Our Roots Run Deep: Land, History, and Hispanic Heritage

By Charles Nick Saenz, Professor of History at Adams State University, outdoor enthusiast, and HECHO’s Hispanic Conservation Leadership Council member. 

I am a second-generation American, and like many families in the Southwest, ours has always had a deep, personal connection to the land. My family’s story crosses both sides of the U.S.–Mexico border. Two of my grandparents were born in the United States, one in Yuma, Arizona, and the other in La Unión, New Mexico. The other two were born in Mexico. My great-grandfather was a coal miner in Zacatecas, and my grandfather from Yuma was a curandero. The land has always been tied to how we live, work, and heal. 

I grew up in Dallas–Fort Worth, far from the mountains, but every summer my family traveled to Colorado and New Mexico. Those trips changed me. Camping, walking through river valleys, and standing in mountain air. These places felt alive, and they made me feel alive too. In contrast to the noise and congestion of suburban life, the outdoors gave me peace, space to think, and a sense of belonging. It’s that space for contemplation, that space for reflection, that space for calm. That for me is very centering and affirming of things. 

When I moved to Alamosa in 2013 to teach history at Adams State University, my work began to connect even more closely with the land. As of this past August, on Colorado Day, I joined the Colorado State Historian’s Council. 

My research focuses on the San Luis Valley, where early Hispanic settlers planted crops with acequias, blending European farming with Indigenous water practices. I'm currently working on the 250th anniversary of the Dominguez Escalante Expedition, which connects the history of the Western lands, local communities, and traditions. In this role, I’ve also studied the oral studies of “the pharmacy” or “La Botica,” a unique microclimate where Hispano and Indigenous people once gathered Remedios, or herbal medicines, and shared knowledge that sustained life in the valley.  

In 2021, I took a sabbatical, and one of my projects involved exploring the routes taken by the Anza Expedition. These journeys often relied on the expertise of Native people to navigate dangerous and unfamiliar terrain. These histories show how survival and success depended on collaboration, adaptation, and respect for the land. 

This work constantly brings me back to one truth: our communities have always had a stake in the land. We’ve shaped it, depended on it, and cared for it for generations. But today, that relationship relies on access to public lands. These are the places where we hike, fish, hunt, gather, and pass down our traditions. It’s easy to become complacent and take for granted that it will always be that way, and yet we’ve seen very recently threats to the sale of public land. Without active protection, that access could disappear. Public lands can be sold, restricted, or mismanaged. It’s easy to assume they will always be open, but history shows us that nothing is guaranteed. 

That’s why I believe more Latinos need to be involved in conservation. Our stories are written into these landscapes, and our future will depend on whether we stand up for them. This isn’t just about preserving natural beauty; it’s about defending our history, our rights, and the ability of future generations to connect with these places the way we have. 

Hispanic Heritage Month is a time to reflect on this responsibility. In the West, Hispanic heritage is rooted in traditions like land grants, acequias, and seasonal harvesting. My family’s location has shifted over time, but our connection to the land has never wavered. That link is part of who we are. Protecting it isn’t just about honoring the past; it’s about securing a future where our children can stand in these same landscapes, feel the same sense of belonging, and know they are part of a story much bigger than themselves. Our roots run deep, but only if we keep them strong.