Stay tuned after the episode to hear our latest edition of And Then What?

There was an ice raid, half a mile from my house the morning we left on our trip.

The word raid makes it sound like a military operation.

And it is, but not the kind you see on TV in war movies.

This is in a faraway place. This is LA.

And a group of masked men in uniforms grabbed a Latina man who was walking down the sidewalk,

handcuffed him, forced him into an unmarked car, and drove away.

All while neighbors hid and people driving by filmed or honked horns at the ice

officers. I watched this happen live on Instagram, then took a deep breath and put my kids in the car

to drive to the Klamath River. It had been almost a month since the president called in the

National Guard, the military, into the streets of my city. It had been weeks a month since the president called in the National Guard, the military,

into the streets of my city. It had been weeks of watching recaps on my phone of street

vendors and day laborers being kidnapped from Home Depot parking lots and street corners

all across Los Angeles. I watched video clips of military vehicles rolling through downtown L.A.

and men dressed in tactical gear, sweeping through city parks where children play.

Weeks of heartache and tension and feeling like the one protest I was able to attend was not enough.

For me, being a third generation, nature-loving Chicana, means straddling the space

between city streets and the backcountry. I am equally comfortable in both spaces and always longing

for the place I'm not. There's a certain type of guilt wrapped up in the privilege of being able to

leave the realities and fear and danger

of being Latino in this moment, regardless of immigration status or citizenship, for the relative

safety of floating downstream in a raft. I was conflicted about leaving, but I reminded myself

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