Valentine’s Roses: The cost of love we choose not to see (#538)

I remember the moment the valley opened.

We had been climbing through the Andes all morning, the road tracing ridges where clouds brushed the hillsides and the air smelled clean enough to drink.

The land felt ancient and patient.

Terraces, scattered farms, eucalyptus leaning into the wind.

Then, as we descended, the color changed.

At first it was only a glint.

Pale rectangles catching the sun.

I thought they were ponds, or frost.

But around the next bend the truth came into focus.

Greenhouses.

Thousands of them.

They filled the valley floor, white plastic roofs stretched tight over metal frames, glaring against the dark green mountains.

What should have been farmland looked instead industrial, geometric.

The Andes briefly transformed into a factory floor.

A narrow river ran beside the road. It should have been clear mountain water, tumbling over stones.

Instead it moved slowly, dulled, edged with faint froth.

Even from the roadside, there was a metallic scent - not overwhelming, but unmistakable.

Further on, where the greenhouses stopped, the soil told the rest of the story.

Slopes that should have held grasses and shrubs looked brittle and pale.

Years of fertilizers, weedkillers, and pesticides had stripped the land of resilience.

Parts of the valley no longer looked farmed.

They looked exhausted.

And yet inside those plastic tunnels, the roses would be perfect.

Straight stems. Flawless petals. Export-ready.

Grown in one of the world’s most beautiful mountain ranges… for bouquets that might live less than a week.

As the road climbed again and the valley dropped behind us, I remember thinking:

This is what global romance looks like from the supply side.

From Andes Valley to Valentine’s Table

Each February, millions of roses leave Ecuador in refrigerated cargo holds bound for North America and Europe.

The Andes provide ideal growing conditions - high altitude, equatorial light, cool nights - and Ecuador has built an industry around them.

But the florist’s receipt never lists the environmental cost.

Did You Know?

• Ecuador is one of the world’s largest exporters of cut roses,

• Many grow at 8,000–10,000 feet elevation in the Andes,

• Valentine’s Day drives one of the largest annual export surges,

• Roses are flown internationally within 24–48 hours of cutting,

• Farms rely on intensive irrigation and agrochemicals to meet export standards, and

• Some regions report concerns about water depletion, soil degradation, and worker exposure.

  
  

The roses arrive fresh.

The landscapes they came from may never recover.

Behind each bouquet lies a chain of impacts:

• Heavy water extraction from fragile mountain systems,

• Chemical inputs required for uniform perfection,

• Plastic sleeves, refrigeration, and packaging,

• Long-distance air freight with a significant carbon footprint, and

• Disposal within days of purchase.

The rose’s life is brief.

Its footprint is not.

The Ritual of Expected Romance

Valentine’s Day has drifted from sentiment toward obligation.

We no longer ask whether flowers express love. We assume they must.

The bouquet becomes proof: remembered, purchased, delivered.

But when gestures become predictable consumption, meaning thins.

The irony is simple:

We buy something fleeting to symbolize something lasting.

And rarely do we ask what landscapes made that symbol possible.

What Love Could Look Like Instead

Imagine redirecting the gesture.

Instead of $100 on imported roses, one might:

• Donate to conservation or habitat restoration,

• Support a local shelter or rescue group,

• Fund veterinary care for working animals overseas,

• Contribute to children’s literacy programs,

• Plant trees in a degraded landscape, or

• Buy from local growers using sustainable practices

A card that says:

I gave this in your name.

The gesture suddenly lasts longer than the flowers ever could.

A Veterinarian’s Reflection

As a retired veterinarian, conservation photographer, and children’s book writer, I think often about how small habits shape landscapes.

Most environmental harm does not come from intent.

It comes from repetition.

From traditions we follow without asking what they demand of the world.

Valentine’s roses are not evil.

But they are emblematic of something larger - consumption so normalized it feels invisible.

Love, surely, can ask more of us than that.

A Small Proposal

Next year, give something that does not wilt.

• Give time.

• Give a letter.

• Give a shared walk.

• Give a donation.

• Give something that reflects care not only for the person beside you, but for the world you both inhabit.

If flowers must be part of the day, buy them locally and seasonally.

Love doesn’t need a cargo plane.

Small choices, repeated often enough, become the landscapes we leave behind.

#bunyipsbooksbeyond