I spend my first night at the blockade under the stars with a group of like-minded strangers. Among us is a physics professor, a cook, a social worker, a First Nations activist, an outdoorsman and a carpenter.
We laugh a lot. We share stories about what brought us to this place in time and about other parts of our lives. Some stories intersect the movement, and some don’t. Burning Man, the Arctic Circle, living on a boat in a small Alaskan town, how much time each of us has here at camp.
One of us is wearing a chain around our wrist. The intermittent rattle of it as they move serves as a gentle reminder of our shared purpose.
In the distance we hear a cougar roaring and above us, the insistent screech of night hawks hunting.
In the morning I wake to the sound of a helicopter circling. I stumble out of my sleeping quarters only to be assured that this is our daily wake-up call courtesy of the RCMP. At least twice a day they the multi-million helicopter does a fly-by of HQ and again at around 8pm. We also hear reports from other camps
I spend an hour or so staking red dresses in an old growth clearcut on the way to one of the upper camps as part of one of the most moving, visual reminders of how indigenous people in this country are disproportionately overlooked in our system of governance. This type of work that is easily as important as putting your body on the line among the community.
Later, I have a shift at a station we call Info Booth.
“Have you seen Pancake or Thimbleberry?” A man wearing a checkered Columbia shirt asks with a look of concern.
I look back at him apologetically. “I’m not sure who they are.”
The man nods and turns his full attention to the message board that separates us. He sighs heavily. “They are my children.”
I don’t have the slightest idea what to say to that, so I just stand there with my jaw half open.
Eventually the father, who looks he could easily be in a commercial for Mountain Equipment Co-op looks up at me and breaks the silence. “They look like me, but without the beard.” He runs his hand over the short, curly hairs on his face. I don’t know how, but he manages to smile.
Before I can respond, the info tent is flooded with people wondering where to go to serve their purpose here in this confluence of magic, determination, love and rebellion. I spend the next couple of hours doing my best to facilitate, though sometimes it seems the best way for one to find their way, is to listen for the call that brought you here.
By the time my shift has ended I am exhausted, and fairly dehydrated. I feel called to skip dinner and get some sleep.