From Circuits
to SpringsDe circuitos
a manantiales

I was born in a small village in the mountains of Norte de Santander, Colombia. Like many people from rural communities, I eventually left home in search of opportunities that were difficult to find where I grew up.

When I arrived in the United States, I had no money and did not speak English. I faced the challenge of starting over in a country where I could barely communicate with the people around me.

I studied English for years, worked hard, and eventually earned an associate degree. Little by little, I built a new life for myself and my family.

I went on to spend nearly twenty years working in information technology in Miami. I worked part-time as a technician at Miami Dade College and full-time supporting faculty, staff, and students throughout Miami-Dade County Public Schools.

My work required patience, problem-solving, and the ability to keep learning as technology changed. Over time, I established a stable career and earned a good living.

I also brought my three children to the United States, helped them establish legal status, and watched them grow into independent adults. Today, all three have bachelor's degrees and are working in the United States.

Raising my children and helping them build their own futures is one of the accomplishments I am most proud of.

By conventional standards, I had achieved many of the things people work toward when they leave their home country: education, financial stability, and opportunities for the next generation.

But while I was building a life in the United States, the land where I was born was undergoing a different kind of transformation.

And eventually, I felt called to return.

The land where I am carrying out my reforestation project is located beside a beautiful waterfall. It is a place of extraordinary natural beauty, surrounded by the mountains and the vegetation of my childhood.

Yet there is an irony that is difficult to explain to someone who has never experienced it.

I live beside a waterfall, but I do not have a natural spring on my property that supplies water to my home.

To meet my daily needs, I have had to find a way to bring water from the stream that feeds the waterfall.

Even that has not been simple.

Some landowners upstream discharge wastewater from their homes into the same stream. This includes greywater and, in some cases, blackwater. As a result, I cannot assume that the water is safe for household use. I have to take precautions and filter the water, while recognizing that filtration alone does not necessarily make contaminated water safe to drink.

Living with this reality has changed the way I understand water.

In the city, we turn on a faucet and expect clean water to be there. We rarely think about where it comes from, what happens to it upstream, or what it takes to protect the natural systems that supply it.

Here, those questions are part of everyday life.

The stream is beautiful, but its beauty does not guarantee its safety. Water is flowing, yet access to clean water remains a challenge.

The problem is not only the lack of water. It is also the loss of the natural balance that once allowed the mountain to sustain it.

Decades ago, my parents and relatives cleared parts of the steep hillsides to grow fique, tomatoes, coffee, and citrus. Trees were removed, and the natural vegetation that protected the soil gradually disappeared.

Over more than thirty-five years, an aggressive plant known locally as caña brava, or lata, spread across large areas of the mountain. It formed dense stands that crowded out other vegetation and changed the landscape.

The small streams that once ran throughout the year began to dry up. Natural springs, known as nacimientos, disappeared.

The mountain remained green in places, but the water that had sustained it was disappearing.

I began to realize that restoring this land would mean much more than planting trees. It would require rebuilding the conditions that allow a landscape to retain moisture, support wildlife, and sustain water over time.

After nearly twenty years in information technology, I made a decision that surprised some people and challenged everything I had become accustomed to.

I left my stable career in Miami and returned to the mountains of my childhood.

I left behind a regular paycheck and a familiar professional life. I came back without a guaranteed income, knowing that restoring the land could take years and that success was far from certain.

In technology, problems often have identifiable causes and solutions. You investigate, troubleshoot, repair, and test. Even when the work is difficult, you can usually measure the results.

Restoring a mountain is different.

Trees take years to grow. Soil needs time to recover. Water follows natural patterns that cannot be controlled simply because we want them to change. And the consequences of decades of environmental damage cannot be undone in a few months.

I knew I wanted to restore the land, but I still had much to learn about what that would actually require.

My first lessons would not come from planting trees. They would come from discovering how much I did not yet know.

When I first returned, I hired people to do the work on the farm. I paid for clearing, preparation, and other tasks because I believed that hiring workers would allow the project to move forward more quickly.

For two years, I kept spending my savings.

Eventually, I had to confront an uncomfortable reality: despite all the money I was investing, the project was not progressing the way I had hoped.

I was paying for work, but I was not getting the results the land needed.

I realized that if I wanted this project to succeed, I had to understand the work myself.

So I began doing it with my own hands.

I learned how to repair and maintain the tools I use. I learned how to operate them safely. I learned how physically demanding it is to clear invasive vegetation, prepare the soil, and work on steep terrain.

I also learned that the person responsible for a restoration project must understand what is being done, why it is being done, and whether it is actually helping the land.

The hardest part was accepting that I had to redo some of the work I had already paid for.

It was frustrating to spend my savings and then have to start again. But looking back, those two years taught me one of the most valuable lessons I have learned since returning to Colombia.

I stopped being only the person financing the project and became the person doing the work, making the decisions, and learning from the results.

I also had to solve one of the most immediate challenges of daily life: bringing water from the stream to my home.

Getting a reliable supply was far more difficult than I expected. I had to understand the terrain, work with hoses and equipment, solve practical problems, and redo parts of the installation until I could bring water to the house on a regular basis.

That experience taught me patience, persistence, and self-reliance.

It also changed my relationship with the land. I was no longer simply investing money in a place I wanted to restore. I was learning how that place worked, one difficult task at a time.

As I spent more time on the farm, another change began to take place.

I started paying closer attention to the animals that live here.

I decided that I did not want to kill the animals simply because they shared the land with me. Instead, I wanted to make room for them, protect their habitat, and plant trees and other vegetation that could provide food and shelter.

I began to understand that restoring the mountain was not just about bringing back trees or recovering water for human use. It was also about recognizing that the land belongs to a much larger community of living things.

One small experience brought this lesson home.

While working on the hose that carries water from the stream to my house, I noticed that animals were biting into it. At first, it might have seemed like a problem with the water system. But I began to wonder why they were doing it.

They were trying to get water.

The same hose that helped me meet my own needs had become a source of water for animals that had few other places to find it.

It made me think about how easily we humans organize the world around our own needs and forget that other creatures need water to survive, too.

Instead of treating the animals as enemies, I decided to look for another solution.

I created small ponds near the hose so that dripping water could collect in them. These little pools give animals a place to drink without having to bite into the hose.

It was a simple change, but it represented something important to me.

I did not want to build a farm where nature was something to fight against. I wanted to create a place where human needs and the needs of wildlife could coexist.

I know I cannot solve every problem for every animal. But I can make choices that cause less harm and provide more opportunities for life.

For me, that is part of what restoration means.

Water has become one of the central themes of my life here.

It is not an abstract environmental issue. It is something I must think about every day.

I know what it means to live beside a waterfall and still struggle to secure a reliable supply of water for a home. I know the frustration of trying to bring water across difficult terrain. I know the concern that comes with depending on a stream that may be affected by wastewater from upstream properties.

And I know that the natural springs that once fed this mountain cannot simply be switched back on.

My hope is to help restore the landscape so that it can better support the natural movement and retention of water.

That means controlling invasive vegetation where appropriate, encouraging native plants, protecting the soil, planting trees suited to the local environment, and learning which restoration practices are most effective on this particular land.

It also means being honest about the limits of what I know.

Planting trees alone does not guarantee that a spring will return. The recovery of water sources depends on many factors, including rainfall, geology, soil conditions, groundwater movement, and the health of the surrounding watershed.

I cannot promise that every spring will return or that every effort will succeed.

What I can do is work toward the conditions that give the mountain a better chance of recovering.

I can protect the land, observe what changes, learn from mistakes, and continue improving the way I work.

And I can share what I discover with others who care about the future of rural landscapes and the water on which we all depend.

My vision for this land goes beyond reforestation.

I want to transform it into a place where wildlife can thrive, where native trees provide shelter and food, where water can flow naturally again, and where people can grow healthy food without depending on destructive agricultural practices.

I want to grow organic food for my own family and, eventually, produce enough to sell to others.

I want to explore ways of growing food that work with the natural environment rather than exhausting it. I want to protect the soil, use resources responsibly, and make room for biodiversity alongside food production.

I also want the farm to become a place where animals can find water, food, and habitat.

This vision requires balance. Growing food, restoring forests, protecting wildlife, and recovering water must be approached as interconnected goals rather than separate activities.

Some areas may be best left to native vegetation and wildlife. Others may be suitable for carefully managed food production. Water sources and sensitive areas will need particular attention.

My goal is to learn how these different parts can work together.

I do not imagine a paradise created overnight. I imagine one built through years of observation, work, mistakes, and gradual improvement.

A paradise where a tree can grow without being immediately cut down, where an animal can drink without destroying a water line, where the soil is protected, and where water is treated as a shared necessity rather than something that belongs only to those who can capture it.

A place where the land gives, and where I do my best to give something back.

I want to document this work through photographs, videos, and essays.

I want to show the beautiful waterfall beside the property, but also the contradiction of living next to it without having a natural spring to supply my home.

I want to show the mountain as it is today, the invasive cane that has taken over so much of the land, and the areas where I am working to make space for native vegetation.

I want to document the practical side of restoration: repairing tools, working safely, clearing hillsides, planting trees, maintaining the water supply, and finding solutions to unexpected problems.

I also want to share the quieter moments: the animals coming to drink from the small ponds, the plants that begin to establish themselves, and the first signs of change that might otherwise go unnoticed.

Some stories will be about progress. Others will be about failure, frustration, and the need to start again.

I believe both are important.

Environmental restoration is often presented through beautiful photographs of healthy forests and clear streams. But the work required to get there is less visible. It can be exhausting, expensive, uncertain, and slow.

I want this website to show the reality behind the aspiration.

I hope that sharing my experience will encourage others to value water, protect the land, respect wildlife, and consider what can be accomplished when people take responsibility for the places they call home.

Most of all, I want to create a record of the journey — not only for others, but also for myself and for the generations who may one day see what was attempted here.

I once believed success meant building a stable career, earning a good living, and creating opportunities for my children.

I still value those things. I am proud that my children have been able to pursue their education and build their own lives.

But returning to Colombia has expanded my understanding of what a meaningful life can be.

I have learned that success can also mean working toward something that may take years to accomplish. It can mean accepting mistakes, learning practical skills, and continuing even when there is no immediate reward.

It can mean choosing not to kill an animal when there is another solution. It can mean creating a small pond so that a thirsty creature has somewhere to drink. It can mean planting a tree whose shade you may never sit beneath.

My greatest hope is to leave this land better than I found it.

I want to create a place where wildlife has room to live, where native vegetation can recover, where I can grow healthy food for myself and others, and where the natural springs and streams that once flowed beside the waterfall have a chance to return.

I know this is a long journey. I may not see every result I hope for, and I cannot control everything nature will do.

But I can begin. I can keep learning. I can continue working, observing, planting, protecting, and sharing what I discover.

I left Colombia with no money and no English. I built a life in another country, raised three children, and spent nearly two decades working with technology.

Now I have returned to the mountains where my story began.

I have traded circuits for roots, computer systems for living ecosystems, and the speed of the digital world for the patience of the earth.

I came home not because the work would be easy, but because I believe this land deserves a future.

My dream is to turn this farm into a paradise for wildlife, a source of healthy food, and a mountain where water can flow again.

This is my journey from circuits to springs.

This is my attempt to bring life back to the mountain.