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I can still envision the sunlight filtering down through the towering red cedars and swaying willows that lined the canal. As a child observing this waterway for the first time, I ached to follow it. To be like the water, which always traveled but was never lost.

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When I catch wind of a newsworthy story, I feel like a burning man seeking water, driven to hit the road and investigate. I have experienced this compulsion repeatedly, working as a freelance journalist for magazines and newspapers across North America. It has motivated me to cover stories from Canada to Mexico, and from Washington, DC, to the Alaskan Arctic. But the first time it happened was in September 1988, weeks after the start of my first semester at the University of Minnesota.

The initial spark occurred when I took in a speech at Coffman Memorial Union. The speaker was a fiery Nicaraguan, a Sandinista rebel with a red beret. She railed against abuses inflicted upon Central Americans at the border. “The United States is starting wars against democratically elected governments in Central America,” she proclaimed. “The American government is backing violent dictatorial regimes and then imprisoning the individuals who arrive at the border seeking simple human dignity.”