on.

I had left the Mors behind and was now trekking alone, moving along silently in the misty landscape, and suddenly I saw a familiar shape emerging from the fog: blue lupines, just like the ones I’d seen in the Rockies, but these loomed shoulder-high. They were everywhere, and little white alpine daisies and bright yellow flowers dotted the grass. The scarlet of what we’d call back home an Indian paintbrush splashed across my view.

Then I was amazed to see a bright red Lewis Carroll-style toadstool dotted in white, and I laughed at myself as I looked for a hookah-smoking caterpillar. Amanita muscaria, my old friend. I was transported to my first breathtaking trek in the Rockies, two decades ago. Had it really been so long? It felt like only yesterday – and, honestly, my bones were protesting no more today than they had back then.

My stomach, however, was another matter, and shortly I discovered I was not alone. Martijn was apparently suffering more than I was and looking rather peaked when I caught up him and a worried Yvonne resting on a fallen log, waiting for Dara to bring the first aid packet.

“I think it’s the altitude sickness – he’s really feeling awful,” reported Yvonne.

I rested with them a bit, then headed on up the next slope. I couldn’t think of climbing a whole mountain anymore, but I could go ten steps, then I’d take a break to catch my breath. Ten more steps, then a break.

This strategy took me to a sheer jumble of stones, where a nimble pair of youths from the nearby village scrambled past. I watched their ascent, trying to follow suit, grabbing handholds and footholds where they had. Now they sat on a ledge above me, quietly observing my struggle.

“Where are you headed?” I asked them, conversationally. “To the volcano.” “Oh – just going for a walk?” “No, collecting firewood.” “Oh, of course!” I said, laughing at myself. “You are much harder workers than we tourists… you must think we are all crazy.” They laughed. “Just a little,” said the boy.

Now I was at the sheer rock face they sat upon.

“Aquí?” I asked the boy, “Here?” pointing to a place where the path diverged. He nodded his assent. I studied the rocks, trying to figure out the best way to negotiate them without the weight of my pack pulling me backward down the slope. Seeing my dilemma, the boy stood. “I’m coming down to help you,” he said. Just then I figured it out, but my water bottle slipped out in the process and went rolling down the hill. He clambered down and quickly retrieved it, and handed it back to me at the top of the hill with a quiet smile.

Yvonne and Martjin caught up to me at some point, and we began to travel together. Yvonne stopped to wait as I lagged, dividing her words of encouragement between me and a pale Martjin.

I arrived at the campsite, a flat outcropping at the base of the final ascent, with a “totally knackered” Sara, just ahead of the rain. We had climbed 1,000 meters in a little over seven hours, and the next morning we would wake before dawn to climb 200 meters more to the peak. The radiant flow from the restless Santiaguito in the sunrise would be our reward.

Unable to move, we watched the Quetzaltrekkers, Suki and Guy set up camp. When the littlest Mor finally arrived, she confessed she was dreaming of curling up in her sleeping bag and never moving again.

“The truth is, I haven’t exercised more than three times in my life,” she admitted.

“What on Earth made you decide to climb the highest peak in Central America?” I wanted to know, fumbling for the zipper of my sleeping bag.

But she was already asleep.

Four a.m. came around far too early; Alexa was outside our tent. “It’s time,” she announced cheerily through the drizzle. We staggered to our feet in the blackness, donned shoes, gloves, down jackets and headlamps. Twenty yards down the trail, I realized I’d left my camera behind, and got lost going back for it. Dara came back to retrieve me.

It took an hour and a half of steady clambering, punctuated by a couple of ridges, then a slope of soft grey ash emerging in the foggy dawn. Guy took my water bottle to free my hands, and I was grateful.

My head was pounding, and my legs and stomach were screaming. I called on every spirit I had ever known, and some that I didn’t – my pioneer great-grandmother, my tough-as-nails grandfather, the ancestors of these lands. I drew strength from the crystalline drops of rain that studded the tips of the grasses, reflecting my headlamp in shattered bits of light, and I drew it from the deepest part of me.

We emerged at the top to find ourselves enveloped in mist. No dramatic sunrise; no lava. For a moment the mists parted to give us a glimpse of the neighboring volcano, Tacaná, and the rim of the crater – and a tinge of pink in the direction of the sun – then they closed.

We celebrated our arrival with the best cheer possible, took our photos and headed back. Somehow, I still felt elated. I had just climbed the highest peak in Central America. I wouldn’t have traded this experience for anyone’s.

“It’s ok,” said Guy as we made our way down through the lupines, the pines and the brightening mist. “We didn’t do it for the view. We did it for the mountain.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

We still had nearly three hours to go before we reached Bancos, but meanwhile, a group of comuneros from Buenos Aires awaited a ride in the back of his pickup truck. Chávez jumped out from behind the wheel he’d manned since 10 p.m. the night before, greeting a shivering cluster of men with good cheer and a round of hearty handshakes. A breakfast invitation followed, and Nora, Cristian and Yaser, three other AJAGI members, joined us as we were led through what looked like a refugee camp. Nora and Cristian had passed the night in the back of the truck; Yaser was less fortunate, having passed the stormy night in Buenos Aires.

A bitter windstorm had ripped through the village, stripping the tin roofs from many of the mud-brick homes in the middle of the night as the residents slept. The unrelenting rains and near-freezing temperatures compounded the misery as residents tried to piece their lives back together.

Nonetheless, a visit from Carlos Chávez and the folks from AJAGI was more than reason enough for a gathering. One family with a sheltered outdoor kitchen still in good working order invited us to huddle together underneath as the rains began again, and steaming freshly ground tortillas came off the grill one by one to envelop home-grown scrambled eggs and savory pork-seasoned beans and potatoes. Family members clustered around to beam at us and urge us to eat more as we wolfed down what was likely their sole daily portion. But to decline would have been an insult, so we obliged.

The strange winds, the unseasonable rains, and the unthinkable snowstorm of two weeks prior were recurring themes in our visit. The summer rains didn’t come in time to water the harvest, and much of the corn crop dried on the stalk. Of what survived, much succumbed to fungus when the rains arrived late. And then, month upon month of winter rains – and now the tornado-like windstorm that has just descended upon them, the likes of which they’ve never seen.

Climate change is not a theory for the Wixaritari, the tribal people named Huichol by the Spaniards for easier pronunciation. They are convinced that they are living it every day, and they are seeing it in shorter growing seasons and strange weather patterns. They don’t know the reasons, but it worries them.

There’s no time to dwell on it, however. There’s firewood to be gathered, roofs to fix, children to feed – and, for some, a regional assembly to attend down in the valley in Bancos.

Attorney Santos De La Cruz Carillo, technical advisors Yaser Ventura and Cristian Chávez, and community members Don Jesús and Prudencio, left to right - and still enough room for me.

Spirits were high as we clambered into the back of Chávez’ well-worn and mud-caked Toyota pickup truck. Bancos is in a sheltered valley, and considerably warmer than Buenos Aires, up in the mountaintops some 7,000 feet above sea level. Also, most of these families originally lived in Bancos. The residents of Buenos Aires are modern-day pioneers engaged in the act of resettling and at the same time reforesting the land ravaged by timber poachers from the neighboring mestizo communities.

The resettlement is all a part of a larger strategy, devised by Huichol community leaders hand-in-hand with Carlos and the rest of the AJAGI team, which has provided legal and technical assistance for nearly two decades, helping the community reclaim 55,000 hectares of land that had been annexed away from their territory and encroached upon over the years. An estimated 140,000 acres are at stake, including a 10,720-acre swath separating Bancos from its core community of San Andres Cohamiata in the neighboring state of Jalisco. In a groundbreaking decision in 1998, the International Labor Organization ruled that the Huichol people had a right to the land based on ancestral ownership, even though they don’t hold legal titles – a ruling the Mexican government has thus far failed to acknowledge. Repeated pronouncements from the international agency received no response until last year, when the Mexican government finally ruled in Bancos’ favor – but with a catch. It failed to recognize the ancestral rights outlined in a key document called Convention 169, and so the case remains in litigation.

“The case of Bancos at one point was once described by the current director of the United Nations Forum on Indigenous Peoples as probably the most important case in the world” with respect to indigenous land rights, said Chávez. “If the case is resolved in the community’s favor, it will be of benefit to all indigenous people in the world.”

But this is only one of many strategies, one layer of the many layers of stories to be told about the Wixaritari people. I was fortunate to hear many of them in the past week, and I will be sharing them as time permits. Meanwhile, here are some images from the enormously resilient little community of Bancos.

Created with Admarket’s flickrSLiDR.

Carlos with his collection of miniature bicycles and a photo of his father, an avid bicyclist.

This intrepid group of biking photographers is dedicated to promoting biking in a variety of ways. Besides their weekly outings, which traverse a variety of rural terrains around Guadalajara and further afield, they’ve organized get-out-the-vote campaigns, children’s outings, first aid workshops, bicycle repair workshops, and a fundraiser for Haiti – all aboard the seat of a bicycle.

(Haiti Benefit Ride – Photos by Carlos Ibarra)

Founded by Carlos and other local photographers about two years ago, the group has grown to include non-photographers, as well, and works to initiate beginners into the biker’s life.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re a beginner, or a child, or even if you’ve never been on a bicycle,” Ibarra said. “The idea is to get out there and start pedaling, and we want to help with that. We’ve even had some riders who want to go faster, and they’ve gone on to form their own groups because we’re too slow – that’s ok. There’s room for everybody.”

That said, the group does some pretty heavy trekking, by a beginner’s standards. A recent fundraising ride for Haiti went 100 kilometers. And the off-trail mountain biking in Jalisco’s rugged countryside can be a challenge, especially when a storm comes up – as it did on a recent campout in Juan Rulfo country, from San Gabriel to Tapalpa.

“It was cool,” Ibarra enthused, showing photographs of dripping, smiling bikers. “It was an adventure.”

And indeed, this must be the most documented biking group of all time, with as many photographers as there are among its ranks. Here’s a slide show of the highlights from the group’s last two years.

Create your own video slideshow at animoto.com.

The group provides plenty of fun for the younger set, as well. A recent bicycle fiesta for the children, neices, nephews and young friends of Camara Rodante featured piñatas in the shape of cars.

“We were playing a little with the idea: Get rid of the cars!” said Ibarra, chuckling. “que no son muchos. It was something symbolic, and the kids loved it. Others didn’t want to because they liked the little car. But we were reinforcing the idea of using the bike – that it’s good for your health, that it doesn’t pollute, that you can move yourself quickly and easily.”

I’ve made my list and checked it a million times; selected and reselected my gear; said my goodbyes and received good wishes and safe travel blessings from near and far. I’ve left my car keys, my smart phone and my GPS behind. I’ll be making my way by foot now and by mass transit; everything I’ll need is either in my pack or shoulder bag, or it’s something I’ll have to find along the way, or live without.

I’ve been on multiple deadlines for weeks, with barely a moment to linger over a cup of tea with a loved one. Now the last loved one has pulled away from the curb, I’ve checked my backpack and I’ve made my way through security with an hour to spare, and there’ll be lingering aplenty.

Today, the only thing on my list is Mexico City.

There in the Mexican megalopolis, people are still rushing to make appointments – and I will too, tomorrow. But this afternoon I’ll greet a climate 40 degrees warmer and a mindset to match. I’ll slow down and take time to think; to read a book; to chat with the people I meet along the way. I’ll take time to breathe and look around.

“Are you excited?” my daughter texted me last night as I checked my list for the millionth time.

“Not yet,” I responded. “Just a little panicky: Have I forgotten something? Will I miss my flight? Do I have everything I need?”

Now, however, as the coffee does its work and boarding time approaches, I have a moment to reflect on the year ahead. Yes, I’m excited. Also apprehensive – and curious – and a little bit sleepy. But mostly I’m grateful.

In the year ahead, my plan is to travel the length of Latin America, from Mexico to Patagonia, documenting the Latin American environmental movement all along the way for The Esperanza Project and other publications. I hope you will follow my journey on both sites. The Esperanza Project will be focused on telling the stories of protagonists in the sustainability movement in the Americas; Roads Less Traveled will be about my personal experience, part travel narrative, part advice for a new generation of digital nomads. At the end, I’ll have a book to write and perhaps a documentary to put together, as I will be shooting video as well.

Not many people have the opportunity to take a year to follow their dream. I am hoping that I can do something bigger with this trip – to do what all dreamers hope to do, to make a difference, for myself, for others and for the planet. But even if I don’t, it’s the adventure of a lifetime, and with that, I’m satisfied.

For those of you who have offered your support, your prayers and your ideas and suggestions, I thank you. Thanks most of all for reading, and check this spot soon, and also The Esperanza Project. You can subscribe by e-mail or RSS feed from both of the sites, and/or you can follow me on Facebook (both as a fan of The Esperanza Project and as a friend of ME – And also on Twitter, @esperanzaprojec and @thirstyboots07.

I don’t know how this story will end any more than you do. But won’t it be fun to find out?

Location Independent
Digital nomads redefine the office

by Tracy L. Barnett, contributing writer

Last spring, I was handed an amazing opportunity. But at first it seemed like a disaster.
Like millions of others in this recession, I lost my job. It was especially unsettling, as I had moved to Houston not so long ago to take that job.

Nonetheless, I took stock of my situation and realized it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. My daughter was grown and nearing completion of her education; I had no mortgage, no debt, no health problems and a little bit of savings. I had a marketable skill set, and no urgent need to make a lot of money.

This might just be the moment to follow my dreams, I said to myself.

Most of my life I’d worked for someone else: Newspaper corporations, nonprofit organizations, a university. I had always wanted to see what I could do working for myself. And I’d always wanted to take a year for travel.
I spent hours surfing the web, seeking a way to make it happen, and I found that I was far from alone. In fact, an international community has emerged to share ideas and support each other in what is being called the location-independent lifestyle.

Some of these folks are digital nomads, whose virtual office spans the globe. Some are just as happy to work from their bedroom or the neighborhood coffeehouse. Some want to spend time with their family; others want to leave the rat race and strike out on their own.

All are engaging in a fundamental reassessment of work and its role in their lives, a concept called lifestyle design – the notion that you can design your life to live according to your priorities.

As I write, I am preparing for a yearlong journey through Latin America. I’m creating a new media web initiative, a book and a documentary, and while I hope to land a nice grant proposal to support myself, I’m not counting on it. I’m counting on making money through location-independent jobs.

As a travel writer, this may be easier for me than for, say, an insurance salesman or a school counselor. There are certain professions that lend themselves to portability, and most of them involve the internet. Nowadays you can get a signal almost anywhere, as cybercafés and hotspots have popped up all over the world.

Location-independent professionals – or as they call themselves, LIPs – can be Web designers, marketing consultants, editors, content providers, virtual assistants, e-bay sellers, bloggers, lifestyle coaches or something entirely new that hasn’t yet been invented.

I think of my former colleagues, battling traffic as they head to the newsroom each day, as I consider my to-do list: Rent storage locker; line up mover; make arrangements for my mail (my most trusted friend), my cat (my sister), my car (my dad). Research so many things. Which camera? Which backpack? Should I buy a Kindle for all my guidebooks and background reading? (Actually, it turns out I can download a reader for my ipod for free.)

The countdown has begun, and these days as I see my cat curled up in a ball, I take a few seconds to bend down and kiss her furry head. I spend a little more time with leisurely phone conversations with family and friends – I’m asking them to install Skype on their computers so we can talk, but still, a year is a long time to see your daughter’s face only in photographs and webcam.

She knows it’s my lifelong dream to hit the road, head south and keep on going, and now, as a grown woman with her own family and her own acupuncture practice, she supports me fully. But the gravity of the situation hit us both recently when I handed her the folder with my life insurance policy, my living will and my retirement accounts.

She fixed those beautiful brown eyes on me steadily. “I know you have to do this, Mom,” she said. “But please, don’t take any unnecessary chances.”

“I won’t,” I promise, and the moment passes.

Now I am making appointments in Mexico City and Guadalajara and the Yucatan; seek corporate sponsors and affiliate advertisers for my website. Oh, and keep on reporting and turning in freelance assignments all the while.

I think of the words of another friend who was laid off at around the same time and is also going it alone: “I’m twice as happy on half the money.

Now I think I can live with that.

For more information, see www.locationindependent.com and, for job listings, www.freelanceswitch.com.

Here it is:

First-time climber conquers fears at Enchanted Rock

(Photo courtesy of Solitude Ski Resort)

BIG COTTONWOOD CANYON, UTAH — Curled up in front of the fire, I look out to a line of snow-frosted pines. Twenty-three inches of snow fell last night, so the snow is still fluffy and soft.

Beyond the trees, I can see the tops of the mountains I will be ascending tomorrow. I’m trying not to think of all the things that can go wrong.

I’m fluctuating between “Really, it’s no big deal,” and “What in the world was I thinking?”

I could have just spent the day going from the spa to the hot tub to the fire to the restaurants — there are so many aprè s-ski options here at Solitude Mountain Resort.

But I discovered long ago that the enjoyment I derive from an experience is directly proportional to the level of effort I put into it. Add to that the adrenaline rush that comes from a touch of danger, and you have an irresistible combination.

Danger? On the bunny slopes?

OK, we’re talking about a person who falls out of the tree pose after 30 seconds in yoga class, who regularly bangs into furniture while walking in flat shoes on solid ground. We’re not talking about Kristi Yamaguchi here. We’re talking about me. So, yeah, I’ll be frank — I’m a little bit scared.

Regardless, at 9:15 a.m. I’ll be gearing up, meeting my teacher and heading off into the wild snowy unknown.

What in the world was I thinking?

Really, it’s no big deal.

If you missed the story in yesterday’s Houston Chronicle and San Antonio Express-News, here it is.

Many of you know I am currently in the process of gearing up for a year-long journey with a mission: to raise the visibility of the unsung heroes of Latin America’s environmental movement.  In the process I hope to build a well of creative ideas and inspiration through the new web portal I’m designing, a networking tool for the groups themselves and a sharp contradiction to the sense of hopelessness and cynicism about the future that has enveloped much of our population. I’m calling it The Esperanza Project, and I’ll be filling you in on the details in the weeks ahead.

Meanwhile, I’ll be taking the opportunity to highlight the journeys of other travelers whose journeys represent a larger purpose. Today I ran across the story of Tendai Sean Joe, a former street child from Zimbabwe who has become an advocate for disadvantaged children and youths. He has launched the Trail of Hope Foundation to provide a base for his advocacy work. Currently the group is raising money for a three-motorcycle trip through 16 countries to document the conditions of street children from Cape Town to Berlin.

Tendai Sean Joe

You can follow Tendai Sean Joe on his blog, on Facebook or on Twitter, and you can read his guest post in Deb Corbeil and Dave Bouskill’s excellent blog, Canada’s Adventure Couple, where I first learned about him. Deb and Dave (@theplanetd on Twitter) bring a great deal of insight to the subject, having biked from Cairo to Capetown to raise money for Plan Canada, another group that raises money for underprivileged children. Their blog also highlights journeys for a cause, and you can find a list of stories from their Giving Back, Travel the World and Make a Difference series at the end of Tendai Joe’s guest post.
Here’s one of many photos from Tendai Joe’s Facebook page, taken on a preliminary trip to one of the sites he will visit on his tour.

]]> http://tracybarnettonline.com/blog/2009/10/27/journeys-with-a-cause/feed/ 1 http://tracybarnettonline.com/blog/2009/10/14/amid-sweat-and-tears-esperanza-is-born/ http://tracybarnettonline.com/blog/2009/10/14/amid-sweat-and-tears-esperanza-is-born/#comments Wed, 14 Oct 2009 13:32:53 +0000 Tracy http://tracybarnettonline.com/blog/?p=613

Here in the darkness of the temezcal, sweat, steam and mud become one with the throbbing beat of Teresa’s drum. The heat bears down, melting away the boundaries between us. Rhythms from her Mayan heritage rise in the air with the incense-like scent of copal, her voice carrying us to a place beyond time. She asks me to translate, and her songs and prayers flow through me like water.

We fly like eagles, with wings of light/circumnavigating the universe… we are warriors of light.

She calls on the ancients, and on the spirits of the elements and the four directions, asking for a blessing for each of us huddled together in the tiny dome. She teaches us the grito of the warrior, a shout from the depths of our souls that pulls us through round after round of nearly unbearable heat.

Offer your sweat to Mother God, Father God, she advises us. It will help you to endure the suffering.

The heat and the rhythm intensify, and the air is heavy with skin-searing steam. Her words are passing through me now in rhythmic gasps.

Just when we think we can bear no more, she brings out a waxy chunk of white copal and touches it to the red-hot rock in the center of the temezcal. Each of us takes it in turn and whispers the prayer closest to our hearts.

***

Each of us is reborn in the womb of the temezcal. But some of us also give birth.

Years ago, Teresa explained, Mayan women learned to give birth in the darkness of the temezcal. The warmth embraced mother and child, and the baby was born peacefully in the embrace of Mother Earth.

So it was that there in the temezal, as Teresa guided us to the place of our profoundest dreams, that I gave birth to the child that will be my work for the next stage of my life: the Esperanza Project.

It was there that I sent up my heartfelt prayers that my work might be of use to these wise and beautiful people of the corn, and to all of us who are their kin.

Before we entered the temezcal, the Huichol shaman Maracame Rosalio held up five ears of corn, each of a different color. We humans are like this corn, said Rosalio. We are of different colors, but we are all the same people.

Nine months ago, in the ferment that arose from the end of my career as a newspaper journalist, the idea was conceived. In the year ahead I will weave together the threads of my previous work and three of my greatest passions: travel, Latin America, and the natural environment. I will be traveling through the Americas, beginning right here in Guadalajara, Mexico, in search of people who are, in a multitude of ways, seeking to heal our broken planet. Teresa and Rosalio’s way is to share the traditions of their ancestors with people from around the world, helping them to find their inner strength and the path of their heart.

My way will be to tell their stories. I hope that you will accompany me in the year ahead as the Esperanza Project becomes a reality.

(Click here for photo tour)

One of the menu of outings offered by the Society of American Travel Writers in its pre-conference lineup was “Eco-Adventure in El Diente,” and with a name like that, how could I resist? Especially with the excellent training provided by Jamie, who nearly killed me in my first exposure to rock climbing this spring. It wasn’t until I went online today and googled it that I realized that where he failed in May, he may have succeeded in October.

El Diente (The Tooth) is about to bite me…

My account of my May adventure will appear in the Dallas Morning News this fall (posthumously, perhaps) so I asked Jamie to provide a few tips for beginners as I prepare to punish myself on the cliffs of El Diente. (El Diente pic compliments of Marc and Kristi, who climbed there a year ago and made it sound like a piece of cake in their excellent blog… Thanks, guys!)

OK, so after reading Marc and Kristi, and after going through Jamie’s tips (below, for the very brave), I’m feeling better about the climb. Honestly, it’s the mountain biking that I’m kind of freaked out about. I’ll keep you posted – if I’m not in traction.

Read on for Jamie’s excellent tips. And if the climbing bug bites you, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Climbing tips for beginners

From veteran climber Jamie McNally of Austin

1.  It’s all about the feet.  Most people think you have to have loads of upper body strength to be a good climber. Not so. Footwork is much more important than often realized, even on steep or overhanging terrain. Think of using your legs to propel you up the rock rather than using your hands and arms to pull.

2.  It’s also about balance. Your first inclination when climbing is to cling to the rock. Resist the urge. You want your weight distributed over your feet. This means that your center of gravity, especially on slabs, is often further away from the rock than is initially comfortable. But if you press too close against the rock, your weight will shift and your feet will often slip.

3.  Use your bone structure to your advantage. Climbing is often a race against muscle fatigue. One way to avoid flaming forearms is to climb with straight limbs as much as possible. You can hang from a chin-up bar a lot longer with straight arms than you can with arms bent at the elbow. Try it. Think of straightening your limbs and using your skeleton to rest on each hold while only using your muscles to move between holds.

4.  Trust your shoes. The sticky rubber on the bottom of even cheap climbing shoes is otherworldly. Dime-sized edges, rounded nubbins, and near-microscopic rock crystals are all stellar footholds. You can even stand on near vertical slabs.

5.  Don’t be afraid of cracks. Today in Texas (and in a lot of other places) most people start out climbing in gyms and learn pretty quickly how to grab different types of holds. This type of climbing is intuitive and feels natural. Climbing cracks requires a totally different technique that seems unnatural and is often painful at first. As a result, in some places, crack climbing has become a lost art. But learning to jam hands, fists and feet into different-sized cracks will improve your climbing and open up a world of rock that would otherwise be unavailable to you.

Here are some of Jamie’s photos from a recent climb at ERock.