Spring 2024 (22nd Issue)

MIDDLEBURY GEOGRAPHIC

From the Editors

Dear Readers,

This is a collection of stories. Students have woven together these photographic and written reflections on their experiences from across the globe and from right here in Middlebury. Like many college campuses, Middlebury is a global community condensed onto a few hundred acres of mowed lawns, concrete paths, and stone-sided buildings. At the college’s peak enrollment this fall, there were over 2,800 students on this campus. That’s a lot of stories waiting to be told.

In the following pages, you’ll travel to Norway, Colombia, New Zealand, the Canyonlands of Utah and last, but certainly not least, to Battell Beach. It’s not just the locations themselves that make these stories special. It’s the fact that they are each told from the perspective of a Middlebury student.

Story-telling is an act of connection-building. It’s an offering of a unique perspective that also contains moments of shared experience. It's an invitation, and in its extension, the author lays bare their innermost thoughts, hopes, and ideas. Story-telling inevitably requires vulnerability, but that same vulnerability can be the foundation for lasting connection.

To read is to practice empathy. As readers, we surrender ourselves to someone else's point of view. We put ourselves in someone else's shoes, and, if the writing is effective, we feel what they are feeling. And so, reading, too, is an act of connection-building.

I was there on Battell Beach in the path of totality, hearing students shout for joy as that eerie dusk darkness fell. Brett’s photos and Ruby’s reflections capture that moment of collective wonder and celebration, enriching my memory of those magical minutes with their own accounts of that same otherworldly experience. I was not there as Siri pedaled up the switchbacks of the Canyonlands’ White Rim trail, but I can still hear her brother singing triumphantly as they reached the top, and I can still see that campsite bathed in the pink light of sunset. It’s not revolutionary to say that stories have power. But the power that stories can have is revolutionary.

We'd also like to acknowledge the importance of stories that we did not have time to fit in this edition, including the work of SJP's Encampment for Solidarity with Gaza. This movement has connected our own school with countless other colleges and universities across the country in the fight for the self-determination of Palestinians. We are proud of our community for its devotion to freedom and liberation of all people.

With this in mind, the Middlebury Geographic team welcomes you to dive into this issue composed of experiences recorded by Middlebury students. As you read, think about your own stories you wish to tell, and how you want to tell them. I hope this magazine continues to be a space of community-building and connection, where stories can be told and shared and enjoyed by all Middlebury readers and writers.

Thank you for your readership!

SK Hurlock and Jake Gilbert Co-Editors-in-Chief

Photo by Jiffy Lesica

MIDDLEBURY GEOGRAPHIC

Photo by Catherine Miller

CONTRIBUTORS

SIRI AHERN '24

Siri is a Computer Science major who likes to bike and Nordic ski in her free time. She has been on the photo board of Middlebury Geographic for the past four years.

BRETT GILMAN '24.5

As an Independent Scholar in Socio-Ecological Studies in Landscape Architecture, Brett pursues studies at the intersection of conservation biology, art history, philosophy, environmental policy, and design. He enjoys gardening, photography, skiing, and travel.

JAKE GILBERT '24

Jake is a Senior Film and Computer Science Double Major. As Midd Geo's Editorin-Chief and Lead Designer, Jake has a love for filmmaking and graphic design. At Midd he likes to mountain bike or find any other excuse to explore the outdoors. You'll also find him obsessively talking about the most recent film he saw.

AIDAN SHEPARDSON '24

Aidan is a Senior Environmental Policy Major from New York, NY. His passion for environmental work is mutually informed by his love for outdoor activities like skiing and biking and the solace he was able to find in New York’s sparse but vibrant green spaces, like Central Park. At Middlebury, you will likely find him either on the way to a ski mountain or on the way home from a swimming hole.

ANNA KROUSE '25

Anna is a junior feb from Cleveland, Ohio and this is her second year designing for Middlebury Geographic. She is a double-major in Statistics and Earth and Climate Science and is a member of the Middlebury Track and Field Team. Anna also loves to rock climb and host her weekly show on the college radio station.

RUBY SALISBURY '27

Ruby is a first year student from Richmond, Virginia. Among other things, she loves writing and getting lost in the woods.

JIFFY LESICA '25

Jiffy is a junior from Connecticut who - while spending most days thinking about computer science and religion assignments - has his heart set on photography. Weaving through the world with a camera by his side, Jiffy hopes to draw threads of connection between people and the stories held within the frames of his photos.

CORINNE LOWMANSTONE '24

Corinne is a passionate nature photographer and a conservation biology student. Having grown up in Minnesota with a passion for languages, she delights in exploring new areas and capturing photos that animate her subjects. Outside of photography, she is passionate about outdoor access, scientific communication, conservation, global health, graphic design, improv comedy, and ceramics.

SUJAY BANERJEE '25

Sujay is a junior from Pittsburgh and is double majoring in Molecular Biology and Biochemistry and Computer Science on the pre-medical track. His interests are rooted in biotechnology and contributing to advancements in healthcare. He enjoys photography, squash, pickleball, and dabbling with new instruments.

Riding Home

By SIRI AHERN '24

Instead of taking classic family vacations to popular destinations, my family would pack up the car with tents, bikes, and granola bars to drive southeast to Moab, Utah. During my junior and senior year of high school, it became a habit to spend at least a weekend in the desert every month. Even if there was snow on the ground and the trails were too wet to bike, we would still be there with our books and camping chairs soaking up the sun. Moab became like a second home, the place I would look forward to going when school was overwhelming and winter had been a little too dark.

For those who don’t know Moab, it is known as the adventure epicenter. It is the destination for adrenaline junkies, bikers, hikers, runners, and geologists.

Moab has always had an important place in my family. I have memories as a small child hiking the red rocks and almost drowning in the Colorado (pro tip: don’t canoe class three rapids). The best meal I’ve ever had was at

the Denny’s after we forgot to pack food for a camping trip and still hiked all day. My mom’s car key is still at the bottom of a Moab pit toilet. I can count on two hands the number of times we miscalculated the length of a hike and had to trek back in the dark beside 200 foot cliffs. I remember holding on for dear life when we accidentally found ourselves off-roading what my mom believed would be a shortcut. I have done mountain bike races on Moab’s world-renowned trails and run half marathons down the incredible canyons, following the spirit of my mother who would do adventures races (imagine triathlons with the additions of repelling cliffs, paddling white water, and orienteering) that left her bloodied, bruised, and hypothermic. The number of times my family has had near-death experiences in Moab is maybe a bit problematic.

In a place so rugged and dangerous, my family has found comfort. We celebrate Thanksgiving in Moab

Riding next to the Green River on the third day.

every year, with family from the east coast traveling across the country to hike and bike together. We’ve taken many family portraits in front of the spectacular rocks and eaten plenty of jellybeans packed by my grandmother. When you grow up seeing the desert as a safe space, it is hard to really comprehend its dangers.

In my freshman year at Middlebury, we were sent home for Thanksgiving and told not to return until February. My brother, also taking a break from college during COVID, seized the time off as an opportunity. While I was finishing up my fall semester finals, he was scheming to do the White Rim. The White Rim is a hundred mile double track trail that goes through Canyonlands National Park, only about a thirty minute drive from Moab, and it is usually pretty popular for bikepacking. I remember my high school French professor describing it as “hard, but the food was delicious.” Most people enter a lottery to get spots in the summer and fall and drop food at camp spots along the way. My brother, on the other hand, wanted to take the chance to do the trail when it was usually not even a consideration—in the

middle of December.

The plan was to complete the White Rim in four days, without stashing food and water along the way. We drove down the same day we started biking, leaving the car parked in the National Park, and heading down the famous Shafer road. The views were incredible along the winding trail that hundreds of sheep used to be herded up and down, with the La Sals set as a stark background. The road had a layer of snow on it and we both started out in winter coats, the perfect ingredients for a bikepacking trip. As we got to the bottom the realization that I would need to either bike back up or bike another ninety miles hit me. We biked into the sunset, then attached bike lights and rode until we made it to camp. I was a nervous camper to say the least. Before this trip, I had never bikepacked before.

The next day, the realization that we were at one of the lowest points in the trail began to weigh on me. The day before we had done about 30 miles of almost all downhill biking. I am a confident biker and have biked my whole life, but there was a level of stress attached to bikepacking

for the first time at such an intense level. However, my stress started to ease throughout the day as we biked. At some point during the trip my brother admitted to me, “I knew that even if you did get stressed, you were also in one of your favorite places doing one of your favorite things, so I figured it would end up being alright.” He was ultimately right. Even as it began to snow on us, I found my spirits much higher than the day before.

By the end of the second day, I was much more confident in my ability to finish. It was only two more days: what could go wrong? Unfortunately, we found out that night when we nearly ran out of water. We had each started out the trip with full Camelbacks and water bottles. However, we hadn’t factored in the fact that we would be biking all day in the dry air and we wouldn’t make it down to the river until the third day. We had enough for a crunchy backpacking dinner, but went to bed thirsty. At some point during the night, I woke up and knew my body was too dehydrated for me to keep sleeping. Luckily, while I was asleep, it had snowed. I pulled out my bowl and utensil and started scraping the snow from

our tent. So there I was, in the middle of the night, out in the desert, trying to collect enough snow to rehydrate my exhausted body. I found my brother lying in the cold, also thinking about water, and we unanimously agreed to forgo breakfast the next day to bike the ten miles to the river.

Only stopping once to admire a bighorn sheep, we made it to Potato Bottom to break through the ice of the Green River and filter water. We had oatmeal that could be better described as oat soup and each drank at least one water bottle before continuing to ride. By mid-day, we reached the bottom of Mineral Basin road where we had two options. Either we could bike back up to the top of the plateau that day, or to head down to camp by the river. Because of my concern about my inabilities, I decided I wanted to finish the climb that day. We slowly pedaled up the winding road, so twisted that if you looked over the edge, you could see the car debris from individuals who were not careful enough on the treacherous drive. As we hit the last switchback, my brother started playing music from his phone and rays of sunlight peeked over the edge, assuring me that we were

First campsite seen from above. You can see the White Rim trail snaking along the plateau.

Second campsite.

almost there. I felt so incredibly happy riding up that final stretch. My best friend was singing along to a song I loved and we were getting hit with rays of sunlight we hadn’t seen for the entirety of the climb. The serotonin was hitting, even though my legs were tired. We set up camp as the sun set, casting everything in a pinkish hue. Unfortunately, we realized again that we hadn’t properly calculated how much water we needed and had to ration, hoping we’d have enough for the last day.

As we biked out that next morning, I started to crave fruit juice, a typical sign that I am dehydrated. It only got worse as we both finished our water off before reaching the main highway. To cope, we talked about fruit juice, a topic much more exhaustive than you would expect. Our original plan when we reached the highway had been for my brother to leave me with all the stuff as he quickly biked back to the car. However, things did not go to plan and I ended up eating snow off of rocks in the parking lot and then following my brother as we peddled the last few miles to the car, both of us a bit delusional. A few years later, I would find myself running those same miles in a rain and snow storm, soaked to the bone during a half marathon, and it was still a more enjoyable experience than those last miles of biking. We could have stopped at the visitor center for water, but because of our delusional states, we kept biking to the car where we were both finally able to rehydrate. Despite the physical toll the second half of the day had taken, I was ecstatic. We celebrated my brother’s birthday by eating two burritos each and driving the four hours back home.

When we told the rest of our family the story, all they did was laugh. One of my father’s favorite mottos is, “it is only an adventure when something goes wrong.” I had been raised to push the limits of my body both physically and mentally. A year later, I would find myself back at Middlebury, going on a 10pm run to deal with the stress my entire family experienced while waiting for a message from my brother. He had decided that four days was too easy, and was attempting to bike the whole White Rim in just one. As soon as he made it to service again and told us of his feat, we forgot all our concern and found the situation laughable.

During my senior year, I spent spring break in Moab with my friend Alana Lutz, who had just graduated in February and was now working in Colorado. At some point during the trip she admitted to me that, while she loved the desert, there was a level of fear tied to

Making dinner on the last night at the top of the plateau on Mineral Basin Rd.

spending any time there. She had visited Moab a few times with her family when she was a kid, and twice more as a student, once while leading a Mountain Club trip down the Green River and another while hiking with another Middlebury student. Despite those experiences, Moab was still a foreign place to her, where she was aware of the intense elements that I had become numb to. She mentioned her own fear about the lack of water and I brought up my story of the White Rim. However, while telling it to her, I realized this was not a story most people would find funny. It was through that conversation that I understood that the desert isn’t a place of comfort for most people, and the stories I cherish of this place would put those better-versed in risk-management on edge.

In my time at Middlebury, I have come to recognize that my view of the outdoors is a bit too “devil-my-care” for most people to appreciate. I think I optimistically see the outdoors as a safe space and have a potentially dangerous definition of adventure that I’ve had to reconcile. However, I am also thankful that I get to see the outdoors in this way. If you’ve completed adventures in the worst conditions, you also know you can do them in the best. Finding safety in an environment that is harsh means that you can also navigate other extreme environments. Sometimes you need to be pushed. Sometimes you just need to make a joke about the whole thing, so that when you accidentally spill your dinner and lose precious water, you can at least be thankful that your new sleeping pad will forever smell like curry.

A stark mountain overlooks Brewster Hut near Wanaka, New Zealand.

kaitiakitanga: maori thought and t he climate crisis

by JAKE GIL

ERT

b

'24 A nd AI dA n SHEPAR d SO n '24

Avast, pink haze flooded the sky, stretching along the endless horizon. The stark green mountains, shrouded in the previous night's darkness, began to reveal themselves as the sky slowly brightened. I couldn't help but freeze in the meditative stillness of the scene rather than take my usual course of action in comparable situations—grabbing my camera for the perfect angle. Admittedly, there were other explanations for my sluggishness, such as the warmth of my sleeping bag after a windy night under the stars, battered by the sand-swept sea breeze.

It was mid-semester break, and we were camped on a small beach on the West Coast of New Zealand, just south of the sleepy town of Punakaiki. We had spent the previous day driving the winding road along the coast down from the golden sand beaches of Abel Tasman National Park, awestruck by our surroundings as we traversed the countryside. However, we quickly found that, while beautiful, the West Coast of New Zealand is as empty as it is scenic. After a half-hearted search for a campsite that included a chance encounter with a penguin, we threw down our sleeping bags on

an isolated beach at the end of a dirt road. The only thing on my mind as I was lulled to sleep by the sea was the fear of waking up miles off the coast, swept off by a rising tide, or maybe being attacked by a particularly territorial sea lion, which we had been instructed to avoid. Considering my fears, I was relieved to wake up to this view.

Throughout my time on the South Island, moments such as these ushered in feelings of preponderance and reflection that were unfamiliar to me. Although it is not uncommon to find oneself experiencing these emotions

when surrounded by beautiful landscapes, I also found myself giving greater attention to these emotions in recognition of the stewards of these landscapes: the Māori people.

Most students who arrive in New Zealand from the United States immediately recognize the substantial difference between the representation of indigenous perspectives and narratives in New Zealand relative to the United States. Government signs, buildings, and official documents in New Zealand are all legally required to be printed in both English and Te Reo

Māori—the official language of the Māori people. In New Zealand’s Parliament, seven distinct Māori electorates are officially recognized, each of which elects representatives from their communities to preserve Māori representation in the nation’s legislature. Although this representation is far from perfect, given the brutal history of marginalization and erasure of Māori culture within the country’s history, this integration went far beyond anything I’d experienced in the U.S., where Indigenous North American traditions and histories have been all but erased from the historical canon.

While abroad, I took an introductory course in Māori Studies. What struck me most from this class wasn’t just the history, but how much of his history was already woven into the Pakeha, or non-Māori, Kiwi consciousness. Although I often struggled with the Te Reo vocabulary, many Kiwi students told me they grew up studying these same concepts much earlier in their education and were already very familiar with the concepts the class covered. Comparatively, my early education treated Indigenous Peoples in North America as a mere footnote in our own history, largely punctuated by their erasure from our own historical tradition.

A core tenet of the traditions of the Māori is the concept of Kaitiakitanga. A blending of the words Kaitia, meaning guardian, and Tikanga, meaning customs or values, Kaitiakitanga most closely translates to guardianship or stewardship, specifically of nature. Kaitiakitanga is also commonly associated with concepts such as Tangata Whenua, wherein a group—a specific tribe or humanity more broadly— has an intrinsic responsibility to act as stewards of the land and sea. In Māori traditions, all life, humans and the natural world, are interconnected by mauri, a binding force of life that flows through all living beings. In this way, a person’s Whakapapa, or ancestry, concerns not only one’s genetic lineage but also their attachment to the natural world and their place of origin. Māori thought teaches us that our purpose is to align ourselves with our origins and to protect and preserve the natural order in which we reside.

Not only is the importance of Kaitiakitanga recognized in Māori spaces, but it has led to revolutionary policy responses to modern environmental concerns. In 2017, The Whanganui River, the third largest in New Zealand, was granted legal personhood after a 140-year-long battle on behalf of the Iwis—or tribes—that live along its banks. The river may not be protected in a traditional sense. Still, this decree codifies the river’s importance as a physical and metaphysical living whole in New Zealand’s

A towering waterfall along the Routeburn Track in the South Island, New Zealand.

ecosystem and economic structures. To recognize a natural structure as a living being isn't to say that the river may not be utilized for financial purposes, but it confirms the legitimacy of the Māori culture and perspective in natural preservation schema. This landmark decision also creates room for a meaningful conversation about our modern tendency to ignore our responsibility to protect our world and, instead, to bend it to our will.

Since leaving New Zealand, I have worked to internalize these lessons of Māori stewardship values into my understanding of the climate crisis. Based on these lessons, it has become clear to me that navigating the climate crisis is more than throwing reactive solutions at these complicated problems. We have done work to protect many of our natural landscapes, but—as the Māori say—our mission as stewards shouldn't be confined to national parks and reservations. Sustainable development schemes such as EVs, renewables, and geoengineering will play an intrinsic role in preserving our natural ecosystems.

However, we have become far too comfortable with self-congratulatory greenwashing rather than asking ourselves if our fundamental way of life is sustainable. How do we justify an economic model that peddles endless growth, overconsumption, and cheap materialism in a world strained by finite resources and the increasing severity of climate disasters? With historic heatwaves, changing seas, devastating droughts, and floods, the band-aid solution of “sustainable development” only feeds into the system from which these issues are born.

Change is difficult to catalyze, but the consequences of our own complacency will be incalculably more difficult to face. Particularly in our world’s most frontline populations to the climate crisis, such as islands in the Pacific like New Zealand, suffering as a consequence of this inaction has already begun. The Māori tell us that it is our responsibility to protect our world, not to conquer it. If we care about human lives as much as we do profit, it may be time that we begin to listen.

The road to Aoraki / Mt Cook National Park.

Vermonters Together, Building a Better Future

by bRETT GILMAn

“People,

the planet, and peace over profit!”

“Nothing’s gonna change if we don’t change it.”

“Temps are rising and so are we.”

These were the rallying cries that rang throughout the streets of Montpelier this past January as hundreds gathered from across Vermont in support of social and climate justice. Around 30 members of the Sunday Night Environmental Group (SNEG) and several Middlebury College students joined 17 other climate justice organizations in a march from the Town Hall to the State House to demonstrate a united front in demanding concrete government action to address the climate crisis. SNEG members held the leading banner which read, “Vermonters Together Building A Better Future,” as the movement filled the closed-off State Street and gathered on the steps of the Vermont State Capitol. Students proudly carried signs crafted during preparatory “art build” sessions, where local artists helped students create protest art. Paper-mache boards were painted green and adorned with white lettering to look like the iconic Vermont license plate, except key alterations were made. The license plates read “Vermont: The Greenwashing State,” to highlight Vermont’s continued engagement in dirty energy practices, and sported messages like “No Oil!,” “SOS.GOV,” and “X-HYDRO.” Some students even donned immersive artwork:

'24.5

paper mache “greenwashing” suits. SNEG marched alongside a wide variety of partner organizations brought together by 350VT including Migrant Justice, the VT AntiWar Coalition, Voices for Vermont’s Children, and the Poor People’s Campaign in what was largely considered the first time so many social organizations had joined forces. Upon reaching the Capitol, this coalition joined together in unity to listen to key testimonials from Vermonters across the state who have been affected by the climate crisis including students, townspeople, and Indigenous and migrant leaders. The rally was planned in conjunction with the delivery of a comprehensive set of demands that was

delivered to legislators by 350VT the following Monday, which ranged from calls for a Renewable Energy Standard to broad investment in community resilience.

The Vermonters Together - Building a Better Future March was a shining example of the enthralling energy that arises from people of all walks of life coming together to build community. The climate crisis offers a moment for transformative political restructuring, but also for reconnecting to land, neighborhood, and each other. As the rally demonstrated, both legislation and mass movements are necessary and critically intertwined to propel ourselves into a green future today.

“The demonstration in Montpelier was a powerful experience. Seeing the payoff from all of the work that we had put into the art build and helped to organize was amazing, and standing in solidarity with so many other Vermonters was very moving. I left the event feeling hopeful about the future of environmental justice activism and so proud of all the work SNEG has done in the last year.”

“Seeing the visual impact of the SNEG-made art installments (the greenwashing outfits and license plate signs) among the large crowd and the big Middlebury turnout at the event was great. I learned a lot about Vermont’s renewable energy standards in the lead-up to the event and felt empowered to fight for a change. “

Anne Thompson '26.5

Julia Montgomery '26.5

“I thought it was very meaningful to go to the rally, especially after being involved with organizing the event and making signs and masks. It was really cool to see them being used by other Middlebury students.”

Aidan

DeLorenzo '26

“I have to mention how amazing it was to see the variety of groups represented at the rally. The general ‘building a better future’ point of organization brought together a lot of separate groups who all had a valued part in the march.”

Birch Banks '25

“I loved being a part of a larger group of people who feel strongly about making change in Vermont. Environmental work can get very depressing, but seeing all the people who also care and put in effort makes it all worth it.”

Ella Powers '27

“I found it powerful to witness all of the beautiful art at the rally, as well as the wide variety of organizations who showed up to support the demands.”

Lillian Prime '24.5

Inside the Path

Photos by Jiffy Lesica taken at Arnold Bay during partial and full totality.

of Totality

Thoughts On The Eclipse

By Ruby Salisbury

There’s a particular hopefulness found in collective wonder.

The eclipse is the only time I’ve looked up at the sky and known that millions of people were looking at it with me.

In a way, the eclipse had a sound. One not made by the moon and sun aligning, but by a couple hundred cheers, gasps, and camera shutters capturing the moment.

You couldn’t help feeling miniscule in the face of it. Two celestial bodies aligned, pointing directly at me, yet I knew it had absolutely nothing to do with me or anyone else.

It’s really easy to forget that we exist on a planet, that everything we know sits on an orb moving through the vastness of space. When I watched the eclipse, I remembered.

The sun rises every day, and I’ve never realized how important that is until those sixty seconds that it was hidden.

The world was bright and warm until the very last moment. Even when the sun was no more than a thin sliver of light, it was able to brighten everything. This made it all the more impactful when it was suddenly gone.

Can you imagine seeing the sky go dark without knowing why? Without knowing if it would ever be light again?

I kept thinking afterwards about all the generations of people before me who witnessed eclipses. How we were connected through celestial coincidence.

1932 was the last time there was a total eclipse in Vermont, the same year Amelia Earhart flew across the Atlantic. I read an old newspaper that told people in Burlington to protect their eyes with photographic film while they watched.

But what about the people before that, the ones who didn’t have newspapers to read or film to hold over their faces? They must have been collectively terrified.

People sometimes act as though knowing more about the world means being less amazed by it. But after witnessing the eclipse, I disagree. It was astonishing to stand under the sky with a group of people and understand the rarity of our small human bodies falling in perfect alignment with the two celestial ones that we couldn’t exist without.

Photo by Middlebury Observatory Specialist, Catherine Miller.

Path of totality in Vermont

and duration data is from NASA.

Designed by Anna Krouse with guidence from Professor Jeff Howarth. Roads, county lines and selected cities are included for reference. Eclipse path

The Middlebury College campus lies on the edge of the 2024 solar eclipse path of totality. Students veiwing the eclipse on campus experienced roughly sixty second of full totality and two hours of partial totality.

The Knoll

We dedicate this issue to the Knoll — Middlebury College's student run garden — to celebrate 20 years of community-building and engagement with food, land, wellness, and justice. May the Middlebury Community value and uphold the Knoll’s mission in the years to come.

Sjelefred

(noun:

a tranquility of the soul, often achieved through connection with nature)

by SUJAy b AnERJEE '25

In the city heart, where quiet waters rock, The boats sway gently, timed by nature’s clock. Tromsø, framed with Alps, sea, and sky, Holds beauty no one dare deny.

The mountains rise, a stark display, Their icy grip, a contrast set, On shores of sand where teal waves spray, It lingers here, a strange duet.

To Sommarøy, the road winds a tale, Past boats and cabins, in the gale. Mountains guard with might, Windmills turn in sight, Nature’s grandeur on this scale.

There is a place, Tromsø by name, Where aurora hunters stake their claim. Atop the mountains covered in snow, We marvel at the northern glow. A shimmering light in the dead of night, Our hearts settle and everything is right.

Scenes from Líbano: Life and Nature in Rural Colombia

by CORInnE LOWMAnSTOnE '24

Ispent this past spring break in Líbano, Colombia, as part of a Middlebury Institute of International Studies led experiential learning class, Sustainable Development and Ecological Restoration in Rural Colombia. Líbano, the hometown of the professor behind the class, is a small agricultural town in the department of Tolima, Colombia. These photos are a glimpse into a week spent exploring and learning about agriculture and Colombia.

View of Líbano from my hotel balcony.

Our class, working with our partner organization, Quinta Essencia Tailler, plants trees in an area that was impacted by a landslide. Landslides are expected to be an even bigger problem in the upcoming years due to climate change and increased flooding.

Our two drivers, Carlos and Yesid. On the first day, I couldn’t talk to either of them at all, but by the end of the trip, my language capacity had improved enough that we were able to properly chat. On the last day, Yesid (right) took us around town to show me his favorite old cars so I could photograph them.

A family washes out crates onto the pavement. Although the weather typically ranges from 65-80°F year-round, the cultural norm is to wear pants for everyday life.

We visited this park to see the Páramo, a unique ecosystem that only exists in the Andes.

Plants in the Páramo, located above the treeline but below the glaciers.

Left: Don Antonio, the owner of Finca Pensar (the thinking farm), and the father of Jaime, the professor who organized the trip, plays with his dog, Candy. His coffee is grown using his personally designed fertilizer formula, and he is a key organizer of an environmental pact amongst different local farmers to do the best they can to be sustainable and responsible.

Middle: Portrait of Iruin Calderón Vásquez. Iruin is a barista, training in tasting and selecting specialized coffees that fetch a high price. While attending school to become an environmental engineer, he also works for Don Antonio at Finca Pensar to advise on his specialty coffee beans.

Group photo at Finca Pensar

Finca Pensar, Don Antonio’s Farm

Spotted almost immediately on my first hike, this colorful insect is colloquially called Payaso Grillo, or the Clown Cricket. Although there is no colloquial name for this exact species in English, members of the genus are often referred to as Monkey Grasshoppers.

This is a Wheel Bug, a predatory insect that preys on agricultural pests. I took this photo and realized I had unintentionally captured both the nymph and adult stage!

Colombia contains more bird species than any other country on Earth.

An agricultural worker takes a break in the shade while I chat with his friend about other places in Colombia. “You should go to Medellín!” the friend tells me, and he nods in agreement. “It’s even safe for women there, and they have a metro.” What makes it so safe? “If anyone tries to steal or mistreat a woman, they are killed instantly. That keeps it safe.”

EDITORIAL BOARD

EDITORS IN CHIEF

Jake Gilbert

SK Hurlock

DESIGN

Olivia Kilborn

Anna Krouse

Sarah Rifkin

PHOTO

Malick Thiam

Jiffy Lescia

Siri Ahern

Sujay Banerjee

EDITORS

Ethan DeMaio

Brett Gilman

Paige Indritz

Ryan Reynolds

Ruby Salisbury

FRONT COVER

Catherine Miller

BACK COVER

Brett Gilman

SPECIAL THANKS

William Wellesley

JOIN THE ADVENTURE

If you are interested in submitting photo essays to the Middlebury Geographic or joining the magazine's editing and design team, please contact mg@middlebury.edu