SCARHOLE
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BrownDirtWarrior
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Thursday, June 07, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
Heading north, the snow-crested glaciers of the Tantalus Range regally scraped the heavens as the broken islands of Howe Sound inlet unabashedly gave way to glistening emerald waters against a backdrop of the bluest sky. It seemed as though even the most hardened of souls gazing upon this arresting beauty would have to ponder what nature had bestowed upon on the South Coast of British Columbia, Canada. That this was the setting of our illegal enterprise seemed antithetical and absurd; living in one of the freest, most beautiful places in the world, we were trying to make it even freer through in-your-face boldness and audacity -- because we believed it was our right to grow our herb.
And how could I have known at the end of that first day, that I would feel more free and alive doing this than I had ever felt before? I fell to my knees at the foot of a cascading waterfall, as if paying homage to a newfound god, dunking my sweaty head into the icy glacial runoff to sooth the exhaustion I felt after planting marijuana in the sweltering heat all day. This act of defiance would be my calling - the beginning of an odyssey that would carry me through a major chapter of my life and a rendezvous with legal history.
I had no way of anticipating in those early days that I was at the headwaters of a great marijuana legalization movement. For perhaps the most profound and curious aspect of the marijuana plant is not the controversy over its psychoactive properties and purported social ills, but the way it has become so symbolic and emblematic of our civil liberties and individual rights and freedoms.
Adventures In The Growing Trade arose from a will to politicize the plight of the pot grower and to incite dialogue and debate over whether or not it should be deemed illegal to grow, smoke, or sell marijuana. Indeed, the central core of this collection of short stories, the source of all the drama and conflict, resides in one fundamental truth: none of these stories would have materialized had I simply been able to step into my back yard and plant my seeds legally.
If you believe the statistics, the majority of citizens of the free world want marijuana decriminalized at the very least; and approaching 50% (at least in this country) want it totally legalized and regulated. I am with that 50%. Marijuana legalization has always been a hot-button issue, with the so-called war on marijuana raging in the United States and, to a lesser degree, in Canada, the UK and various other countries. But the greatest casualties of this phony war -- the frontline soldiers -- are vilified for growing marijuana, some convicted as criminals and sentenced to jail time, their records scarred forever. This must stop!
These stories are spun from the silk of my days in the bush, as I dreamt of a time when I could, indeed, just grow my weed in the safety of my backyard and plant legally - no longer vilified, no longer forced to suffer the indignities bestowed upon my kind, freed from the strictures of antiquated, draconian precepts.
I won't go into a long dissertation on the virtues of legalizing marijuana. I'll simply tell my stories and let you draw your own conclusions.
In certain circles, I am known as the Brown Dirt Warrior. Aptly named? You be the judge.
Enjoy!
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
But it was not to be. What was about to unfold would bring my delusions of grandeur to a screeching halt and pummel my sense of destiny into a pitiful heap, the weight of circumstance apparently much more empirical than the course of my petty dreams. After this, I would never look at the world naively again. I would learn that day that life owed me nothing and dumb luck never depended on smart choices. The sheer randomness of events imposed a stark reality that every enlightened soul must face: hard work is never, ever a guarantee of success. Such is the way of the pot farmer. Once you inject the illegal element, all bets are off.
A dust plume billowed as the Warrior Wagon barreled down the pot-holed mainline under streams of golden light, the early morning sun punching rays over Black Tusk mountain, casting shadows into the valley. Giant cedars flanked either side like sentinels in a northwest Eden, backlit by the radiance of the late spring sun as we raced to fulfill our mission.
A song came on the radio that I was sure was written for me. I cranked it up and sang along, a nervous diversion. Suddenly a loud bang came from the undercarriage and the left side of the truck dropped like a deer shot through the heart. I stood on the brakes and fought for control. With a hundred clones and ten bales of Sunshine mix on board, this was not the time or place to break down!
When the dust cleared, I could see out the windshield that the front passenger side was listing heavily. A blowout? The loud music was suddenly very annoying and I switched off the radio.
We jumped out of the cab at the same time. My partner was staring at the damage when I rounded the truck. The wheel was stuffed diagonally up in the wheel well with zero clearance, a sure sign we had blown a tie rod.
I surveyed the road as my partner said, "Now what?" as if I would have any idea. I got back into the cab and stared out the window. What could we do? We were loaded up and broken down. We didn't even have the option of stashing the stuff; one side was a shear rock face, the other a swiftly running river and, in front and back, an active logging road.
My mind raced, but I kept coming back to zero options for saving the year, and quite possibly our asses. The implications terrified me. My palms were sweating on the wheel; a droplet escaped from my scalp and skated down my temple. It was going to be a long, hot day. And I was trapped like a rat in a corner.
There has to be a way out of this, I thought. Gritting my teeth, I jumped out to look again, as if something about our hopeless situation might have magically changed. I looked out at the swiftly running current and tried to imagine our plants and bales drifting down to the fishermen I could see a quarter mile downstream. I looked up at the rock face on the other side. Any way we sliced it, someone was going to know what we were up to and, short of a miracle, best-case scenario, the year was definitely in the toilet. Even if we could get a tow truck ninety miles into the bush, we sure as hell weren't going to load on board what we had when they arrived to haul our sorry Asses out.
Time stood still. I plunked down in the cab again and gazed out the dirty window, reviewing the growing years. The highs and lows of a major chapter in my life played in my mind like a jittery sepia movie: My arrest in '90, the bear chase; the year we lost over three hundred and sixty five thousand dollars to the cops, Jurassic growing, the thirty-two day stint in the bush - the scenes kept rolling. A decade of hopes, dreams, and high adventure as a grower. My tenure had seen the birth of a movement, the birth of my son, and led me to places I never dreamt of going as I took on the movie project. So how did I get here, to this place, to this darkest of conundrums? Was life trying to tell me something? Was it time to take the hint and move on? I was getting too old for these kinds of ridiculous hi-jinks.
I'm not sure how long I sat behind the wheel (possibly only moments), when the sound of a vehicle came into earshot. I came out of my trance, staring at my reflection in the rear view mirror. The light hitting my face revealed the lines of hardship the years had etched upon my features. Suddenly I wanted to dump the whole damned load into the drink and walk to the highway - and never look back again, in the very literal sense. There was a newspaper on the dashboard. As an act of contrition, I fleetingly thought about opening the classifieds and looking for a real job.
Fortunately, I hadn't quite gone THAT mad. The vehicle that had awakened me flew around the corner and pulled alongside. The driver asked if we needed help. I abruptly said no, a bald-faced lie that wasn't lost on him, but he pulled away anyway,
Something had to be done here, and it had to be done fast, before someone was on to us.
I decided to jog down to the nearest bend, about fifty yards away, and check for any change in the topography that might give us a fighting chance. I wasn't even sure how we could eventually get the stuff out, even if there were a spot. Just a desperate shot in the dark.
Jogging down to the bend, I discovered a little oasis. The cliff tapered quickly and momentarily and a little knoll with a couple of conifers on it provided shade and a small blind spot from the road. Could we hide ten bales and a hundred clones there? A stretch, but maybe if I covered it with cedar bows.
I looked back down the road and saw how impossibly far away the truck was. If we started lugging the stuff, we were exposing ourselves. Anyone that came along would catch us red-handed. You can't talk your way out, with a bale of pro-mix slung over your shoulder in the middle of nowhere. It meant one of two things: you were stashing your pot supplies or going to your plot. And the likelihood of them reporting your highly suspicious activity to the police as soon as they reached the next telephone was very strong.
We had only one other choice: dump the stuff in the drink and throw away the year. Then hike ninety miles back to the highway and hope we didn't thumb a ride from one of the fishermen who discovered the booty. What was it going to be?
I decided I couldn't quit. I had too much tied up in this dream and I wasn't about to let it die, at least not without a fight. Goddammit, we'd try to save the year as long as there was a glimmer of hope. I kicked the parched dirt and marched deliberately toward the truck - on a mission.
My partner's jaw dropped in disbelief as I told him my plan. Take everything out of the back, one item at a time, shuffle it all the way around the bend and stash it in the little knoll behind the trees. He glared at me like I'd gone mad.
The tailgate released a foreboding creak as it swung down; we glared into the box at the task ahead. The first warm rays of the day were upon us now, a scorcher-in-progress. The knot in the pit of my stomach grew tighter, the one that happens when a botched year of growing is imminent. The full implication of our predicament seeped in, and I knew my ego would take a real bitch-slapping if I couldn't make this work. Total year losses were devastating because, well, you lost a year. A lotta time to lose.
I never fashioned myself a quitter, but neither did I want to become a parody of myself, flogging a dead horse, becoming some relic of the past. On this day, I bled any final notions of providence out my system, and recognized that fate and destiny were illusions, cruel jokes concocted by the human mind to give some meaning to it all, to give order to chaos. The only destiny for me now was the one I would create, fighting to the last possible option, at the end of the day knowing I had done all I could to stave off the disaster that had befallen me. I might not be getting any richer, but my cup of character runneth over. I was in Tony Robbins mode, taking on small, incremental tasks to avoid being overwhelmed by the desperation of the goal.
I dragged a fifty-five pound bale of Pro-mix to the edge of the tailgate. Listening intently for vehicles coming down the gravel road, I slung it onto my back, piggyback style, and shuffled down the road like a camel with both humps full. The fucking thing was heavy! I kept my eyes straight ahead; the road vibrated in front of my eyes from the punishment my knees and back were taking. Could I get it to cover without being seen? More to the point, could I get it to cover?
In excruciating pain and fatigue, sweat streaming down my face, I thumped down the dirt road and gave myself one last push over the knoll, heaving the bale off of my back like the monkey it was. My upper torso was clammy, my shirt drenched, but I pushed the discomfort back, adrenaline taking charge as I slumped over and heaved to catch my breath. I only have to do this four more times, I thought. Four more times?? Christ!
Within in seconds, my partner lumbered up the knoll behind me with a bale cradled in his arms. In huge discomfort, he winced as it thudded to the ground. We had two bales in. We gasped for breath together, then headed out for the next round. We wrestled the clones and another bale up without incident.
No time to rest. I dragged the last bale out of the back, listened for a moment before swinging it onto my back, then clopped down the road once again. Sweat rained mercilessly down my face, my mind spiraling into a no mans' land of pain, my lower back pulsing as every fiber screamed for relief, my eyes fixed hatefully on my destination. I couldn't handle it; I had to put this one down. Just for a second. My muscles were wailing for relief and I was only meters from the safety of the stash and possibly saving the year. I dropped the bale with relief and, at that moment, I heard it: a vehicle, blasting down the road around the next corner just past our stash spot.
Detection just moments away, and there I was - in the middle of the road, in the middle of nowhere, with a bale of Pro-mix at my feet, a hundred clones, and my partner only feet away in the bush. Fuck! We'd come so close to saving the year!
I made a split-second decision to call on my hidden reserves and go for it. As you go into fright-flight mode, everything seems to slow down. I could hear the drone of the vehicle growing louder as it approached the bend. I jerked the bale onto my back. It slipped from my grip and I fumbled it to the side of the road, giving one last thrust up the knoll to the cover of trees. The vehicle blew past, chased by a plume of dust.
As I watched through the cedar bows, I felt like a hot poker was stabbing the back of my leg as I watched the truck blast past I fleetingly wondered if he'd seen me, my left leg giving way as I collapsed with the bale. My first instinct was to jump to my feet, but I crumbled again as I tried to spring up. Something was seriously wrong.
My partner threw his hands under my armpits and pulled me upright. I couldn't stand on my left foot. I crashed to the ground again and pulled up my pant leg. My ankle was bluish and swollen to the size of a grapefruit. I was finished - for a long time.
Many hours later, after painfully hiking out of the bush, I sat in Lion's Gate Hospital emergency with a pair of crutches at my side. I glared at the space on the form asking for my occupation. My losses for the year swirling through my mind, I chuckled as I wrote the absurd "Outdoor Grower". The on-duty nurse looked at the form and matter-of-factly asked if this was a workplace accident.
The swelling in my lower leg turned out to be blood pooling from my torn calf muscle. The doctor prescribed crutches for six weeks. I couldn't operate a vehicle for a month, much less grow weed. Another one bites the dust.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
When the Squamish River unleashes a torrent from angry glaciers awakened too abruptly from their winter slumber, it commands the kind of respect you had better heed, lest it swallow you in a watery grave. Thus was the lesson for my partner and I, as we hit the water on the way to our river spot, top-heavy with a 10-bale load of Pro-mix and 50 clones in four-inch pots in wax tree planter boxes propped on top.
Now the last thing you want to hear when you are overheated, overloaded and at the mercy of a raging river is the sound of a chopper coming up the valley on your trajectory. But that's just what we heard, as we bucked the surf, whooping with exhilaration, trying to maneuver the boat through the defiant current. I was on the bow, my partner in the stern, frantically plunging the paddle into the water to try and slow our momentum, desperately trying to commandeer the boat back from the clutches of the river.
By the time I heard the chopper over the foaming torrent, it was almost on top of us, coming right at us, about a quarter-mile away. "Chopper!" I shouted, hearing the faint clack of rotors as we came up swiftly on a hairpin bend in the river. My partner responded by cranking our tail perpendicular to the bank with one deep thrust so we could paddle with all we had to the cover of shore.
It was too late! We were sucked into the vortex of the river bend. Instead of hitting shore, we came up wide on the portside, heading straight for a huge deadfall snag jammed in the bend. With barely time to brace, we hit it broadside with a sickening thud and were pinned there, the boat unstable and taking on water - fast. The iciness of the glacial runoff took my breath away as it over-spilled the sides and soaked my legs on the boat floor. I went into flight/fright overdrive, my heart pounding out of my chest, and grabbed the slim log trapping us there. There were lots of branches, thank god, so I was able to balance and support myself.
Water thundered past us in foamy torrents. Over the roar, I barked at my partner to grab the machete. He frantically did and I ferociously chopped branches on the down-stream side of the log. We pulled the boat over the snag and set ourselves free, before the river could sentence us to a hideous death.
Judiciously, my partner pulled the boxes of clones out of the boat and balanced them precariously on the log. He managed to get all the bales and clones up onto the snag. I stuck the machete into the log to help him grab the filling dinghy and pull it out of the water, but the damned boat was so heavy with water we could hardly budge it. Our lifeline being snatched away in a tug of war with the mighty river, we yanked and pulled, balanced on that log, death almost a certainty on either side.. Using our bodies as counter- balance, we finally got the dinghy up onto the log and turned it over to empty out the water.
A menacing branch just below the surface was obstructing our launch point, so I went for the machete, kicked it lose by accident and watched it plop into a frothy eddy, gone forever.
No time to waste. We flipped the boat to the other side of the snag and into the water, then proceeded to load it again from the downstream side of the log. The current was diminished here because the log was acting as a dam.
With the goods aboard, my partner got on board the bow. I jumped aboard the stern and struggled frantically to shove us off with the paddle. With no time to worry about puncturing the hull, we broke loose and were sucked back into the river, almost instantly hitting white water and forced to shoot the raging rapids. As white water sprayed our faces and flung us about violently, we whooped and yelped during our little rodeo ride about our near-death experience. Finally drifting into the still, black waters, we paddled to shore right in front of the patch. And all this before morning coffee!
After working the patch, at the end of the day we returned to the boat only to find it deflated. The hull had, in fact, been punctured and had a slow leak. I looked out at the river, now swelled even more and realized that the once placid setting had again become a cauldron. Because of a single act of nature, our lives had hung in the balance.
We patched the boat with our emergency kit, pumped it up, and took to the water again to reach our vehicle before nightfall.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
Our projected take that year was a million plus. But big dreams die hard in the de facto realm of the grower. A stark truth that was about to bonk me straight on the head and leave me dazed - for the rest of my career.
The official name for the place was "The River Patch" because it sat nestled in a clearing a few meters from a snaking bend in the mighty Columbia River, miles from nowhere. Off an inactive logging road, on foot over kilometers of punishing terrain, impenetrable bug and leach infested swamps, treacherous portages, and thicket that left you gnashing your teeth in stinging pain and indignation over not being able to make a damned bit of headway. The newly initiated were rendered almost useless getting to the River Patch. When they finally arrived on site and plunked down to catch their breath, feet bleeding and blistered, forlorn was written all over their faces as they realized the excruciating work had not yet even begun.
It was absolute hell getting there. Preparing yourself for it required a full game face and the acceptance you would be scraped, bruised, soaking wet and certainly ready for a nap by the time you arrived. I had my own name for this place, and would mutter it from time to time en route: The Hell Patch.
You could get to the Hell Patch by motorboat despite the pull of the river, but that risky mode of transportation was only used to bring in huge amounts of payload for growing. With illegal pot farming, hardship is your best insurance policy. The spot was super remote, but every spot has its Achilles heel, and this was no exception. The river was dotted with cabins every couple of kilometers. One cabin in particular was nestled at the top of the gorge around the river bend, just up from where we were growing. Even though it was out of sight, we suspected the water-filled gorge acted like a megaphone and any loud sounds we made would be funneled up and down the river.
Being heard by someone visiting the cabin was always a concern when we went in by boat. Consequently, we used the boat entry only during the week, late in the day, when there was less likelihood of anyone visiting.
The plot was only supposed to have one hundred holes. All plots should have no more than one hundred holes (to diversify) but we went in late, and, with illegal outdoor growing, things always get compromised in unsuspecting ways when you get behind the eight ball.
So the spot ended up with four hundred holes, one hundred of which I dug myself in one day as the crew looked on in stunned amazement. I tore up thick roots and dug huge 3x3 holes all day long without a break. By the end of that first day, my forearms had seized from swinging the pickaxe, and my fingers were so stiff and cramped up I could no longer grip. They hadn't yet devised the name Brown Dirt Warrior, but they would.
And with every hole I dug, every shovel full of hard won dirt, that Achilles' heel cabin gnawed on my mind like flesh-eating disease. My biggest concern, was that the plot was now too big to water by hand, so we had to bring in motorized pumps. Loud pumps.
That year, many growers came and went on Hell Patch; in fact, we used it as a litmus test to see if the help had "the right stuff". If you got to Hell Patch and did an honest day's work, you gained instant respect and were welcomed into the "brotherhood of the guerrilla".
By mid-summer, the plants on Hell Patch had grown to six feet tall. Our conservative estimate on this strain was a thousand bucks per plant if they reached maturity, which added up to four hundred thousand bucks.
The anticipation was palpable as we approached the opening to the Patch after two weeks away, bristling with excitement over how big the plants might have grown. When we broke into the opening and saw them, still there and much bigger, a self-satisfied euphoria swept over us. The mood elevated instantly; smiling eyes and glistening faces roamed the patch for the initial inspection, the fun time we got to observe and enjoy. Then we got to work, pumped and enthused, the promise of a bumper crop coursing through our veins, feeding the adrenalin rush.
After all that punishing work throughout the seasons, it was indeed a thing of beauty to arrive at the Patch and see what amounted to a Christmas tree farm of maturing, high-grade marijuana, worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Fall snuck up on us like a caravan of nomadic thieves and, before we knew it, leaves were crunching underfoot and breaths were steamy. The promise of harvest lingered in the back of our minds in a place we dared not linger, lest the fates intervene and snatch it all away with cold indifference. I'd always been told not to count my chickens before they hatched, but a glistening black Heritage Soft Tail all covered in chrome danced across my mind to mask the pain about to be endured on Hell Patch.
It was our last day in before harvest and we had to go in to inspect and gather supplies. The river, low from a dry summer, had formed lots of mud holes to negotiate off the banks where the woods were just too thick to hike. My feet were covered in muck from my boots being sucked off again and again, and my legs ached from the heavy trudging. By the time we got on patch, I was sticky with dried sweat, soaked from head to toe with swamp water, covered in blood-sucking leaches, bug-bitten - and spent.
The first signature plant signals you are on patch. Entering the plot, it didn't immediately register in my mind that it wasn't there. Then I noticed the empty hole. I checked my bearings to ensure I was in the right place. Stunned, I went to the next empty hole. Scurrying into the patch, I stopped dead. All that was visible was a huge, open swath where the marijuana had been.
One of the crew yelled out what no one else wanted to hear - a blood-curdling "IT'S FUCKIN' GONE!" One of the tougher guys in the crew began to whimper, and I looked over to see him shaking his head and beating his fist into a rotted stump. Slowly and stiffly, I planted myself and exhaled, too stunned to swat away the giant mosquitoes gorging on my face. I looked around at this now violated space, which once had held such sanctity, and thought about my punishing year here. "Why was I doing this," I pondered, "subjecting myself to such a ridiculous crapshoot?"
There would be some serious soul-searching done before the year was out. Everything had changed. But it would be getting dark soon. No point staying in this godforsaken place.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
The Z-man was our enforcer on the crop. With a stolen black colt .45 which he kept under a log, he was a 5'6, 265-lb. black man with a shaved head, earring, tattoos, a degree in philosophy, and a penchant for old Tom Jones records. We were the two new guys, elected to guard the crop and see it to the finish.
With nothing else to do after the day's round of checking on and maintaining 600,000 dollars worth of pot, I nestled into the routine of taking the Z-Man trout fishing. To this day, that indelible impression remains etched in my mind. That big black man, looking like a biker bar bouncer, holding a delicate little trout rod, intently practicing the intricate art of brook trout fishing. With a dancing rod tip and taut line, his reel whizzing, he'd glance at me for approval with a yelp of exhilaration. His child-like glee at being rewarded for his patience made me wonder if he'd have the persona he had if he'd experienced this rite of passage as a boy.
On cool October nights, in the glow of lamplight, the Z-Man and I drank tea and hot chocolate, talked philosophy and listened uneasily as, occasionally, a huge, ancient tree cracked in the distance and fell with a thunderous boom that echoed through the wilderness in the blackness of the night.
What a joy it was, watching this man of such stark contrasts discover simple pleasures long lost to him in the concrete jungle. That stay in the bush taught me a lot about human potential and the complexity of self, how we often tend to preconceive and label people based on appearance.
Those thirty-two days in the woods changed me. And I know they changed the Z- Man. It forced us to look inward and reflect, to look at each other simply as fellow men, to do what we do far too little of in the hustle and bustle of our lives - get to know the real person behind the protective veneer. The natural world does that; it forces you to focus inward on the real and essential.
I would need that grounding. I was about to leave the woods after a month without so much as a hot shower, carrying a suitcase filled with enough money to afford me any creature comfort.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
Saturday, October 27, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
You ain't really lived until you've had a four-hundred-pound fur ball with canines and claws chasing you. Nothing puts a chill in your spine like knowing you are fleeing, very likely, for your life, from an animal without a rational mind or the ability to be persuaded that you'd make a lousy, noisy dinner with a human excrement aftertaste.
I didn't even realize he was after me until I heard a branch snap and turned to see him scrambling in my direction. Initially, he was as frightened as I was; we'd startled each other. He darted up a tree and clung there, looking at me from a distance of about two meters. I was ready to forgive him and go about my business, but he wasn't having any of it. I guess he took my sneak retreat as a sign of weakness, and clawed his way down the tree after me as I turned and hurried in the opposite direction.
Gaining distance between us, and whipsawing between sheer terror and the textbook notion you aren't supposed to run or show fear, I hastened my pace towards the mainline where my Ranger was parked with the driver's side door open. To compound matters, my bear spray was jammed sideways in the main pouch of my fanny pack, which it wasn't designed for, and the zipper had jammed. Continuously glancing back as I tore out of the bush, I yanked and pulled on that zipper as a black, snorting, menace flickered in the trees in full trot toward me.
Breaking out of the bush and onto the mainline logging road, I ran for my truck, still trying to work the zipper of my fanny pack. The bear snorted loudly, and I craned around to see him breaking out on the logging road, too, galloping after me with his mouth ajar and his tongue stuffed between his canines...
Gasping for breath, I sprinted as fast as I could towards my truck, that beacon of hope about 100 yards away. The bear was on my heels, his claws clicking on the gravel. The zipper on my fanny pack suddenly broke open and I peeled the spray out, popping the safety cap like a champagne cork. Wheeling around, in a continuous motion I released a plume of spray. Close enough to swat my feet out from under me, the bear showed the whites of his bloodshot eyes as the spray cloud dispersed directly in front of his snout. When it hit his nostrils, his hind legs buckled under him and he landed on his ass, just like in a cartoon, and I made it to the safety of my truck.
Acutely aware of my heaving breath and trembling hands, I leaned out the open door with the spray poised. The bear grunted and whined in agony, his mouth frothing as he pawed at his nose, trying to remove the pepper. So pissed was he, he stumbled towards me again and I discharged another plume from the safety of my truck. The spray came nowhere near him, but the mere sound of it sent him lumbering into the bush.
I collapsed into the driver's seat, stunned, listening to my heartbeat slow as visions of less favorable outcomes danced in my head. What the hell had I just averted? The woods would never be the same for me again. Or, at least, not for a long, long time.
I was at the local outfitters a few days later and overheard a man and wife amicably debating whether or not they should buy the bear spray for their camping trip. I winked and said. "Good idea. Trust me."
Saturday, October 27, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
Suddenly, I hear the drone of an aircraft in the distance and listen intently for that telltale "clack" of chopper rotor versus airplane propeller. You have a good chance of escaping with airplanes, but choppers almost always get you dead to rights.
Determining it is indeed a chopper (approaching briskly from an easterly direction at low altitude), I quickly follow my escape protocols, shuffling for the cover of the big conifers nearby. By the time I reach cover, the copter is already roaring overhead, sounding like it is hovering right over the patch, but I can't see through the dense canopy. Off to my right, through an opening in the trees, I see it ominously lowering, touching down about 600 feet away, on or near the patch.
Fuck!
I now have two choices: I can either race back toward the patch and take a known path out of this nearly impenetrable jungle, or I can crash through unknown terrain and risk life and limb to make my escape. My heart pounding now, I make a split decision to make my break through the patch to the safety of the trail.
As I sprint through the patch with adrenaline overload, stumbling and tripping, I hear the chopper lifting off again! My lungs burning from lack of oxygen, I bolt with everything I've got, the copter now lifting off over the trees behind me. Will they see me before I hit cover?
I make it to the safety of a dense conifer stand and the trail, with no time to look back as I continue my bid to get as far away as possible, desperately gasping for oxygen. Over my heaving breaths, I hear the chopper as it recedes behind me and lingers around the patch. Gaining distance, my lungs about to explode from my chest, I sprint up to an area where even hiking is difficult.
My system in shock, I jump on my mountain bike, break out onto the road, and peddle as fast as I can. Cranking down the road, I hear the chopper finally taking off across Howe Sound, fading into the distance.
The rest of the way home, I reflect on what has just happened, on how lucky I am to not be under arrest, the wind cooling my overheated face, my breathing and heart rate returning to normal as the flight-fright response slowly gives way to relief.
Was it the cops? Some logging executive surveying the area? Did they see the patch? These are burning questions. I don't get much sleep that night, trying to devise a battle plan. Should I go back right away or wait a few days? I know my babies are in desperate need of feeding, so I decide I have to risk going back in sooner rather than later.
The next morning, warmed by the autumn sun, the cool fall air evaporating the dew off the forest floor like smoldering fire, I enter the patch and crane my neck upward to see if I can spot any plant growth above the deciduous stand. Before I see anything, the waft of the pot hits me. Yes!
Nervously, I hustle in and feed them. They/we are safe for another day. I'd better take a few pictures; they may not be here tomorrow.
Monday, December 03, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
It was a cool location: no foot access; a raging river to contend with before reaching the patch after a "float," and an inconspicuous landing spot down river that required a rendezvous vehicle. But apparently not quite cool enough.
My heart picked up tempo as I processed what this meant. I glanced at the hatchback of my car, hoping the wet, stinking booty was properly concealed. RCMP officers jumped from each unit with their hands clutching their holsters. My buddy and I stopped trying to wrestle the folded dinghy into the back of his truck. He gave me a look that said, "Here we go again." (He had a rap sheet as long as the Confederation Bridge but was trying to make go of it in construction, only there for the day to help me.)
One of the officers shouted, "Stop or I'll draw on you!" We put our hands in the air, like rustlers in some corny spaghetti western, only to learn later these were rookies looking to make brownie points busting villainous growers. In those days, the mid-nineties, bagging growers was a spectator sport for BC cops.
I learned many months later in court that what then ensued was a twenty-minute illegal search and seizure, including a systematic search of our vehicles while our hands were cuffed behind our backs. They opened my hatchback last and found the duffel bag of wet weight buried under some clothing. It was harrowing - standing there, knowing what was to come. The cop smelled it before he actually found it, and held it up with a frown. "You're under arrest for the cultivation of marijuana," he said without looking at us, as he unzipped the duffel bag and the colas popped out.
They put us into separate vehicles a few meters apart with the back doors open. My partner sat in the back of the Jimmy, the two officers talking to him. I looked around, smelling the fresh autumn air, and again was struck by the notion that I was here in the most natural of settings under the most unnatural of situations, my wrists handcuffed behind me. I was being arrested. How could this happen?
The cops ended their interrogation of my partner and one approached me. He tried to convince me that my partner had just rolled on me, so it would be smart for me to implicate him. I didn't buy it, of course.
Eventually they threw him into the back with me. He winced as he landed, his handcuffs wedging his wrists behind him on the seat. "Know any good lawyers?" I asked. "Yeah, Phil Seagram."
They drove us down the Squamish logging road. The tow truck coming to confiscate our vehicles blasted past us in the opposite direction, sending up a large dust plume.
A one-year legal ordeal followed, which ended in a dismissal for illegal search and seizure. My record remained clean.
Throughout my entire growing tenure, I was never threatened again.
Friday, February 01, 2008
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
Growing pot outdoors illegally is like a carnival ride: exhilarating, but dangerous. The moment a bolt comes off the ride and things begin to fly apart, it's time to pay your dues for an extreme lifestyle.
I'll never forget that night. As we drifted in, the shadow of the mountain cast hints of fall into the early October air revealing our breath. A weak sun was sinking, tired of shining warmly all summer, the light casting an amber halo around the mountain as an owl heralded in nighttime in the Cheakamus Valley. The only sounds were the gentle strokes of the paddle in the water.
The beauty was somewhat veiled by pressing concerns, my mind stuck between arresting beauty and arresting officers. It was always hard to reconcile such natural beauty with the thought of cold, steel bars clanging shut. Would we get out paradise again tonight without being arrested?
When I heard the barking, I looked at my partner as if to say, "What the fuck?" and stroked my paddle deeply until we hit shore. We frantically piled the stinking green garbage bags out onto the shoreline and into to the bush. I was now hyperventilating, tremulous, starting to sweat. Goddamn it, I was becoming very uncomfortable.
To boot, the dumb-fuck greenhorn I was with panicked, scurrying off like a demented garden gnome to hide in the patch we had close to our landing spot. I just shook my head, watching him scuttle and trying to determine if what I'd heard really were police dogs. But what the fuck else could they be? Dogs barking in the woods 50 kilometers from nowhere, and right where we come ashore with our booty? More questions than answers, but right now I had to deal with the problem at hand.
Lying in the bush, straining to hear muffled conversation coming from the direction where I'd heard the dogs, I tried to piece together the drama unfolding through the trees. I could now hear my third partner at the rendezvous point conversing with the mysterious person/persons with the dogs, but I couldn't make out their conversation. Was he being interrogated by the cops? Fuck, I had to get closer!
Skulking through the bush like a downed fly-boy in some B war movie, I got close enough to see shadowy figures through the trees. I heard a guy whistle to the dogs, a truck door slamming and the gurgle of the turbo diesel trailing off into the wilderness as it pulled away.
After some moments of puzzled silence, I broke through the bush to find my partner sitting in the rendezvous vehicle, his crossed feet hanging out the window and a large joint hanging from his mouth. He gave me a "what's up?" look and proceeded to tell me about some redneck out running his dogs.
FUUUUCK! What are the chances?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
MASTER GROW GUIDE
Hey, y'all!
Want to thank you for watching the videos and reading my short stories. Prohibition is now a cult classic and the subject of a major prime time documentary! There will be more to come in the future.
I also want to mention that I am looking for some backers to produce 'Browndirt's Master Grow Guide.' It's a very exciting project that will see the how-to video authored directly to the movie-- so you get the total viewing experience! You will be able to pause at any point in the movie and go see detailed video of the techniques I am using to grow some of the world's finest weed! Another first by the Browndirtwarrior! I already have 500 copies sold.
I am using a micro financing approach to this project. Rather than have 1 person put up and risk the 5000 I need to finish, I'm offering 10 people a 500dollar investment for 5 % each of the project ... so I retain 50%. Keep in mind that how-to videos for growing are the biggest sellers in the pot related industry. I get hundreds and hundreds of people asking me how I grow. To ad to this, a major network is doing a documentary on me and they are going to shoot me making the how-to video -- which will reach millions! So if this interests you, and you want to be a part of something very exciting for a low risk investment, contact me at:
phonywaronpot@hotmail.com.
What I am looking for are serious inquiries only. I need low maintenance partners that have some extra cash, are passionate about marijuana legalization, and would just get a kick out of being involved in something like this -- and if it makes money that's a bonus! Don't want anyone who is broke and betting the farm or is going to be contacting me every day wondering where the return on their investment is. If your main concern is how much money you are going to make, then you are probably not liquid enough for such a venture. This business is risky and takes patience. And things can go wrong. Like get arrested in the process of making it! So if you are willing to treat it as a high risk(but calculated) investment, contact me! Sure better that the stock market right now!
peace!
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-begin
Thursday, June 07, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
FORWARD
At an age when time was on our side, innocence was still intact, and we were sucking the marrow out of life voraciously, we hit the Sea To Sky Highway. The year was 1990, and I had become sickened by conformity, the legal system, and the status quo. So I was becoming an outdoor pot farmer. Heading north, the snow-crested glaciers of the Tantalus Range regally scraped the heavens as the broken islands of Howe Sound inlet unabashedly gave way to glistening emerald waters against a backdrop of the bluest sky. It seemed as though even the most hardened of souls gazing upon this arresting beauty would have to ponder what nature had bestowed upon on the South Coast of British Columbia, Canada. That this was the setting of our illegal enterprise seemed antithetical and absurd; living in one of the freest, most beautiful places in the world, we were trying to make it even freer through in-your-face boldness and audacity -- because we believed it was our right to grow our herb.
And how could I have known at the end of that first day, that I would feel more free and alive doing this than I had ever felt before? I fell to my knees at the foot of a cascading waterfall, as if paying homage to a newfound god, dunking my sweaty head into the icy glacial runoff to sooth the exhaustion I felt after planting marijuana in the sweltering heat all day. This act of defiance would be my calling - the beginning of an odyssey that would carry me through a major chapter of my life and a rendezvous with legal history.
I had no way of anticipating in those early days that I was at the headwaters of a great marijuana legalization movement. For perhaps the most profound and curious aspect of the marijuana plant is not the controversy over its psychoactive properties and purported social ills, but the way it has become so symbolic and emblematic of our civil liberties and individual rights and freedoms.
Adventures In The Growing Trade arose from a will to politicize the plight of the pot grower and to incite dialogue and debate over whether or not it should be deemed illegal to grow, smoke, or sell marijuana. Indeed, the central core of this collection of short stories, the source of all the drama and conflict, resides in one fundamental truth: none of these stories would have materialized had I simply been able to step into my back yard and plant my seeds legally.
If you believe the statistics, the majority of citizens of the free world want marijuana decriminalized at the very least; and approaching 50% (at least in this country) want it totally legalized and regulated. I am with that 50%. Marijuana legalization has always been a hot-button issue, with the so-called war on marijuana raging in the United States and, to a lesser degree, in Canada, the UK and various other countries. But the greatest casualties of this phony war -- the frontline soldiers -- are vilified for growing marijuana, some convicted as criminals and sentenced to jail time, their records scarred forever. This must stop!
These stories are spun from the silk of my days in the bush, as I dreamt of a time when I could, indeed, just grow my weed in the safety of my backyard and plant legally - no longer vilified, no longer forced to suffer the indignities bestowed upon my kind, freed from the strictures of antiquated, draconian precepts.
I won't go into a long dissertation on the virtues of legalizing marijuana. I'll simply tell my stories and let you draw your own conclusions.
In certain circles, I am known as the Brown Dirt Warrior. Aptly named? You be the judge.
Enjoy!
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
THE ROAD LESS GRAVELED
In the twilight state between waking and sleep, my eyes fluttered. I felt alive, my senses filled with the essence of the place as bouquets of cottonwood and fir drifted into my nostrils. The dawn broke to a chorus of birds, as I breathed deeply and relished how invigorating it was to wake up outside in the wilderness. The prospect of being closer to my dream danced into my consciousness and chased away my thoughts of nature.
In those days, getting rich was mandatory, personal growth optional. I was going to plant a big piece of the crop that day and capture a bunch of killer footage, on time and on budget. And, if all went well, if all my ducks lined up in a row, if the planets aligned, if the gods shone down, by the fall, I would have a bountiful harvest and a completed film I felt destined to make. But it was not to be. What was about to unfold would bring my delusions of grandeur to a screeching halt and pummel my sense of destiny into a pitiful heap, the weight of circumstance apparently much more empirical than the course of my petty dreams. After this, I would never look at the world naively again. I would learn that day that life owed me nothing and dumb luck never depended on smart choices. The sheer randomness of events imposed a stark reality that every enlightened soul must face: hard work is never, ever a guarantee of success. Such is the way of the pot farmer. Once you inject the illegal element, all bets are off.
A dust plume billowed as the Warrior Wagon barreled down the pot-holed mainline under streams of golden light, the early morning sun punching rays over Black Tusk mountain, casting shadows into the valley. Giant cedars flanked either side like sentinels in a northwest Eden, backlit by the radiance of the late spring sun as we raced to fulfill our mission.
A song came on the radio that I was sure was written for me. I cranked it up and sang along, a nervous diversion. Suddenly a loud bang came from the undercarriage and the left side of the truck dropped like a deer shot through the heart. I stood on the brakes and fought for control. With a hundred clones and ten bales of Sunshine mix on board, this was not the time or place to break down!
When the dust cleared, I could see out the windshield that the front passenger side was listing heavily. A blowout? The loud music was suddenly very annoying and I switched off the radio.
We jumped out of the cab at the same time. My partner was staring at the damage when I rounded the truck. The wheel was stuffed diagonally up in the wheel well with zero clearance, a sure sign we had blown a tie rod.
I surveyed the road as my partner said, "Now what?" as if I would have any idea. I got back into the cab and stared out the window. What could we do? We were loaded up and broken down. We didn't even have the option of stashing the stuff; one side was a shear rock face, the other a swiftly running river and, in front and back, an active logging road.
My mind raced, but I kept coming back to zero options for saving the year, and quite possibly our asses. The implications terrified me. My palms were sweating on the wheel; a droplet escaped from my scalp and skated down my temple. It was going to be a long, hot day. And I was trapped like a rat in a corner.
There has to be a way out of this, I thought. Gritting my teeth, I jumped out to look again, as if something about our hopeless situation might have magically changed. I looked out at the swiftly running current and tried to imagine our plants and bales drifting down to the fishermen I could see a quarter mile downstream. I looked up at the rock face on the other side. Any way we sliced it, someone was going to know what we were up to and, short of a miracle, best-case scenario, the year was definitely in the toilet. Even if we could get a tow truck ninety miles into the bush, we sure as hell weren't going to load on board what we had when they arrived to haul our sorry Asses out.
Time stood still. I plunked down in the cab again and gazed out the dirty window, reviewing the growing years. The highs and lows of a major chapter in my life played in my mind like a jittery sepia movie: My arrest in '90, the bear chase; the year we lost over three hundred and sixty five thousand dollars to the cops, Jurassic growing, the thirty-two day stint in the bush - the scenes kept rolling. A decade of hopes, dreams, and high adventure as a grower. My tenure had seen the birth of a movement, the birth of my son, and led me to places I never dreamt of going as I took on the movie project. So how did I get here, to this place, to this darkest of conundrums? Was life trying to tell me something? Was it time to take the hint and move on? I was getting too old for these kinds of ridiculous hi-jinks.
I'm not sure how long I sat behind the wheel (possibly only moments), when the sound of a vehicle came into earshot. I came out of my trance, staring at my reflection in the rear view mirror. The light hitting my face revealed the lines of hardship the years had etched upon my features. Suddenly I wanted to dump the whole damned load into the drink and walk to the highway - and never look back again, in the very literal sense. There was a newspaper on the dashboard. As an act of contrition, I fleetingly thought about opening the classifieds and looking for a real job.
Fortunately, I hadn't quite gone THAT mad. The vehicle that had awakened me flew around the corner and pulled alongside. The driver asked if we needed help. I abruptly said no, a bald-faced lie that wasn't lost on him, but he pulled away anyway,
Something had to be done here, and it had to be done fast, before someone was on to us.
I decided to jog down to the nearest bend, about fifty yards away, and check for any change in the topography that might give us a fighting chance. I wasn't even sure how we could eventually get the stuff out, even if there were a spot. Just a desperate shot in the dark.
Jogging down to the bend, I discovered a little oasis. The cliff tapered quickly and momentarily and a little knoll with a couple of conifers on it provided shade and a small blind spot from the road. Could we hide ten bales and a hundred clones there? A stretch, but maybe if I covered it with cedar bows.
I looked back down the road and saw how impossibly far away the truck was. If we started lugging the stuff, we were exposing ourselves. Anyone that came along would catch us red-handed. You can't talk your way out, with a bale of pro-mix slung over your shoulder in the middle of nowhere. It meant one of two things: you were stashing your pot supplies or going to your plot. And the likelihood of them reporting your highly suspicious activity to the police as soon as they reached the next telephone was very strong.
We had only one other choice: dump the stuff in the drink and throw away the year. Then hike ninety miles back to the highway and hope we didn't thumb a ride from one of the fishermen who discovered the booty. What was it going to be?
I decided I couldn't quit. I had too much tied up in this dream and I wasn't about to let it die, at least not without a fight. Goddammit, we'd try to save the year as long as there was a glimmer of hope. I kicked the parched dirt and marched deliberately toward the truck - on a mission.
My partner's jaw dropped in disbelief as I told him my plan. Take everything out of the back, one item at a time, shuffle it all the way around the bend and stash it in the little knoll behind the trees. He glared at me like I'd gone mad.
The tailgate released a foreboding creak as it swung down; we glared into the box at the task ahead. The first warm rays of the day were upon us now, a scorcher-in-progress. The knot in the pit of my stomach grew tighter, the one that happens when a botched year of growing is imminent. The full implication of our predicament seeped in, and I knew my ego would take a real bitch-slapping if I couldn't make this work. Total year losses were devastating because, well, you lost a year. A lotta time to lose.
I never fashioned myself a quitter, but neither did I want to become a parody of myself, flogging a dead horse, becoming some relic of the past. On this day, I bled any final notions of providence out my system, and recognized that fate and destiny were illusions, cruel jokes concocted by the human mind to give some meaning to it all, to give order to chaos. The only destiny for me now was the one I would create, fighting to the last possible option, at the end of the day knowing I had done all I could to stave off the disaster that had befallen me. I might not be getting any richer, but my cup of character runneth over. I was in Tony Robbins mode, taking on small, incremental tasks to avoid being overwhelmed by the desperation of the goal.
I dragged a fifty-five pound bale of Pro-mix to the edge of the tailgate. Listening intently for vehicles coming down the gravel road, I slung it onto my back, piggyback style, and shuffled down the road like a camel with both humps full. The fucking thing was heavy! I kept my eyes straight ahead; the road vibrated in front of my eyes from the punishment my knees and back were taking. Could I get it to cover without being seen? More to the point, could I get it to cover?
In excruciating pain and fatigue, sweat streaming down my face, I thumped down the dirt road and gave myself one last push over the knoll, heaving the bale off of my back like the monkey it was. My upper torso was clammy, my shirt drenched, but I pushed the discomfort back, adrenaline taking charge as I slumped over and heaved to catch my breath. I only have to do this four more times, I thought. Four more times?? Christ!
Within in seconds, my partner lumbered up the knoll behind me with a bale cradled in his arms. In huge discomfort, he winced as it thudded to the ground. We had two bales in. We gasped for breath together, then headed out for the next round. We wrestled the clones and another bale up without incident.
No time to rest. I dragged the last bale out of the back, listened for a moment before swinging it onto my back, then clopped down the road once again. Sweat rained mercilessly down my face, my mind spiraling into a no mans' land of pain, my lower back pulsing as every fiber screamed for relief, my eyes fixed hatefully on my destination. I couldn't handle it; I had to put this one down. Just for a second. My muscles were wailing for relief and I was only meters from the safety of the stash and possibly saving the year. I dropped the bale with relief and, at that moment, I heard it: a vehicle, blasting down the road around the next corner just past our stash spot.
Detection just moments away, and there I was - in the middle of the road, in the middle of nowhere, with a bale of Pro-mix at my feet, a hundred clones, and my partner only feet away in the bush. Fuck! We'd come so close to saving the year!
I made a split-second decision to call on my hidden reserves and go for it. As you go into fright-flight mode, everything seems to slow down. I could hear the drone of the vehicle growing louder as it approached the bend. I jerked the bale onto my back. It slipped from my grip and I fumbled it to the side of the road, giving one last thrust up the knoll to the cover of trees. The vehicle blew past, chased by a plume of dust.
As I watched through the cedar bows, I felt like a hot poker was stabbing the back of my leg as I watched the truck blast past I fleetingly wondered if he'd seen me, my left leg giving way as I collapsed with the bale. My first instinct was to jump to my feet, but I crumbled again as I tried to spring up. Something was seriously wrong.
My partner threw his hands under my armpits and pulled me upright. I couldn't stand on my left foot. I crashed to the ground again and pulled up my pant leg. My ankle was bluish and swollen to the size of a grapefruit. I was finished - for a long time.
Many hours later, after painfully hiking out of the bush, I sat in Lion's Gate Hospital emergency with a pair of crutches at my side. I glared at the space on the form asking for my occupation. My losses for the year swirling through my mind, I chuckled as I wrote the absurd "Outdoor Grower". The on-duty nurse looked at the form and matter-of-factly asked if this was a workplace accident.
The swelling in my lower leg turned out to be blood pooling from my torn calf muscle. The doctor prescribed crutches for six weeks. I couldn't operate a vehicle for a month, much less grow weed. Another one bites the dust.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
COME HELL ON HIGH WATER
When the Squamish River unleashes a torrent from angry glaciers awakened too abruptly from their winter slumber, it commands the kind of respect you had better heed, lest it swallow you in a watery grave. Thus was the lesson for my partner and I, as we hit the water on the way to our river spot, top-heavy with a 10-bale load of Pro-mix and 50 clones in four-inch pots in wax tree planter boxes propped on top.
Now the last thing you want to hear when you are overheated, overloaded and at the mercy of a raging river is the sound of a chopper coming up the valley on your trajectory. But that's just what we heard, as we bucked the surf, whooping with exhilaration, trying to maneuver the boat through the defiant current. I was on the bow, my partner in the stern, frantically plunging the paddle into the water to try and slow our momentum, desperately trying to commandeer the boat back from the clutches of the river.
By the time I heard the chopper over the foaming torrent, it was almost on top of us, coming right at us, about a quarter-mile away. "Chopper!" I shouted, hearing the faint clack of rotors as we came up swiftly on a hairpin bend in the river. My partner responded by cranking our tail perpendicular to the bank with one deep thrust so we could paddle with all we had to the cover of shore.
It was too late! We were sucked into the vortex of the river bend. Instead of hitting shore, we came up wide on the portside, heading straight for a huge deadfall snag jammed in the bend. With barely time to brace, we hit it broadside with a sickening thud and were pinned there, the boat unstable and taking on water - fast. The iciness of the glacial runoff took my breath away as it over-spilled the sides and soaked my legs on the boat floor. I went into flight/fright overdrive, my heart pounding out of my chest, and grabbed the slim log trapping us there. There were lots of branches, thank god, so I was able to balance and support myself.
Water thundered past us in foamy torrents. Over the roar, I barked at my partner to grab the machete. He frantically did and I ferociously chopped branches on the down-stream side of the log. We pulled the boat over the snag and set ourselves free, before the river could sentence us to a hideous death.
Judiciously, my partner pulled the boxes of clones out of the boat and balanced them precariously on the log. He managed to get all the bales and clones up onto the snag. I stuck the machete into the log to help him grab the filling dinghy and pull it out of the water, but the damned boat was so heavy with water we could hardly budge it. Our lifeline being snatched away in a tug of war with the mighty river, we yanked and pulled, balanced on that log, death almost a certainty on either side.. Using our bodies as counter- balance, we finally got the dinghy up onto the log and turned it over to empty out the water.
A menacing branch just below the surface was obstructing our launch point, so I went for the machete, kicked it lose by accident and watched it plop into a frothy eddy, gone forever.
No time to waste. We flipped the boat to the other side of the snag and into the water, then proceeded to load it again from the downstream side of the log. The current was diminished here because the log was acting as a dam.
With the goods aboard, my partner got on board the bow. I jumped aboard the stern and struggled frantically to shove us off with the paddle. With no time to worry about puncturing the hull, we broke loose and were sucked back into the river, almost instantly hitting white water and forced to shoot the raging rapids. As white water sprayed our faces and flung us about violently, we whooped and yelped during our little rodeo ride about our near-death experience. Finally drifting into the still, black waters, we paddled to shore right in front of the patch. And all this before morning coffee!
After working the patch, at the end of the day we returned to the boat only to find it deflated. The hull had, in fact, been punctured and had a slow leak. I looked out at the river, now swelled even more and realized that the once placid setting had again become a cauldron. Because of a single act of nature, our lives had hung in the balance.
We patched the boat with our emergency kit, pumped it up, and took to the water again to reach our vehicle before nightfall.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
THE CHRISTENING
It was 1993. The location: an hour north of Kamloops in a semi-arid land known as Barrier. A wonderful place to grow dope.Our projected take that year was a million plus. But big dreams die hard in the de facto realm of the grower. A stark truth that was about to bonk me straight on the head and leave me dazed - for the rest of my career.
The official name for the place was "The River Patch" because it sat nestled in a clearing a few meters from a snaking bend in the mighty Columbia River, miles from nowhere. Off an inactive logging road, on foot over kilometers of punishing terrain, impenetrable bug and leach infested swamps, treacherous portages, and thicket that left you gnashing your teeth in stinging pain and indignation over not being able to make a damned bit of headway. The newly initiated were rendered almost useless getting to the River Patch. When they finally arrived on site and plunked down to catch their breath, feet bleeding and blistered, forlorn was written all over their faces as they realized the excruciating work had not yet even begun.
It was absolute hell getting there. Preparing yourself for it required a full game face and the acceptance you would be scraped, bruised, soaking wet and certainly ready for a nap by the time you arrived. I had my own name for this place, and would mutter it from time to time en route: The Hell Patch.
You could get to the Hell Patch by motorboat despite the pull of the river, but that risky mode of transportation was only used to bring in huge amounts of payload for growing. With illegal pot farming, hardship is your best insurance policy. The spot was super remote, but every spot has its Achilles heel, and this was no exception. The river was dotted with cabins every couple of kilometers. One cabin in particular was nestled at the top of the gorge around the river bend, just up from where we were growing. Even though it was out of sight, we suspected the water-filled gorge acted like a megaphone and any loud sounds we made would be funneled up and down the river.
Being heard by someone visiting the cabin was always a concern when we went in by boat. Consequently, we used the boat entry only during the week, late in the day, when there was less likelihood of anyone visiting.
The plot was only supposed to have one hundred holes. All plots should have no more than one hundred holes (to diversify) but we went in late, and, with illegal outdoor growing, things always get compromised in unsuspecting ways when you get behind the eight ball.
So the spot ended up with four hundred holes, one hundred of which I dug myself in one day as the crew looked on in stunned amazement. I tore up thick roots and dug huge 3x3 holes all day long without a break. By the end of that first day, my forearms had seized from swinging the pickaxe, and my fingers were so stiff and cramped up I could no longer grip. They hadn't yet devised the name Brown Dirt Warrior, but they would.
And with every hole I dug, every shovel full of hard won dirt, that Achilles' heel cabin gnawed on my mind like flesh-eating disease. My biggest concern, was that the plot was now too big to water by hand, so we had to bring in motorized pumps. Loud pumps.
That year, many growers came and went on Hell Patch; in fact, we used it as a litmus test to see if the help had "the right stuff". If you got to Hell Patch and did an honest day's work, you gained instant respect and were welcomed into the "brotherhood of the guerrilla".
By mid-summer, the plants on Hell Patch had grown to six feet tall. Our conservative estimate on this strain was a thousand bucks per plant if they reached maturity, which added up to four hundred thousand bucks.
The anticipation was palpable as we approached the opening to the Patch after two weeks away, bristling with excitement over how big the plants might have grown. When we broke into the opening and saw them, still there and much bigger, a self-satisfied euphoria swept over us. The mood elevated instantly; smiling eyes and glistening faces roamed the patch for the initial inspection, the fun time we got to observe and enjoy. Then we got to work, pumped and enthused, the promise of a bumper crop coursing through our veins, feeding the adrenalin rush.
After all that punishing work throughout the seasons, it was indeed a thing of beauty to arrive at the Patch and see what amounted to a Christmas tree farm of maturing, high-grade marijuana, worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Fall snuck up on us like a caravan of nomadic thieves and, before we knew it, leaves were crunching underfoot and breaths were steamy. The promise of harvest lingered in the back of our minds in a place we dared not linger, lest the fates intervene and snatch it all away with cold indifference. I'd always been told not to count my chickens before they hatched, but a glistening black Heritage Soft Tail all covered in chrome danced across my mind to mask the pain about to be endured on Hell Patch.
It was our last day in before harvest and we had to go in to inspect and gather supplies. The river, low from a dry summer, had formed lots of mud holes to negotiate off the banks where the woods were just too thick to hike. My feet were covered in muck from my boots being sucked off again and again, and my legs ached from the heavy trudging. By the time we got on patch, I was sticky with dried sweat, soaked from head to toe with swamp water, covered in blood-sucking leaches, bug-bitten - and spent.
The first signature plant signals you are on patch. Entering the plot, it didn't immediately register in my mind that it wasn't there. Then I noticed the empty hole. I checked my bearings to ensure I was in the right place. Stunned, I went to the next empty hole. Scurrying into the patch, I stopped dead. All that was visible was a huge, open swath where the marijuana had been.
One of the crew yelled out what no one else wanted to hear - a blood-curdling "IT'S FUCKIN' GONE!" One of the tougher guys in the crew began to whimper, and I looked over to see him shaking his head and beating his fist into a rotted stump. Slowly and stiffly, I planted myself and exhaled, too stunned to swat away the giant mosquitoes gorging on my face. I looked around at this now violated space, which once had held such sanctity, and thought about my punishing year here. "Why was I doing this," I pondered, "subjecting myself to such a ridiculous crapshoot?"
There would be some serious soul-searching done before the year was out. Everything had changed. But it would be getting dark soon. No point staying in this godforsaken place.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
OUT OF THE WOODS
Sitting on the bank of the swamp on a soft clump of pine needles, I gazed transfixed at the miracle unfolding in front of me. The soft rays of early October sunlight enveloped the mosquitoes in an ethereal glow as they danced an aerial ballet. The wetland sky seemed like a living chandelier dripping with diamonds, as these insects swung in random crescendos, millions of them, making contact, free-falling, then climbing with a swoop to do it again in their mating dance. A week or two earlier, I mused, these insects' relatives likely gorged on my blood as I worked the patch. Now they were providing me with the most exquisite performance, courtesy of Mother Nature. The profundity of the interconnectedness of all living things washed over me and I felt a strong sense of the sacred.
My apprenticeship, that thirty-two day stint in the woods, was full of moments like those, as I tended the crop in the mornings with the Z-Man, then went off to commune with nature.The Z-man was our enforcer on the crop. With a stolen black colt .45 which he kept under a log, he was a 5'6, 265-lb. black man with a shaved head, earring, tattoos, a degree in philosophy, and a penchant for old Tom Jones records. We were the two new guys, elected to guard the crop and see it to the finish.
With nothing else to do after the day's round of checking on and maintaining 600,000 dollars worth of pot, I nestled into the routine of taking the Z-Man trout fishing. To this day, that indelible impression remains etched in my mind. That big black man, looking like a biker bar bouncer, holding a delicate little trout rod, intently practicing the intricate art of brook trout fishing. With a dancing rod tip and taut line, his reel whizzing, he'd glance at me for approval with a yelp of exhilaration. His child-like glee at being rewarded for his patience made me wonder if he'd have the persona he had if he'd experienced this rite of passage as a boy.
On cool October nights, in the glow of lamplight, the Z-Man and I drank tea and hot chocolate, talked philosophy and listened uneasily as, occasionally, a huge, ancient tree cracked in the distance and fell with a thunderous boom that echoed through the wilderness in the blackness of the night.
What a joy it was, watching this man of such stark contrasts discover simple pleasures long lost to him in the concrete jungle. That stay in the bush taught me a lot about human potential and the complexity of self, how we often tend to preconceive and label people based on appearance.
Those thirty-two days in the woods changed me. And I know they changed the Z- Man. It forced us to look inward and reflect, to look at each other simply as fellow men, to do what we do far too little of in the hustle and bustle of our lives - get to know the real person behind the protective veneer. The natural world does that; it forces you to focus inward on the real and essential.
I would need that grounding. I was about to leave the woods after a month without so much as a hot shower, carrying a suitcase filled with enough money to afford me any creature comfort.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
JURRAISIC GROWING
So I walked into the local watering hole and found myself staring into the face of my old growing mentor, the guy who started me out in the trade many years ago and dubbed me the Brown Dirt Warrior. We looked at each other and laughed, happy to see each other. It had been at least ten years. He'd been up the Coast doing an outdoor grow on a hundred acres of private land out past Edgemont. He introduced me to the guy with him, his business partner.
Over a beer, I chatted with his partner. He was a dot-comer who'd lost a bundle when the bubble burst. Apparently, he had paper worth but no cash flow, and my buddy had him growing two hundred plants on the side of a mountain on a waterfront development property that he'd planned to transform into a fishing resort. No road access. What a score, I thought.
After a couple more beers, my buddy asked if I'd like to come up and assess his grow operation. He'd taught me the trade but, a couple of years earlier, when I'd handed him an outdoor bud, the likes of which he had never seen or tasted in all his years of growing, the torch had passed from teacher to student. A turning point for me, a defining moment - when student surpassed master.
We headed up by boat. Out of the mist came a mirage - a massive development property, huge chalet tucked against the fjord on a small piece of real estate, fully equipped with a giant deck extending into the water, guest house on an outcropping, private island in the bay, and a truck on the property that had been barged in for private use. The only dirt road wound from the chalet up the mountain and out of sight.
It wasn't long before I was winding up this switchback in the truck, my buddy and his partner on either side of me in the front seat, laughing at my stunned look as I traveled on this surreal, Jurassic Park-like growing adventure.
We stopped outside the patch. It struck me how absurd it was that we didn't have to hide. The crop was in full view, and we were on a marijuana patch a hundred acres of private, exotic resort!
The patch had a gravity-fed drip system from a sixty-five gallon barrel feeding into a hundred five-gallon pots of several different strains of Indica and Sativa. Quite impressive, I mused to myself, casting my eyes over the vista and broken islands of Howe Sound inlet.
That evening in the chalet, I drank cognac and stared out over the water through the huge glass windows in a room with cherry oak beams and vaulted ceilings, discussing with these guys about pulling some of the crop down. They asked if I wanted to stick around and help; they'd make it worth my while. How could I resist? This was a walk in the park Jurassic, if you will.
We went up the mountain and took down about a hundred pounds of wet weight, packing it into the back of the truck. With an aperitif in one hand and a fat joint in the other, I wondered what the poor people were doing.
Into the night, we pruned pot in front of a blazing fire in the giant fireplace, drinking fine liqueurs. My mentor and I exchanged war stories about adventures in the growing trade, the dot-com guy getting a real ear full, his jaw gaping as he listened.
We clipped into the dawn until the booze was gone, then went to sleep, leaving a giant pile of weed on the living room floor. The rest was drying on racks and screens in a back room with a fan.
The next morning, we pruned again. We clipped for about an hour before my buddy suggested we take a break, get into the canoe and paddle around the point to check out a great spot for next year's grow. I elected to stay behind to tackle the massive pile of weed sitting in front of us.
The guys headed out and left me alone. I pruned and watched out the huge window as they paddled around the point.
No sooner were they out of sight when I heard the drone of a floatplane. Moments later, it flew into sight and landed on the water just outside the sheltered lagoon. I watched intently as this unwelcome visitor taxied around the island and approached the chalet!
What the fuck? I'm sitting with all this pot in this utterly remote setting and here comes a floatplane? As the plane taxied in too close for comfort, I crouched behind the furniture and intently watched it draw closer. Who the hell was this??
The plane stopped just short of the shoreline and the engine died. Whoever it was, they were getting out. Staying below the windowsill, I shuffled on my hands and knees to the cover of the hallway in my socks. When I was out of view, I jumped up and bolted for the door. Flinging it open, I was horrorstruck to see that it faced a rock wall just two feet off the stoop. The only escape was straight up and up and up -- with no end in sight. I suddenly became aware I was in my sock feet, but could do nothing about it because my boots were out on the front deck. So I jumped out and grappled up the rock, hoisting myself up several meters over muddy, rocky crags and precarious little shrubs growing out of crannies. When I could climb no further, I hung there and craned around, out of breath and spitting dirt. Looking down onto the roof of the chalet and a portion of the plane visible in the water out front, the rest of it obscured by the vegetation of a huge tree in the yard. I painfully realized that dropping or falling was not an option.
Trying to catch my breath, my fingers and toes raw and hurting, my clothes soiled, I watched as a man jumped out onto a pontoon and yelled "Hello, anybody there?" Of course, I wasn't about to announce myself, clinging to the rock face, with a hundred pounds of pot on the chalet floor.
To my surprise and relief, the guy hopped back into the plane and it took off as quickly as it had arrived. When I was sure he was airborne, I slowly and carefully found my way back down, wondering how I'd ever made my way up.
Staring out the window, thinking about how good a hot shower would feel, I wondered what the hell had just happened. As if on cue, I saw the canoe round the point, heading back to the chalet.
The guys finally returned. They'd seen the plane and had headed back as quickly as they could. Apparently the plane belonged to dot-com's other business partner, who had his pilot's license, and had probably flown in on a whim to see if anyone was around.
Chalk up another bizarre, nail-biting adventure in the growing trade.
So I walked into the local watering hole and found myself staring into the face of my old growing mentor, the guy who started me out in the trade many years ago and dubbed me the Brown Dirt Warrior. We looked at each other and laughed, happy to see each other. It had been at least ten years. He'd been up the Coast doing an outdoor grow on a hundred acres of private land out past Edgemont. He introduced me to the guy with him, his business partner.
Over a beer, I chatted with his partner. He was a dot-comer who'd lost a bundle when the bubble burst. Apparently, he had paper worth but no cash flow, and my buddy had him growing two hundred plants on the side of a mountain on a waterfront development property that he'd planned to transform into a fishing resort. No road access. What a score, I thought.
After a couple more beers, my buddy asked if I'd like to come up and assess his grow operation. He'd taught me the trade but, a couple of years earlier, when I'd handed him an outdoor bud, the likes of which he had never seen or tasted in all his years of growing, the torch had passed from teacher to student. A turning point for me, a defining moment - when student surpassed master.
We headed up by boat. Out of the mist came a mirage - a massive development property, huge chalet tucked against the fjord on a small piece of real estate, fully equipped with a giant deck extending into the water, guest house on an outcropping, private island in the bay, and a truck on the property that had been barged in for private use. The only dirt road wound from the chalet up the mountain and out of sight.
It wasn't long before I was winding up this switchback in the truck, my buddy and his partner on either side of me in the front seat, laughing at my stunned look as I traveled on this surreal, Jurassic Park-like growing adventure.
We stopped outside the patch. It struck me how absurd it was that we didn't have to hide. The crop was in full view, and we were on a marijuana patch a hundred acres of private, exotic resort!
The patch had a gravity-fed drip system from a sixty-five gallon barrel feeding into a hundred five-gallon pots of several different strains of Indica and Sativa. Quite impressive, I mused to myself, casting my eyes over the vista and broken islands of Howe Sound inlet.
That evening in the chalet, I drank cognac and stared out over the water through the huge glass windows in a room with cherry oak beams and vaulted ceilings, discussing with these guys about pulling some of the crop down. They asked if I wanted to stick around and help; they'd make it worth my while. How could I resist? This was a walk in the park Jurassic, if you will.
We went up the mountain and took down about a hundred pounds of wet weight, packing it into the back of the truck. With an aperitif in one hand and a fat joint in the other, I wondered what the poor people were doing.
Into the night, we pruned pot in front of a blazing fire in the giant fireplace, drinking fine liqueurs. My mentor and I exchanged war stories about adventures in the growing trade, the dot-com guy getting a real ear full, his jaw gaping as he listened.
We clipped into the dawn until the booze was gone, then went to sleep, leaving a giant pile of weed on the living room floor. The rest was drying on racks and screens in a back room with a fan.
The next morning, we pruned again. We clipped for about an hour before my buddy suggested we take a break, get into the canoe and paddle around the point to check out a great spot for next year's grow. I elected to stay behind to tackle the massive pile of weed sitting in front of us.
The guys headed out and left me alone. I pruned and watched out the huge window as they paddled around the point.
No sooner were they out of sight when I heard the drone of a floatplane. Moments later, it flew into sight and landed on the water just outside the sheltered lagoon. I watched intently as this unwelcome visitor taxied around the island and approached the chalet!
What the fuck? I'm sitting with all this pot in this utterly remote setting and here comes a floatplane? As the plane taxied in too close for comfort, I crouched behind the furniture and intently watched it draw closer. Who the hell was this??
The plane stopped just short of the shoreline and the engine died. Whoever it was, they were getting out. Staying below the windowsill, I shuffled on my hands and knees to the cover of the hallway in my socks. When I was out of view, I jumped up and bolted for the door. Flinging it open, I was horrorstruck to see that it faced a rock wall just two feet off the stoop. The only escape was straight up and up and up -- with no end in sight. I suddenly became aware I was in my sock feet, but could do nothing about it because my boots were out on the front deck. So I jumped out and grappled up the rock, hoisting myself up several meters over muddy, rocky crags and precarious little shrubs growing out of crannies. When I could climb no further, I hung there and craned around, out of breath and spitting dirt. Looking down onto the roof of the chalet and a portion of the plane visible in the water out front, the rest of it obscured by the vegetation of a huge tree in the yard. I painfully realized that dropping or falling was not an option.
Trying to catch my breath, my fingers and toes raw and hurting, my clothes soiled, I watched as a man jumped out onto a pontoon and yelled "Hello, anybody there?" Of course, I wasn't about to announce myself, clinging to the rock face, with a hundred pounds of pot on the chalet floor.
To my surprise and relief, the guy hopped back into the plane and it took off as quickly as it had arrived. When I was sure he was airborne, I slowly and carefully found my way back down, wondering how I'd ever made my way up.
Staring out the window, thinking about how good a hot shower would feel, I wondered what the hell had just happened. As if on cue, I saw the canoe round the point, heading back to the chalet.
The guys finally returned. They'd seen the plane and had headed back as quickly as they could. Apparently the plane belonged to dot-com's other business partner, who had his pilot's license, and had probably flown in on a whim to see if anyone was around.
Chalk up another bizarre, nail-biting adventure in the growing trade.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
ANIMAL ATTRACTION
Turning and fleeing from a bear is a no-no because it shows signs of weakness and may prompt an attack. Well, shitting yourself on the spot is an outright declaration that he might as well just tuck a napkin under his chin and eat you. You ain't really lived until you've had a four-hundred-pound fur ball with canines and claws chasing you. Nothing puts a chill in your spine like knowing you are fleeing, very likely, for your life, from an animal without a rational mind or the ability to be persuaded that you'd make a lousy, noisy dinner with a human excrement aftertaste.
I didn't even realize he was after me until I heard a branch snap and turned to see him scrambling in my direction. Initially, he was as frightened as I was; we'd startled each other. He darted up a tree and clung there, looking at me from a distance of about two meters. I was ready to forgive him and go about my business, but he wasn't having any of it. I guess he took my sneak retreat as a sign of weakness, and clawed his way down the tree after me as I turned and hurried in the opposite direction.
Gaining distance between us, and whipsawing between sheer terror and the textbook notion you aren't supposed to run or show fear, I hastened my pace towards the mainline where my Ranger was parked with the driver's side door open. To compound matters, my bear spray was jammed sideways in the main pouch of my fanny pack, which it wasn't designed for, and the zipper had jammed. Continuously glancing back as I tore out of the bush, I yanked and pulled on that zipper as a black, snorting, menace flickered in the trees in full trot toward me.
Breaking out of the bush and onto the mainline logging road, I ran for my truck, still trying to work the zipper of my fanny pack. The bear snorted loudly, and I craned around to see him breaking out on the logging road, too, galloping after me with his mouth ajar and his tongue stuffed between his canines...
Gasping for breath, I sprinted as fast as I could towards my truck, that beacon of hope about 100 yards away. The bear was on my heels, his claws clicking on the gravel. The zipper on my fanny pack suddenly broke open and I peeled the spray out, popping the safety cap like a champagne cork. Wheeling around, in a continuous motion I released a plume of spray. Close enough to swat my feet out from under me, the bear showed the whites of his bloodshot eyes as the spray cloud dispersed directly in front of his snout. When it hit his nostrils, his hind legs buckled under him and he landed on his ass, just like in a cartoon, and I made it to the safety of my truck.
Acutely aware of my heaving breath and trembling hands, I leaned out the open door with the spray poised. The bear grunted and whined in agony, his mouth frothing as he pawed at his nose, trying to remove the pepper. So pissed was he, he stumbled towards me again and I discharged another plume from the safety of my truck. The spray came nowhere near him, but the mere sound of it sent him lumbering into the bush.
I collapsed into the driver's seat, stunned, listening to my heartbeat slow as visions of less favorable outcomes danced in my head. What the hell had I just averted? The woods would never be the same for me again. Or, at least, not for a long, long time.
I was at the local outfitters a few days later and overheard a man and wife amicably debating whether or not they should buy the bear spray for their camping trip. I winked and said. "Good idea. Trust me."
Saturday, October 27, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
BATTLE FATIGUE
I'm standing in the middle of 50k worth of pot, tending my crop with that nervous energy you get when you're on site late in the season and surrounded by pot Suddenly, I hear the drone of an aircraft in the distance and listen intently for that telltale "clack" of chopper rotor versus airplane propeller. You have a good chance of escaping with airplanes, but choppers almost always get you dead to rights.
Determining it is indeed a chopper (approaching briskly from an easterly direction at low altitude), I quickly follow my escape protocols, shuffling for the cover of the big conifers nearby. By the time I reach cover, the copter is already roaring overhead, sounding like it is hovering right over the patch, but I can't see through the dense canopy. Off to my right, through an opening in the trees, I see it ominously lowering, touching down about 600 feet away, on or near the patch.
Fuck!
I now have two choices: I can either race back toward the patch and take a known path out of this nearly impenetrable jungle, or I can crash through unknown terrain and risk life and limb to make my escape. My heart pounding now, I make a split decision to make my break through the patch to the safety of the trail.
As I sprint through the patch with adrenaline overload, stumbling and tripping, I hear the chopper lifting off again! My lungs burning from lack of oxygen, I bolt with everything I've got, the copter now lifting off over the trees behind me. Will they see me before I hit cover?
I make it to the safety of a dense conifer stand and the trail, with no time to look back as I continue my bid to get as far away as possible, desperately gasping for oxygen. Over my heaving breaths, I hear the chopper as it recedes behind me and lingers around the patch. Gaining distance, my lungs about to explode from my chest, I sprint up to an area where even hiking is difficult.
My system in shock, I jump on my mountain bike, break out onto the road, and peddle as fast as I can. Cranking down the road, I hear the chopper finally taking off across Howe Sound, fading into the distance.
The rest of the way home, I reflect on what has just happened, on how lucky I am to not be under arrest, the wind cooling my overheated face, my breathing and heart rate returning to normal as the flight-fright response slowly gives way to relief.
Was it the cops? Some logging executive surveying the area? Did they see the patch? These are burning questions. I don't get much sleep that night, trying to devise a battle plan. Should I go back right away or wait a few days? I know my babies are in desperate need of feeding, so I decide I have to risk going back in sooner rather than later.
The next morning, warmed by the autumn sun, the cool fall air evaporating the dew off the forest floor like smoldering fire, I enter the patch and crane my neck upward to see if I can spot any plant growth above the deciduous stand. Before I see anything, the waft of the pot hits me. Yes!
Nervously, I hustle in and feed them. They/we are safe for another day. I'd better take a few pictures; they may not be here tomorrow.
Monday, December 03, 2007
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
GUERRILLAS IN A FIX
The eagles were free-wheeling high overhead on the thermals that warm autumn day and I should have recognized the irony. After pulling out some of the finest pot I had ever grown, we hauled the dingy ashore at our landing spot and were arrested for cultivation in the wilderness. And my world came crashing down around me.
The RCMP colors flickered through the tree stand. The Jimmy with the darkened windows crept down our spur road and came into full view. Aware of their presence, my partner and I collapsed our boat and loaded it into his truck, a nervous diversion at this point. I was struck by how surreal and unnatural the whole scene seemed, as another cruiser came into this placid, natural setting that, until now, had never evoked feelings of anxiety.The eagles were free-wheeling high overhead on the thermals that warm autumn day and I should have recognized the irony. After pulling out some of the finest pot I had ever grown, we hauled the dingy ashore at our landing spot and were arrested for cultivation in the wilderness. And my world came crashing down around me.
It was a cool location: no foot access; a raging river to contend with before reaching the patch after a "float," and an inconspicuous landing spot down river that required a rendezvous vehicle. But apparently not quite cool enough.
My heart picked up tempo as I processed what this meant. I glanced at the hatchback of my car, hoping the wet, stinking booty was properly concealed. RCMP officers jumped from each unit with their hands clutching their holsters. My buddy and I stopped trying to wrestle the folded dinghy into the back of his truck. He gave me a look that said, "Here we go again." (He had a rap sheet as long as the Confederation Bridge but was trying to make go of it in construction, only there for the day to help me.)
One of the officers shouted, "Stop or I'll draw on you!" We put our hands in the air, like rustlers in some corny spaghetti western, only to learn later these were rookies looking to make brownie points busting villainous growers. In those days, the mid-nineties, bagging growers was a spectator sport for BC cops.
I learned many months later in court that what then ensued was a twenty-minute illegal search and seizure, including a systematic search of our vehicles while our hands were cuffed behind our backs. They opened my hatchback last and found the duffel bag of wet weight buried under some clothing. It was harrowing - standing there, knowing what was to come. The cop smelled it before he actually found it, and held it up with a frown. "You're under arrest for the cultivation of marijuana," he said without looking at us, as he unzipped the duffel bag and the colas popped out.
They put us into separate vehicles a few meters apart with the back doors open. My partner sat in the back of the Jimmy, the two officers talking to him. I looked around, smelling the fresh autumn air, and again was struck by the notion that I was here in the most natural of settings under the most unnatural of situations, my wrists handcuffed behind me. I was being arrested. How could this happen?
The cops ended their interrogation of my partner and one approached me. He tried to convince me that my partner had just rolled on me, so it would be smart for me to implicate him. I didn't buy it, of course.
Eventually they threw him into the back with me. He winced as he landed, his handcuffs wedging his wrists behind him on the seat. "Know any good lawyers?" I asked. "Yeah, Phil Seagram."
They drove us down the Squamish logging road. The tow truck coming to confiscate our vehicles blasted past us in the opposite direction, sending up a large dust plume.
A one-year legal ordeal followed, which ended in a dismissal for illegal search and seizure. My record remained clean.
Throughout my entire growing tenure, I was never threatened again.
Friday, February 01, 2008
ADVENTURES IN THE GROWING TRADE
GOING TO THE DOGS
Coming out of the bush in the fall, loaded up with 150 lbs of wet weight, is always invigorating. But, as you glide in on still waters under the cover of darkness, hearing big dogs barking in the woods near your landing spot has a way of chasing the fun right out of things. Growing pot outdoors illegally is like a carnival ride: exhilarating, but dangerous. The moment a bolt comes off the ride and things begin to fly apart, it's time to pay your dues for an extreme lifestyle.
I'll never forget that night. As we drifted in, the shadow of the mountain cast hints of fall into the early October air revealing our breath. A weak sun was sinking, tired of shining warmly all summer, the light casting an amber halo around the mountain as an owl heralded in nighttime in the Cheakamus Valley. The only sounds were the gentle strokes of the paddle in the water.
The beauty was somewhat veiled by pressing concerns, my mind stuck between arresting beauty and arresting officers. It was always hard to reconcile such natural beauty with the thought of cold, steel bars clanging shut. Would we get out paradise again tonight without being arrested?
When I heard the barking, I looked at my partner as if to say, "What the fuck?" and stroked my paddle deeply until we hit shore. We frantically piled the stinking green garbage bags out onto the shoreline and into to the bush. I was now hyperventilating, tremulous, starting to sweat. Goddamn it, I was becoming very uncomfortable.
To boot, the dumb-fuck greenhorn I was with panicked, scurrying off like a demented garden gnome to hide in the patch we had close to our landing spot. I just shook my head, watching him scuttle and trying to determine if what I'd heard really were police dogs. But what the fuck else could they be? Dogs barking in the woods 50 kilometers from nowhere, and right where we come ashore with our booty? More questions than answers, but right now I had to deal with the problem at hand.
Lying in the bush, straining to hear muffled conversation coming from the direction where I'd heard the dogs, I tried to piece together the drama unfolding through the trees. I could now hear my third partner at the rendezvous point conversing with the mysterious person/persons with the dogs, but I couldn't make out their conversation. Was he being interrogated by the cops? Fuck, I had to get closer!
Skulking through the bush like a downed fly-boy in some B war movie, I got close enough to see shadowy figures through the trees. I heard a guy whistle to the dogs, a truck door slamming and the gurgle of the turbo diesel trailing off into the wilderness as it pulled away.
After some moments of puzzled silence, I broke through the bush to find my partner sitting in the rendezvous vehicle, his crossed feet hanging out the window and a large joint hanging from his mouth. He gave me a "what's up?" look and proceeded to tell me about some redneck out running his dogs.
FUUUUCK! What are the chances?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
MASTER GROW GUIDE
Hey, y'all!
Want to thank you for watching the videos and reading my short stories. Prohibition is now a cult classic and the subject of a major prime time documentary! There will be more to come in the future.
I also want to mention that I am looking for some backers to produce 'Browndirt's Master Grow Guide.' It's a very exciting project that will see the how-to video authored directly to the movie-- so you get the total viewing experience! You will be able to pause at any point in the movie and go see detailed video of the techniques I am using to grow some of the world's finest weed! Another first by the Browndirtwarrior! I already have 500 copies sold.
I am using a micro financing approach to this project. Rather than have 1 person put up and risk the 5000 I need to finish, I'm offering 10 people a 500dollar investment for 5 % each of the project ... so I retain 50%. Keep in mind that how-to videos for growing are the biggest sellers in the pot related industry. I get hundreds and hundreds of people asking me how I grow. To ad to this, a major network is doing a documentary on me and they are going to shoot me making the how-to video -- which will reach millions! So if this interests you, and you want to be a part of something very exciting for a low risk investment, contact me at:
phonywaronpot@hotmail.com.
What I am looking for are serious inquiries only. I need low maintenance partners that have some extra cash, are passionate about marijuana legalization, and would just get a kick out of being involved in something like this -- and if it makes money that's a bonus! Don't want anyone who is broke and betting the farm or is going to be contacting me every day wondering where the return on their investment is. If your main concern is how much money you are going to make, then you are probably not liquid enough for such a venture. This business is risky and takes patience. And things can go wrong. Like get arrested in the process of making it! So if you are willing to treat it as a high risk(but calculated) investment, contact me! Sure better that the stock market right now!
peace!
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As of now I dont have the need for 100's of 3x3 holes, but one day 