A Letter from the Mountains

Today, I decided to take a break at the end of an exhausting week.

I set aside filling out work plans, reviewing budgets, reports, and committees to jot down some of the thoughts that came to me this week.

Three years ago, I was asked to manage Habitat Banks, design management plans, and bring to life what is written on paper. I started with a Habitat Bank that requires a deep breath just to say its full name: Banco de Hábitat Bosque Seco Tropical Cañón del Río Cauca (Tropical Dry Forest Habitat Bank of the Cauca River Canyon). So, for the sake of practicality, we started calling it simply BH Liborina.

At that time, it was the smallest bank, and it was where I faced one of my first challenges: proposing a methodology to create management plans. I went with a map on my phone to visit BH Liborina on my birthday, accompanied by Menacho, the person who has been in charge of these lands his whole life. We entered from the highest part of the bank—the part that makes you sweat at first—but leads to a view of the Cañón del Río Cauca that makes it all worth it.

When we reached that point, I took a moment to contemplate. I thought about the history of the land and everything the river carries, not only biologically but also socially: the history of violence it drags with it. Years ago, I had been in a similar situation, accompanied by a friend and colleague who, upon seeing the beauty of the canyon, said to me:

"Look at this beauty, it's really easy to be at peace here."
When I remembered this week, it was hard to understand his words, because today, that same friend is on the list of the country’s disappeared, after having sweated through the slopes of the Cañón del Cauca for years.

Camilo Peláez – Forest engineer, disappeared.

Despite how difficult it is to grasp these realities, BH Liborina represented one of my first challenges at Terrasos. Alejandra Cardenas, leader of Habitat Bank Structuring, used to say that there was a lot of "open space." Years later, I came with Juan David Rodriguez, the forest ranger of the Meta Habitat Bank, and he told me:

"Here, you can even lose a shout."
But even though it was one of the smallest banks, I managed to turn the idea of a small laboratory into paper.

Julián Durango, Menacho’s son, was the ranger who started walking these hills with me. We sat on the lookouts, and I would ask him:

“Can you imagine the day when all this will be forest?”
He would always smile because, even for him, it was hard to imagine. His childhood had been spent in pastures.

Between talks, he would tell me about his fear of snakes and his belief that some of them were "crossbred" with others. I explained to him why that wasn’t possible, but he didn’t believe me much.

One day, we found a non-venomous hunting snake near the Canalón Blanco creek. I was thrilled. I got close to take a photo. Julián, surprised by my calmness, got closer to understand why it wasn’t dangerous. Later, I saw him at a ranger meeting at the BHM, holding a hunting snake while listening to Jorge, one of the cowboys who is passionate about snakes and leads sensitization processes.

Seeing him with that smile and the excitement in his voice when he said:
“Cris, it’s all cool”, made it all worth it.

We started with the nursery. The big challenge was propagating plant material. I learned the units of measurement from a construction master so the hardware store in town would understand me. That’s how we started building.

Then, I went with Julián to search for seeds like crazy. There was a large harvest of algarrobo, a fruit famous for its, let’s say, unique smell. That day, we went out with sacks on our shoulders through Canalón Blanco creek, smelling bad and stopping every now and then because the sacks were so heavy.

Later, Julián asked me:
"Cris, what do we do with this stinky stuff?"

And we started hammering away. I told him that the flour from the fruit was very nutritious, a natural binder, even ideal for making juices. On my part, I made a cake—which turned out delicious, although Wilson, the Operations Director today, didn’t believe me because I didn’t give him any.

This week, I took some time to look at photos. It's gratifying to see the progress. The learning curves, step by step. We started with a small era, and today, Gustavo Espinel, Julián, and Álvaro (the nurseryman) have positioned the nursery as one of the best in the region, according to personnel from ISA’s project control.

I always dreamed of seeing the plantings there. I imagined mules marching through the hills of the canyon, perhaps driven by a passion inherited from my father, who was a muleteer all his life and left in me a deep admiration for mules and their role in the history of Antioquia.

And then we started planting, trying to read the rainfall records.

Today, while chatting with Gustavo Espinel, BH Operations Professional for the Andes region, we came across a photo that made me incredibly happy. Those who have been with me in the field know how deeply I admire plants, especially that stubble that almost no one wants. I find them the most resilient: the embodiment of endurance, especially in a tropical dry forest.

The image showed the progress of natural succession in one of the planting plots from this year, on one of those hills where the cowboy said, "you can even lose a shout."

And that, in reality, brought a big smile to my face.

For all of the above, I took the time to pause, to remember with affection and joy. I also wanted to give thanks. Because behind all of this is a lot of people sweating it out in the field, and also critical support from the Terrasos team to keep moving forward.

To all of you, thank you. From your small contribution to every process.
Wishing you, from the bottom of my heart, lots of forest, always.

With affection, amidst the rush…
María Cristina Vargas