Burning Romance at the Blockade

As I watched mucus stream from every orifice of my boyfriend’s face, I knew that after this experience he would—without a doubt—break up with me. How could he not? I was the one who got us into that situation: pepper-sprayed by the authorities.

It was my fifth and final trip to the blockade where land protectors and forest defenders stood their ground, protecting an old-growth forest that awaited its demise. The protest had become the largest act of civil disobedience the true North strong and free had ever seen, where people locked themselves to trees, or chained themselves to holes in the ground, putting their bodies and freedom on the line to protect the sacred forest, and I somehow convinced my boyfriend-at-the-time to join in.

He was there for me, ultimately. Sure, he enjoyed hiking through the woods as much as the next guy, and found awe in looking up at a cedar with a fifty-foot circumference, but hanging out in a commune, roughin’ it in protest of “progress” wasn’t really his scene. Yet he joined me at The War in the Woods’ second coming—twice.

Before his second trip, they had barricaded the road, restricting passage and cutting off the delivery of essential supplies to those further in the forest. The folks on the “front lines” needed food, water purification tablets, and first-aid supplies, and we were part of a group willing to see that through.

My then-boyfriend and I packed as many supplies as we could carry into our hiking bags. We waited for the cover of night, and as the Perseids streamed across the sky, a group of forty marched arm in arm past the recently erected gate blocking the road.

Its guards didn’t like that.

As someone who had already been arrested at the blockade, I stood in the centre of the group, protected by my peers so as not to be snatched up a second time. Positioned at the outer perimeter, my boyfriend locked elbows with those beside him, surrounding us protectively.

When I saw one of the uniformed men holding a spray bottle, my first thought was, Oh, they’re spraying us with water like naughty dogs. Until I heard the shouts of agony from my comrades. Then the substance hit me. 

Despite being somewhat of a hot sauce aficionado, I’d never felt a burn like that before. My eyes. I couldn’t open my eyes. I let the tears pour down my face, not daring to touch anything lest I make it worse. Blinking, burning, crying, marching. We had to keep going. It was all we could do. At one point I yelled, “How many scovilles is it?!” But my question went unanswered.

When I could finally pry my eyelids open—there he was, no longer in the outer ring, but beside me, having taken a dousing of pepper-spray point-blank to the face. All I could think about was that he was going to break up with me. I got him into that mess, on his damn birthday of all days. It was over. And it burned.

All that time we continued inching our way up the mountain to deliver the supplies. We were successful in our endeavour that night, but felt the repercussions for days after.

The following morning, when we rinsed the wretched capsaicin off in the river, I waited for the words. It’s over. I waited. And waited. And waited.

For over a year I waited. Until we stood before an altar and he revealed in his vows that in the moment when we were pepper-sprayed while standing for something I believed in, he knew he truly loved me. As he walked blindly, questioning why he was there, he realized that despite the discomfort, he was there with me—and how happy he was to be.

What I thought was an ending was only the beginning—the moment that ignited a life together.