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Old School Arizona

Madjag

Active member
Veteran
What You Need, What You Want

What You Need, What You Want

“Life, what a fucking mystery”. My youngest daughter, #2, is quite the Oracle. She has some intense awareness at levels she is not aware of yet. I marvel sometimes when she speaks about heart matters or world politics. She’s usually right on…and with gusto.

She became a helicopter pilot on her own, no military training or Iraqi war subsidization. She took out a student loan and went for it. Now she is one of maybe 150 women that have their CFII which means she can not only teach private pilot for helicopter but she can also teach instrument rating as well. Rare.

When she turned 16 she borrowed her older sister’s new car, a tricked out California VW with a big engine, tinted in the glass windows, front lowered and raked chassis, wide tires, and a totally clean white Emron aircraft paint job with chrome mini bumpers. It was a classy car built by my friend and air-cooled only VW mechanic BB. I paid him 5K cash under the living room table for that artwork. Heads always turned when it cruised by. Her older sister had just gotten it for her 18th birthday from me and her mom so it wasn’t even christened. Younger daughter borrowed it and rolled it 3 times behind her high school while zooming around an S-curve on the gravel encrusted pavement there. Gravel won.

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Life gives us messages and signs whether we recognize them or not. Wise folk are those that when needed can and do something, anything, to change the path they are headed down. The Chinese have a saying, actually many sayings but this is one of the more memorable thoughts of theirs, “If we are not careful we will end up where we are headed”. If only we could. My second favorite Chinese aphorism is, “Money can by you a clock, but not time”. Indeed.

I know you can relate. If you’re growing weed then you’ve felt the heat. It comes from going beyond the norm and searching for something personal. Green gardening, surfing, motocross, extreme skiing, skydiving, base jumping, knife throwing, stamp collecting whatever. If you’ve crossed the line you can never go back.

I recall some hippies who lived in a classic yellow school bus and sold hash, Peyote, and weed to the multitudes in my quiet little town in the Verde Valley back in the early 1970’s. They had a pack of kids and rarely got a shower being on the road so much. They dropped anchor in my little central Arizona town one day and began plying their trade in earnest. Busted came next and the family was in a tizzy. Changes abounded and soon they were Born Agains, selling you know who. My VW mechanic mastermind, BB, said it best when he described them, “Anyone who used to sell Peyote and switched to selling Jesus is totally fucked up”. That’s what can happen if you don’t hear the vibe and make changes. And I know they certainly had warnings.

How does one know when to make a change? And I mean a significant life-altering move. When the messages rain down sufficiently, so much that we can’t live in denial any longer, how do we change? My view is that most of us, at such a momentous tipping point in our life, unconsciously allow the Universe to choose for us. The result is not always fun, easy, or what we may have wanted had we made the choice ourselves, but it sure is clear. It’s when in that instant moment in time that you think to yourself, “If only I had…..”.

Fill in the spaces, they’re all the same. You know what I mean. It’s so much better to be self-correcting in response to the feedback all around you. It’s definitely less costly if you make the changes yourself rather than have changes made to you. Ken Kesey said, “Always stay in your own movie”. If you don’t then someone else is the director.

Daughter #2 became a careful and excellent driver after that incident. That day she kicked out the windshield so her friend and she could escape, climbed out of her sister’s totaled car, and while in shock had a revelation that no parent could have provided no matter how hard they tried. Reality is the best, though not the kindest, teacher. Awakenings aren’t always inexpensive. Now she wears night-vision goggles when she flies in the pitch dark out to remote spots on the interstate and lands to meet paramedics. The casualty, sometimes just a lifeless body, lies next to her as she returns to an emergency room, stretched out awkwardly, as they boogie through the sky toward hope.

Some messages take repeating. In every grower’s life comes a point when they should have walked away from a deal, a remote growsite, a new contact, or their overused rental home. Rock stars have bad concerts but they still get paid; lawyers, even if they lose a case, still walk out with a hefty fee. Everyday people involved in illegal acts rarely get the prize, though, and often get the hammer instead.

What goes around comes around. My good friend Peter and I were down on our luck. Our Colombo connection had moved into coke and we resisted. We were herbmen and though we powdered our noses whenever it was free, we didn’t want the Karma of becoming “Coke Dealers”. Just the name made straight people hate you back then even though the in-crowd loved a man with a pile of powder, oh how they loved them. During the Disco Days it seemed like everyone we knew had been hypnotized and started moving white powder. What the hell, the ladies sure responded. Who doesn’t remember, if you were witness to those days, the split when weed people were left behind in favor of the powder?

I was loading trucks at a warehouse depot in Phoenix for lack of a better livelihood. I had with two little girls and I didn’t want to become a dealer like so many of my pals. The work was not that hard, driving electric carts and forklifts, and the days shot past quickly. I was planning my second shot at guerilla growing, this time on my own and without my previous partner, so I knew it was just a matter of time before my day in the sun (literally) would come. In the meantime I was working the docks, biding my time.

John the driver was one of the truckers that came by weekly and picked up or dropped off loads. We became good friends in the sense that we liked to talk about interesting subjects, not the usual sports team mumbo jumbo that consumed most of the other dock loaders and truckers. I could care less and so did he. Our talks rambled toward the forbidden realms.

One fine day John showed up to drop a heavily loaded trailer and began talking about his weekend. Little did I know how skilled he was in so many ways. John, it turns out, could fly airplanes, even larger twin engines, as well as helicopters. 16-wheelers were child’s play, because he also operated heavy equipment like D-9 Cats and had run a few road graders in Nam as well. If it could be driven or flown, John was at home.

I imagine you think you know where I’m going with this line of thinking. You’re partly right and partly wrong. John was excited that day because on his weekend he had been flying over the Barry Goldwater Bombing Range west of Ajo at the edge of Organ Pipe National Monument and had seen a large fuel tank nose down in the dirt. He theorized that it might be filled with weed and was thinking of driving out to check on it. His question for me was, “If I find it and bring back several hundred pounds of marijuana, could you sell it?”

Actually I was quite taken aback. How did he know that I could possibly sell it in the first place. I had cut my waist-length hair when I entered the job market and went to work at the warehouse. I never talked smack about weed or drugs with anyone at work, let alone him. So what gave me away?

I didn’t ask him and merely said yes. He smiled and went on with his day, moving out once his truck was picked clean by the fleet of hungry forklifts swarming the docks that day. I went home with a renewed sense of hope and dreamt of colas packed tightly in a jettisoned fuel tank. I was excited because it could just be the way out that I needed for my next big move back into herb cultivation. Peter was revved up as well and could use the excitement more than the pay in the interim between his own familia’s next shipment. Any cash I made would free me for better things. It was my 26 year-old mind hallucinating big time, but I didn’t know it was.

Weeks passed without a visit to the docks by John. I began getting paranoid. What if he was merely testing me, what if he was undercover, what if he was a snitch setting me up, blah blah blah… My mind ran over the details and came up with the conclusion that John was what he appeared to be. He was skilled at piloting and driving but he was not clever, sneaky, or conniving. With him, what you saw was what you got. I felt relieved as I still anticipated him showing up with good news one day soon.

John did finally show up but he wasn’t smiling. He told me how he had driven way out into the bombing range, illegally of course, with his 3 kids and a far-fetched alibi just in case he got nabbed off-road in the forbidden zone. Once, long ago at night, I drove next to this same area as I traveled north from Ajo toward Gila Bend. I was coming back from a quick recon of the Pinacates, the psychedelic volcanic crater zone just north of Rocky Point. I was totally transfixed by the endless bursts of light and loud explosions way out in the desert that hot July night. I never saw one of the jets but I heard them as they pushed back and forth across the target zone. I was witnessing a night-time war scene, like one of those dark moments in Apocalypse Now. So cool, man. And we were high.

John had found the jettisoned fuel tank, but that was exactly all it was, an empty fuel tank smashed into the dirt. At that moment our weed dreams disappeared into thin air. But something occurred to me just then when I was about to say, “Oh well” and let it all go. I had found the ultimate pilot and driver. I had an expert who wanted to get involved in the shadow economy. John was ready for an assignment. His name rose to the top of my Rolodex for future tasks. Why, we could have him pick up our harvest, already boxed of course, and fly it out of our remote canyon; it could save the many round-trip hikes necessary by 4 or 5 people carrying big frame packs loaded with harvest herb if we were as successful as I hoped that year, and it could…. dreamer, dreamer, come back, come back!

Over the next few months I saw John regularly but we only made small talk. Why talk about paradise lost? Then, near the last quarter of the year, around harvest time south of the border, John showed up at the docks with a big dog smile and laid it on me. Some Mexican friends had finally contacted him and wanted him to fly down to the Guadalajara area and pick up a load. Though John had never even seen a joint let alone smoked one, his motors were already on an imaginary runway taking off to mota land and flying back the prize. As if! Here he was, like me, hallucinating without any experience in a field that was fraught with agents, snitches, guns, wiretaps, and true life-or-death danger. this was big time.

Not far from his initial thoughts, a few weeks later he actually was sippin’ a margarita in motaville. Just a slight twist was injected into this cozy vision though; John did fly down to Guadalajara but in a stolen twin-engine Cessna that the cartel wanted real bad. It was his initiation and he jumped at the opportunity. One day a straight trucker, the next day a full-on drug pilot transporting stolen goods across international lines. I was floored and laughed in his face. Composing myself I asked him what he would be doing from then on and he replied that he would only have to wait for loads to come to him. it seems that the brothers in Mexico had bigger plans for John and didn’t want to waste him on weed runs. He bluffed and had told them that he had friends who could easily move weight. You can probably guess where this went. Though none of knew, all of us suspected.


I grew up loving James Bond movies and had read The Craft of Intelligence, an autographed copy in fact signed for me personally by the author Allen Dulles, head of the CIA. Whether it was Michael Caine in the groundbreaking spy movie “The Ipcress File” or reading more history of spies in WWII and the Cold War, I admired their tradecraft. I knew it was probably not as glorious as it appeared in the movies but being a young guy I still was hooked. I began my collection of spy tool catalogs, eavesdropping equipment catalogs, and every book on spies I could find in print when I was 16. I was certifiable. That knowledge helped immensely once I walked the path of weed.

Months passed with no contact from John. Slowly but surely I continued my life and forgot about him. I was planning my next guerilla grow and had been on several recons in a likely canyon-filled area. One of those exploratory trips became the deciding factor in my herb’s brand name, Madjag, and I wrote about that mountain lion experience earlier on this thread. Visions of loads flying in had retreated to the back of my mind.

Ring-ring, ring-ring. I grabbed the proverbial kitchen phone (an A.T.&T. Princess phone!) and there he was, John, mumbling quickly and unable to focus his words. It didn’t take nut a second to decipher his message, though: not only had he delivered the Cessna, he had also escorted a nice Bell Ranger helicopter south as well. My oh my, what would be next? A jet? All kinds of thoughts melted and mixed in my mind as he continued to rant excitedly. “The load is going to be here next week, are you ready?,” is what I incredulously thought he said. “They need an airstrip for the drop and will be on the ground only long enough to toss out the bales, 500 kilos.” We were in for it.

Thanks to my earlier training in the secretive arts as well as in reconnaissance, the plan evolved lightning fast. My team was assembled and it was their first time in action. Everyone was mighty fidgety as we spent the night camped in the field, preparing for military-grade timing and a smooth execution of our plan. I was the only real spy in the group so I had been the driving force in the plan’s design. My friends were more than willing once they heard the pay, 2500 each for two days work as well as cost on any herb they wanted to buy later. Damn, for poor growers and small-time dealers this was a landfall.

Only one problem, where the hell were we going to sell 1200 pounds? Each one of us had a friend who had a friend that knew a guy who could move weight, but none of us had ever entered that world or knew exactly what it would take to do so. It turned out to be easy, though, and we all left that week with fond memories and a fat wallet. Later loads would prove even easier once we had all of our ducks in a row. John was our new hero and though we didn’t move in the same world that he did we still met once in awhile to discuss the next time.

We met John in the next phase of our relationship at a groovy bar in Scotthe thieving con-man's placeale, one of those nouveau trendy places. The restaurant and bar, Dr. Munchies, was about as nouveau as you could find in the desert back then. The maitre’d wore a full-length tuxedo and had wild black hair down to his waist. The place had great food and was always packed from 10pm on. Sometimes there was actually a line of hipsters waiting to get in, something hitherto not seen before those days of wine and roses. Our short string of drop loads had come to an end and at that point my partner and I were thinking about next year’s serious canyon time. John showed up at the bar with a brand new look. Instead of John the everyday trucker he was now sporting a big cowboy fedora, several gold necklaces, and a fancy western-look outfit including some flashy boots. He also had one of the first mobile phones I had ever seen up close, the type they used in Miami Vice that were the size of a quart bottle. He was driving a brand-new Camaro and had a girlfriend 20 years younger than him.


It was a sign. The Universe was talking and luckily we had no problem listening. We were not happy. John had gone from 0 – 60 in like five seconds and had not been able to keep track of where the road was leading. Money came so large and fast that he had forgotten what a day’s work actually paid on Planet Earth and had become used to his new found wealth. Still a redneck at heart, John worked hard to fit his new image. Still, his path diverged from ours the moment he said the word “coke”. We were herb men and heeded the signs. The few loads we pulled off at that little public airstrip funded our next year as we delved into our canyon growing season. Our families were covered and the only work we had to do for the next 12 months was to prepare, grow, harvest, and sell. It was still all good after we cut ties with our friend. We didn’t have to deliberate long in order to give him our answer. It had all been in the name of supporting our passion for growing the weed so we never looked back.


We heard through the grapevine and later on in the local news that John had become fabulously wealthy. He also caught the flu in a big way and had to spend 10 years getting well. I never forgot my friend John, though unfortunately I did forget some of the lessons of his story. I too let fast money go to my head and one day got sick myself. I had to spend a couple of years at the monastery because I didn’t remember to heed the signs that were coming from all directions in a multitude of forms. It took me about 10, perhaps even 15 years to fully recover to where I had left off. Looking back I realized that the signs were so plain and obvious that I had definitely been suffering from a case of denial. I had wanted something so deeply that I couldn’t see the messages telling me to take a break and reconsider what it was that I truly wanted.

It’s rarely money or power we want. They just make it seemingly easier to get what we think we want. Once you deeply examine your passion and know that you can follow that path forever if you don’t stray, you become tuned into signs in a whole new way. It becomes second nature to question. You “sleep” on it more often, allowing time to pass before you make a major decision. You find that many things turn out to be equal in value and only a few shine above the rest. Those that do are usually free for the taking, and giving, if you learn to see.

As Castaneda’s teacher Don Juan said, “ The trick is in what one emphasizes. One either makes oneself strong or one makes oneself miserable. The amount of work is the same.” Most people will disagree. It seems so much easier to be unhappy or unfulfilled. It’s an attitude of gratitude, though, that can make the difference in understanding this little parable. Signs are everywhere. We’re all sent them. Do you see them? Do you pay attention and at least allow your body to feel their message? Like the ensuing high that comes from a toke, signs come in many forms and flavors but always can be felt on some level. Take your time to know what you truly want, stay aware, and you’re home free.

Peace.
 
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wolfhoundaddy

Member
Veteran
Morning all.
Great job catching the moods, nuances of our young lives, back in the day. Nam, LSD,public consciousness, karma, war machine,herb vs blow,one day in the jungle next day on the streets of San Francisco...man on the moon!
I moved to Prescott in "74 and personally am part of the weave of life that you have been describing so eloquently. I had a friend back then that was getting us some excellent homegrown, not a huge supply for us but came trinkling over to us from the Verde Valley. One day she showed up with some little clear plastic jewelery boxes filled with crystal spears. Said her friends had distilled the peyote buttons down to their essence. I wet my finger and had a taste. Still remember it to this day.
We also felt the dichotomy of the blow vs smoke and made a conscious decision to stay with herb. No guns for us,no mid night banging on the door,no drama. And money was part of it but not adored.
Some of us made it, we lost many.
Wouldn't trade those days.
Still keepin on.
 

Madjag

Active member
Veteran
The Weave of Life

The Weave of Life

Great job catching the moods, nuances of our young lives, back in the day.

I moved to Prescott in "74 and personally am part of the weave of life that you have been describing so eloquently.

Thanks for your comment my friend. If you were in Prescott in 74 you definitely saw the many, many changes over the next 35 years that I have seen, too, as well as some of the other AZ brothers on ICMag who shared those changes like Mofeta and Motaco. All of these towns were so small and had a beautiful personality mix that included the newly-invading hippies as well as the local westerners.

If it's allright with you I woulkd like to borrow your phrase, "The Weave of Life", for my next installment in my series.

Peace,
MJ


 

azez

Member
Veteran
I was born and raise here and have seen all the tiny towns blow up
prescott has remained relatively small
but none the less change has come
peace
ez
 

Madjag

Active member
Veteran
The Weave of Life - Miracles

The Weave of Life - Miracles

I’m sorry. My life’s story is only one of 6 billion, yet it is the only one I can call my own. I have heard so many, many great tales over the years and I could easily make them my own, but I don't. My stories are vivid and burn in my memory so deeply that I have no use for borrowing others. Selah.

Some of my friends question how it was that my life crossed paths with so many other players that were instrumental in fueling the foundations of the drug world. All I can say is that……I moved to Arizona.

What is it about this strange desert state? As I flew in on my exit flight from Denver, Colorado back in 1972 I was stunned by the massive terrain rising up beneath the jet’s path. I had always thought of Arizona as flat, useless desert, looking much like the rolling sand dunes that surround Yuma and southeastern California. My picture was so off. The scent of creosote in the open desert or the orange blossoms of Phoenix in the early spring were almost overwhelming to my high-mountain nose once I had landed and moved about. WTF? I thought it was supposed to be barren sand and dirt.

Days later my good friend George took me on a 7 day flash introduction to Arizona that culminated with an insanely stoned jump off the 25 foot cliffs at Ginseng Rock on Haigler Creek near Fisherman’s Point. We revitalized ourselves for the drive to his home in central Phoenix with more smoke and jammed to the sounds of Little Feet and The Doors as we sped along the winding dirt road connecting Young Arizona with Roosevelt Lake in Geo’s old Ford station wagon. It was hippie bliss in its fullest and we had no idea how good it truly was because we were living inside the dream itself without any windows. You could say we were stuck as well as freed by our consciousness back then and you’d be correct. In fact, you and I, right now, are in the same boat. We’re both bound and liberated by our beliefs.

We are what we think, having become what we thought.” - Buddha

What makes a miracle in your view? Most folk’s definition might include descriptors like “impossible” or “totally incomprehensible”. For my part miracles have always held great promise for me. Influential stories that I had read in my early teen years portraying powerful martial artists like Gogen Yamaguchi, “The Cat”, and Morihei Uyeshiba, the founder and spiritual guide of Aikido, fueled my belief in what could not be explained, yet was possible, so I was already on the other side of the line when it came time to choose whether I believed in miracles or not.

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The Cat had been forced to fight a Siberian tiger in a cage as the amusement of his captors during the Russia-Japan War in Manchuria in 1945. As he moved into the cage he immediately attacked the tiger with a bashing front kick to its nose and then leaped onto the stunned cat’s back. He put the tiger into a crushing throat choke with both arms deeply interlocked around its neck and simultaneously yelled loudly into its ears. His yells were the sounds of pure energetic survival focus and that scream, combined with his amazing chokeout, had the ability to paralyze the cat from any effective defensive move. The tiger died and the Cat himself was transferred to solitary confinement until the war ended and he returned home. As a young 12 year-old, the story of this miracle signified what a man could do that was beyond typical explanation. I wanted to believe that the impossible was possible. A small paperback book that I had found on the rack at my local grocery store, Zen Combat, by Jay Gluck (Ballantine Books, 1962) had inspiring tales about Gogen and other martial artists and set me on that path. I read it breathlessly.

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Years later, at 20, when I moved to San Francisco to study Aikido at the San Francisco Aiki Kai, I learned more about another man who had performed seeming miracles throughout his life. Morihei Uyeshiba was a master of aiki-jutsu, kendo, and judo and it was his knowledge of the sword particularly that lead him to create a weaponless martial art that exemplified spiritual balance, peace, and love. He was a hippie before his time. Who knows? Whatever his inner leanings were, he showed that a person could overcome any attacker because the mere fact that they were an attacker meant that they were not in alignment with the Universe’s deepest principles and were off balance from the start of their aggressive moves. His Aiki-Do, “The Way of Harmonious Spirit”, provided a way to neutralize aggression without demolishing the aggressor…unless you had to, and then you could without difficulty. Utilizing the opponent’s energy and turning it effortlessly back upon that attacker harnessed the unlimited power of love to neutralize hate. Uyeshiba’s miraculous moves seemed impossible, especially after he passed the age of 70 years old and admitted that he could no longer just use his raw physical power to defeat his youthful attackers. Much like Bruce Lee’s “One Inch Punch”, Uyeshiba had moved beyond conventional understanding and into the realm of miracles. Some of you know of these men and can certainly agree.

My early interest in martial arts lead to a study and appreciation of eastern philosophy which in turn guided me to yoga. It was a natural progression that just recently I discovered The Cat had followed, too. Yogis are certainly deeply trained like martial artists; however their avoidance of drama and strife as a discipline propels them into a much different space. They concentrate on attaining peacefulness and emptiness while maintaining bare attention and supreme awareness. If the martial artist could perform miracles in combat, the yogi could perform the miracle of overcoming combat altogether. With no enemy, the yogi could move to the next level and allow the Universal energy to express itself through them as siddhis or powers. These miraculous powers were not to be cultivated or desired and were merely signs of the yogi’s progress on the path. Uyeshiba was in a sense a yogi in a hakama, a man who had stepped into the spiritual realm of martial arts and created a form that was true to the higher principles he had realized. Like The Cat, he had had visions and moments of total, mystical revelation that changed his path forever.

I have always been fascinated by the ability to go far beyond the normal, to pass through the veil of limitation to a place where anything is possible. Belief is a powerful tool as well as a captor.

Many years back during the Peyote revival days of the early 1970’s, a small, crazy group of hippies would gather in Sycamore Canyon and have, for lack of a better description, Peyote parties. The watercress-covered area near the first springs, about ½ mile in on the trail, was the placid center of this informal gathering. Cool, clear water bubbles out of the earth here and there are plenty of places to set up a tent or even better, build a little wikieup. A sweat lodge graced this area for awhile as well though eventually new regulations restricted camping (too much human shit accumulating and wood-gathering impact) to the area beyond the 4 mile mark in on the trail, the exact spot the permanent water stops. Such sacred springs like these in the high desert, bubbling up in a narrow geological layer cake canyon of white limestone cliffs topped by Red Supai sandstone, creates a marvelous oasis of sycamores and cottonwoods, with lush shrubs in sturdy mesquite glades.

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Scents of Yerba Santa, Yerba Mansa, and watercress filled the dry yet moistened air here. I had never seen or thought of such a place until I became a frequent flyer here. The swimming holes were legendary.

The continued years of the hippie homesteaders lead to the unfortunate overuse and under-caring of such incredible local places in my home region, thus the new laws. A good thing, too, because once the mass of “normal” hikers, day-trippers, and tourists hit such spots 10 years later, the land would have been as wasted as we were during those days.

The Peyote parties involved anywhere from 30 to 50 people and consisted of non-ritual Peyote consumption…..on an extreme level. For example, my good friend Peter and another compadre would take a couple hundred buttons, boil them down for 2-3 days, and allowed the concentrate to dry enough to fill a small cookie sheet. I have never seen anything like it since then, partly because Peyote is not as prevalent as it was in those days and partly because it requires a lot of buttons to make this “Peyote Hash” recipe.

Peter and friends would roll up a marble-sized piece of the extracted Peyote, eat it, and be good for more than a day. Based upon the number of buttons they used for the whole recipe he figured that each round chunk was about 10 buttons worth. A couple of Peyote Hash balls and you were in another reality, traveling through the Sycamore canyon oasis with new eyes and ears, receiving input from all your senses at a vastly amplified level. Some of the kids went plain crazy I tell ya. Like my close friend who used to shoot LSD and speed and then drive a taxi all night in Denver, I have always wondered what kind of life these kids had later. His re-entry into earth orbit took 2 years of vegetarian food, no drugs or plant powers, no alcohol, and a lot of gumption. After 2 years he could finally finish a sentence or thought.

During one of the all-night parties Peter and Rico from Chino Valley wandered off to check out the stars. They climbed up the east side of the lower cliffs to a level that was maybe 150 feet above the floor of the canyon. To put this into perspective, the canyon walls in lower Sycamore Canyon varied from 300 to 800 feet tall with little or no safe way of climbing up higher except to go level by level on protruding horizontal ledges that lined the walls every 10-25 feet or so. it was free-climbing on crumbly limestone on the lower levels and free-falling on sketchy sandstone above that.

As Rico sat with Peter and smoked herb on top of their second week of daily Peyote Hash marbles, something they later called a miracle took place before their eyes. What we figured out afterwards was that a meteorite zoomed into the earth’s atmosphere, as they frequently do (“falling stars”) and came hurtling down inside of the canyon. It didn’t vaporize until it was maybe 500 feet above the canyon floor. Both stoners were blinded for many seconds as their gaze was fixed upon it and it totally disappeared in a flash. Ozone clipped through the air, they could definitely remember it later, adding a burnt, crispy edge to the moment.

In the minutes that followed, as they sat speechless and paralyzed from any movement, both dudes had their own personal revelation of sorts. Peter told me many years after that he realized that they both could have been missing persons, without a trace, as many people go missing, had the meteorite gone a bit deeper, or had been a bit bigger, or veered a bit more towards them. [FONT=&quot]After all, what difference would an extra 1,000 meters or bouncing off a cliff make to a meteorite after coming millions of miles across the Milky Way? Pure Miracle.[/FONT]

Speaking of….though it’s probably anecdotal as well as apocryphal, there was a nice little miracle story circulating back in 1974 when Peyote was on the scene bigtime. It seems that some young hippies had become friends with a medicine man on the Navajo Res and were going back to Jerome and then Prescott after their score of some big bags of buttons. They were a bit concerned about the long haul and not being able to hide such a large amount other than stuff the trunk. If they were pulled over and searched, a fairly common occurrence back then, it would be obvious as hell when the trunk opened. The Road Chief intuited this from their energy at the moment asked for a ride to somewhere that direction, too. He said that he could help them in their journey. Reluctantly they agreed, thinking that having an old Navajo on board would totally cinch a negative profile on top of everything else.

The story goes that as they approached Flagstaff from the north late at night, the elder told them in a very serious tone that they must keep driving the whole way, no stopping for red lights or for any other reason. The kids just about flipped out hearing this and got all tweaky and started rambling on with one another. What the hell were they going to do? As they approached the first stoplight near Switzer Boulevard the driver got crazed and just kept going, driving right through a yellow-to-quick red. Soon after that light the next one was straight-on red and the Road Chief kept saying, “Go, go, go” interspersed with intense words echoing in his native tongue like a madman chanting down Babylon. They cruised through the red light and kept driving at a normal pace, eventually running several more red lights and heading on down 89A into Oak Creek Canyon on their way to Jerome and Prescott.

Perhaps a miracle? No crash, no cops, and the Medicine reached the hands and stomachs (!) of the many. Sacred inner journeys continued thanks to the intrepid hippies who went beyond the beyond.
 
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billycw

Active member
Veteran
Such a truely personal yet familiar story told with perfect bits of thought! Simply Amazing Madjag... cant wait for the next installment.
 

waveguide

Active member
Veteran
thanks for the crazy story mj :D too many people are too comfortable with the idea that nothing unusual ever happens, and the universe Will Only Ever Be the way some guy in a lab coat says it is.

too many people replace their eyes and ears with televisions and radios instead of the mysterious creation.

some day, i'd like to have the ability to mention my own experiences without simultaneously discretising myself as a pariah.
 

Madjag

Active member
Veteran
The Weave of Life – Miracles Come Your Way

The Weave of Life – Miracles Come Your Way

Think about it and I'm sure you could summon up at least 3-4 miracles that have happened to you at one time or another. Real miracles, I mean the kind that blow your mind, are not commonplace by any means, however I find it valuable, as a part of an Attitude of Gratitude, to pay careful attention to those moments that at least come close to qualifying even if they don’t totally transform your life in all of their magnificence like Jesus walking on water or Moses with the parting of the Red Sea.

Pay attention and you’ll not only see more, you’ll attract more. Seen.


My good friends Michael and Rukmini made their historic, once-in-a-lifetime journey to India back in 1970. They took the overland route, from London to Delhi, with their friend Kabir at the suggestion of Chogyam Trungpa, Rinpoche, with whom they had been granted a private audience after attending one of his seminars. Based on their interests he said, “Go to India” and they did. It took many months of driving, camping in funky hostels and dingy hotels, and the trip (literally) offered a view into the 3rd world that they still recall as life-changing in a good way. They spent considerable time in Afghanistan along the way, perhaps around the time that Sam Skunkman was trekking all over the landscape discovering the best landrace weed and hashish specimens and beginning his journey toward becoming one of the founding fathers of the Weed Era to come.

Eventually they landed in India and somehow made their way to the Kainchi ashram of Neem Karoli Baba, AKA, Neeb Karori Baba, NKB, or Maharaji. There they met Ram Dass (Dr. Richard Alpert of LSD fame), Hari Dass Baba, Dada Mukerji, and all the rest of the ashram gang. About a decade later in 1979 a beautiful book was published, Miracle of Love, consisting of a wonderfully diverse collection of “miracle” stories narrated by Ram Dass. It exposed the many miracles, some kept secret for decades because Neeb Karori Baba had sworn the person or witness to secrecy, that had been experienced by numerous devotees, Indian, European, and American.

When M and R returned to Arizona they shared their tales with their closest friends, inspiring some of them to make the journey to India to visit the Maharaji ashrams and see for themselves what the two of them could only hint at in words. As an herb smoker and inner space explorer you might imagine, and can well testify for, the fact that you just have to experience certain things personally. Other people’s explanations or comparisons or well intentioned words fall short by a million, zillion miles. It’s just that way in life and experience isn’t it? How do you explain what “getting high” is?

One of the young seekers that did make the journey was a Harvard undergrad student named David who had come out to Arizona to visit friends who in turn knew M and R. He was a somewhat serious fellow who had studied many different spiritual paths and was willing to go all the way to India in order to see for himself what the big deal was about Maharaji. He was skeptical for sure and it was big of him to put out the dollars and time to go in person instead of just writing it all off as speculation or exaggeration. Also, like many devotees-to-be, something drew him there, something unexplainable at the time, though totally recognizable and perfectly clear later.


When David arrived at the ashram, Maharaji was sitting on his tucket, a wooden bench that was large enough for him to stretch out on when needed, in the middle of a crowd of noisy devotees. They were busy talking, laughing, and eating while Maharaji did the same. That total happy sound was almost like chanting in the way that hearing a foreign language is sometimes more like music than talk. The spicy smoke of incense and rare perfume permeated the entire courtyard as well, making those present even more mindful that it was always a special place and a special time to be in NKB’s presence. David leaned against the wall of the doorway where he had entered and remembered what Meher Baba, his sort-of Indian guru, had said in his early writings: that at any time on earth there are only 5 Avatars, 5 true saints. The remainder of wise spiritual beings are just that, wise, learned, yet still bound by the laws of Karma in the way that we all are. The Avatars are not bound in the same way, if at all.

As David stared at Maharaji across the courtyard, perhaps 75-100 feet away, Maharaji lifted his head and stared right at him over the crowd of seated devotees. Maharaji lifted one hand and by slowly lifting each finger and his thumb one at a time, counted out 1-2-3-4-5. He then dropped his hand, kept David in a final, brief, locked stare, and then turned back to those immediately surrounding him, chatting happily with those devotees at his feet. He never looked at David again during that satsang. Needless to say David felt that his mind had been read; he had been thinking about 5 Avatars, saw Maharaji single him out with a stare, count out 5 fingers, and then look away. Like Ram Dass had done several years earlier when he had experienced a similar jolt into another realm, David began trying to figure out what had really happened. How did NKB do it? Was it a trick? Blah, blah, blah….his mind began short-circuiting and talking in circles to itself.


Heavy stuff that makes the grade, eh? Or do you have to see for yourself, too?

My Miracle list continues to grow, like my plants, over the years. By being tuned into that channel I have definitely felt the manifestation of energies moving behind the scene of daily life. Even at the instant of a single event there are quantum implications by the trillions and usually we cannot see them until they have become a “reality”. Some folks, though, tap into that stream and know everything in every moment without limits. They serve as doorways and make new energy available from the Universe, like the flowers of the sacred herb can provide, or meditation, or physical challenges.


It’s always there, just every person has to discover their own passageway for getting to that place. What’s yours?
 
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waveguide

Active member
Veteran
it did occur to me to construe that your meteorite may have been some prankster's pyrotechnic. i could happily go on believing that you had been deceived or mistaken and that my own ingenious analysis of your account had struck the pith... since Improbable Things Never Happen until they are documented by the appropriate Authority. without seeing, feeling or hearing anything myself. i'd be a prick, but i could do this.

this is the strength of what i call "referentialism" in culture, to manufacture certainty out of ignorance. or, if one prefers, "being pricks".

of course it really means sod all to believe anything in regards to what one does not observe firsthand. only my own character is subjected to the ravages of my discernments beyond whatever measures i may use to translate those discernments into action.. and it is this translation that most concerns me, and all of us in this era.. the relationship between belief and power.

"okay, waveguide, we're OverGrow, we're on that".


you can assault a person with miracles. dump four or five on them in rapid succession and watch them destroy themselves attempting to balance their new definition with whatever society accedes.

you'd become swiftly bored of my accounts.. if you ever made it into walter bowart's circle in southern arizona, you know the kind i mean.

to word it delicately, "authoritarianism has done humanity a great disservice to create hostility where there should be indifference". you can see it right here in the toker's forum everyday. should be stoned, shouldn't give a shit, but fuck let's find Someone Who Is Wrong On The Internet. then it can be a good day.

and this is why i do so much appreciate any testimony that would commonly be seen as fantastic. i'm not a storyteller, i'm an outsider (what ws burroughs termed dindin lol) and am more able to elicit narrative in others via my own persistence. lol... la familia.. they call me ufo. they call me baila. but they don't call me anything too loud.

satyam eva fucking jayate.
 

wolfhoundaddy

Member
Veteran
Some would say you're High On Life, tripping the light fantastic,looking thru rose colored glasses.
In the sunshine of my youth...I swam the colorado ....bare ass naked, there and back...it's a miracle I'm alive!
and
I need a miracle everyday.
Thanks for the musings MJ, peeling the cover off our sleepwalking days, scratching that itch.
 

titoon29

Travelling Cannagrapher Penguin !
Veteran
What a great thread MadJag ! Thank you so much for sharing these experiences, it is for me amazing to be able to learn about what was going on before I was born.

I like the great spirit around your ideas of growing, and wish there were more like you nowadays. I hope these stories will inspire more !
 

Madjag

Active member
Veteran
High On Life

High On Life

Some would say you're High On Life, tripping the light fantastic,looking thru rose colored glasses.

Definitely. In a user-created world, it's important to create your best world. Of course one has to choose to be your own primary creator rather than the result of other forces, like "victims" feel they are.

I need a miracle everyday.
Everyday is a miracle. I know that you know that.

Thanks for the musings MJ, peeling the cover off our sleepwalking days, scratching that itch.
Love the waking up part in order to scratch the itch deeper.

Ram Dass once said something to the effect,
"I still fall asleep, but now my falling asleep wakes me up".

Carlos Castaneda also said, "I still run out of gas, but now it's in front of a gas station when I do".


Peace,
MJ
 

Madjag

Active member
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I Knew The Guy Who Knew The Guy

I Knew The Guy Who Knew The Guy

Peter came back from Buenaventura with good news. He had visited a super cartel weed stash in the Buenaventura area that his boss wanted a report on. He did the usual “eye hit” by going in person to see for himself. The hideout and export staging area was within the Uramba Bahia Malaga, a system of river tributaries spilling into a gigantic tropical estuary bay just north of Buenaventura on the upper west coast of Colombia. Here, international, long-haul boatmen would wait to be loaded in the main bay while smaller boats ferried the weed from hidden places up any one of the hundred side river channels. Larger boats, particularly the government patrol boats, sat too low in the water and were much too wide for the narrow channels these stash platforms or warehouses on stilts were located within.

Unlike the popular beaches near Santa Marta above Cartagena on the northern Caribbean coast, the west coast was untamed and a perfect operations center for the exporters of Colombian weed and cocaine. Now known as Uramba Parque Nacional Natural, the area was primarily controlled by paramilitary cocaine traffickers in the 1980’s. It’s as wild as any oceanfront property in the world, Kalimantan (formerly Borneo) included.


Simon Phillips, a well-known off-the-beaten-path travel writer was amazed by the area and described it thus:

“The rain falls heavier here on the Colombian coast than in the Amazon. Possibly heavier than anywhere else in the world, this region is so under-studied. Never before have I experienced such magnitude of thunder and lightning and such torrential rain. It is akin to something biblical and I am charged with a new kind of energy which I have not before experienced.

With the overwhelming power of the storm and the constant din of waves breaking on the shoreline only meters below us, sleep proves difficult. By 4am we are sat upright in the attic of the discotheque. A million rain drops thunder on the asbestos roof above us, and wind tears through the holes between the wooden slats which form the walls. We are compelled to the moment. Staring into this wild weather front which comes every night, and does not pass until well after dawn.”



I had been a grower most of my early years but had never seen foreign herb fields until 1978 when I visited Negril, Jamaica. Talk about rain. Though Negril averages only a mere 60 inches per year, on the northeast part of the island, in the foothills south of Port Antonio leading up to the north side of the Blue Mountains, the rainfall measures in the vicinity of 200+ inches per year. Though that’s still only about half the annual rainfall of Kauai’s famous rain canyons, which in turn probably receive less than the Uramba Bahia Malaga, I could relate to the biblical sense that Simon Phillips spoke about when I had to huddle in a small tin shack during a gigantic 2 hour downpour during a visit to the Blue Mountain foothills 10 miles south of Port Antonio. After the rain the humidity eats you alive once the sun returns and the earth just pushes the vegetation up before your eyes. No wonder there are strains of bamboo that grow almost an inch an hour in the tropics. They live in rainy places like these. And little wonder why ganja grows so readily as well.

Peter’s home town of Cali was not far from this coast of conflict and he had spent many moons hanging out with the locals in the odd towns like BV. He wasn’t there for fun or a relaxing, good time; it was his job, you see, and he did it well. Peter was from the Columbo upper class, the almost-ruling class, and had education, skill, cleverness, and quick reflexes. Shit, he grew up with a maid bringing him his breakfast on a bed tray every morning! I used to kid him on that one you can be sure. He learned English simultaneously with Spanish from the time he entered the Cali British School at age 5. His father was a successful attorney and his mother came from an old, old family with close ties to the government. His uncle was, and still is, an important artist, like a Colombian Picasso who is a sculptor instead of a painter.

Peter’s job was to be the eyes and ears of the Godmother, a somewhat invisible woman whose reach was legendary in the business, yet she hadn’t even made world news until a decade later. He used his exceptional wit and awareness to blend into the background wherever he went and he took extensive, accurate mental notes. Whatever he reported was taken as it should have been, as the absolute truth about the situation. It wasn’t his bag to jump into the big leagues down there, mostly because he never owned, carried, or even wanted a gun and was more interested in dancing with the inner energies involved in “Seeing” in the Castaneda sense. He had no big attraction to power over others. His interest was in the powers he could command within his own life.

Except for martial artists and yogis, he was the first everyday person that I had met who truly exemplified the spirit of a warrior. Maybe my perception was influenced by the Castaneda novels that I had been devouring over the years, but he blew away everyone he met because he spoke little and used events and doings to make his point. No one even came close when it came to setting the stage for a given moment. Peter could seemingly make a small situation seem big and take a large, out of control scene and make it quiet itself. Later we speculated that he was a natural hypnotist and used his uncanny senses of timing, disappearance, and the strategic application of overwhelmingly potent weed to create a moment he owned in every way. Yet he had a light touch, like the touch of a comedian or court jester. He never, and I mean ever, put anyone down in all the years I knew him. No harsh words to anyone, no harsh words about anyone. He merely lived deeply in the moment and then more deeply in the next. He was an incredible indulger, addictively so, and that quality, which I found as a mirror of a part of my own nature, lead us to speak of ourselves and the others in our circle as “Los Deviatos”, the Deviates.


Upon his arrival in Phoenix at Sky Harbor Terminal One, the oldest of the landing bays that still required a Joe to exit the jet out onto the tarmack and walk across the cement in 112 degree sun to the terminal doors, we met and boogied out to the hills as fast as we could. We stopped in Jerome for a beer at Paul & Jerry’s and then moved next door to a small table in The Spirit Room against the ancient plate glass window overlooking 89A. scents of old wood and strong beer saturated the air as we caught up on everything. Peter spilled the good news. He had personally viewed somewhere in the vicinity of 50 dried and packaged tons of jungle Colombo during his most recent visit to the western coast. It was stacked on a free-standing, wooden platform that also served as a dock, hidden deep in one of the hundreds of narrow river channels dumping into the bay just north of Buenaventura, and it was ours for the taking. The Godmother made it available on front if Peter could move it north and sell it and all we needed now was someone with a boat, smuggling experience, a marine band radio with some serious wattage, and a buyer. That’s all.

Neither of us had ever sold much weight. I had sold my previous guerilla harvests to two people who did all the rest. I had given them the super-duper, meet-me-at-the-edge-of-my-canyon discount and personally had no experience as a dealer. Peter had only sold ounces of his rare private grower’s stash from Colombia, Candybar, which sold itself instantly and had a waiting line ready for more. As I had experienced with John the trucker/pilot who had been our Mexican connection, for physically moving big weight we only knew people who knew the people we wanted to know. We had all the connections in the world for getting big weight, but no wheels if you get my meaning. Not only that, where in hell would we find all of these abilities rolled into one person: someone who could handle the import and then sell 100,000 lazy boys? We really didn’t want to deal with two or more primaries on this. It gets too messy when you have to pay the boat people before you can start sales. Some of you I’m sure have had this kind of conundrum, especially if you moved in import circles back then. It was not that unusual in those days when the central and southern American country boys were throwing it at the border, but really. What would you do, turn it down or try to make it happen?


The man whose name I cannot speak was one of my local heroes. He used a Cessna 185 the way most of us use a car. We calculated it once and discovered that he had spent an average of 5 hours a day flying since he received his pilot’s license 15 years earlier at the age of 16. He actually got his pilot’s license before he went for his driver’s license. Imagine! He stopped keeping a flight log after 10,000 hours. With a rural house that had its own dirt road leading in about a ½ mile that also doubled as an airstrip and sporting extra large tires on his 185 mounted specifically for rough field landings, his movements were like those of a daily auto commuter’s except in the air. His roots were in the Mexican bounce to the US back in the late 60’s, a splendid time of seemingly unlimited bravado and perpetual motion for the fly boys of the alternate air force.

My guy had waterbed-style soft fuel tanks buried in the desert at roadless, remote spots about 50 miles or so above the border on the American side. These totally safe stashes allowed him to drop his load of primo weed, quickly refuel, and then fly south and back toward Mexico in order to fall off invisibly into the east or west airspace just above Interstate 10 that was not under scrutiny. He never failed a mission and only crashed a plane once because he was a bit too high and not paying attention while departing from a very easy mesa-top airstrip. He nosed down and broke the prop.

Let’s call him Mr. C for the sake of simplicity. It’s better that way. I cannot speak his name because of respect and caring, and honestly, I’m not sure he’s made it past the 10 consecutive years with no infractions necessary to be clear of federal CCE convictions, Continuing Criminal Enterprise. Too often have I seen good men about to be clear of their concerns from the past and sadly get a knock on the door at 4 years and 10 months for Conspiracy charges, or 9 years and 8 months for CCE. The arm of the law can reach far when you hit the radar. Stay below the radar, please, will you.

Mr. C grew up in Arizona, the son of a smart rancher from a small rural town. When we met I thought I had met my long lost brother, not because we had so much in common or shared similar ideas, but because of our uncanny resemblance physically. Once, my wife got a call from a friend who mentioned that she had just seen me in Jerome with two ladies, one on each arm. I had an honest, perfect alibi so I wasn’t concerned and once my wife heard from another close friend who had been on the scene that night that it had been Mr. C she laughed and said, “Of course, I’ve seen him playing around, too”. Married men in small towns, what can you say? As they used to joke in Jerome back then, if someone sneezes tonight, everyone knows the next day. No joke. Too many eyes and ears with nothing better to do.

Peter and I were in the Bay area for a quick meeting with one of his Colombo buddies. The loads were coming so fast that they needed more help with surveillance as well as for moving money around the states. Being trustworthy and cleared for any level of responsibility made Peter extremely valuable and afforded him the ability to meet a shitload of connections in the shadow economy world. For example, because of his New York associations he had purchased an actual New York driver’s license and accompanying Social Security number from one of his closer Colombo acquaintances for 2500 bucks; both IDs were in the actual New York state database, both were able to stand any scrutiny from the law. Weed wasn’t the only thing these “friends in low places” could provide as he also learned some months later when he needed to re-enter the US after a visit to Guadalajara. They had the cream of the crop Coyotes along the border in their employ and saw to it that he came across without worry, quickly and efficiently. No huddling in the dark followed by a mad dash across the line. No Kamikaze vehicle that may or may not arrive. Peter was driven across in a family car and waved on without the slightest stop by our border customs men after a brief stop and window peek. Who knows if they had these guys in their pocket or if it had been just chance and a well-disguised vehicle driven by a mild-mannered American that pulled it off. After meeting some of these Columbo specialists later, I’ll vote for the former possibility. These fixers had ways of fixing many problems.

I often asked Peter about his world because it was so intense and exciting and I was hooked when he told me the true events behind the scenes. I had found my own passion in the deep, desert canyons, growing primo weed and living the life of a desert renegade, but his world was one of true physical danger and required a different attitude if you decided to play. To be successful and just continue living meant you had to make few mistakes, if any. You had to be a ruthless in the same sense that Carlos Castaneda’s Don Juan imparted in his teachings. There were plenty of players on every level, though only a few warriors. Peter was a warrior and so was Mr. C.

While we were waiting to be contacted by his Colombo boys, we had a light bulb go off and came up with a long shot for the 50 tons. I mean why not, let’s ask Mr. C. We knew that he was in the Bay area, too; he had told us before we left our mutual hometown in case we wanted to party with him while we were there. He had a second (3rd, 4th ?) home just north of the Golden Gate and knew the area well. He had some hip clubs in mind for us to enjoy. But this was more than just a party call, it was the biggest possible move we had ever been a part of and if Mr. C had the connections we knew he did, it might be our chance to strike it rich. All we wanted was a nice commission, say 3-5%, and we’d be….Yeah, you know the rest. Connecting two dudes, the source and the buyer, and collecting a commission from then on, is every weedster’s dream.


Though Mr. C was a pilot, he had friends in many places. His extensive resume included Afghanistan in the late 1960’s, Mexico in the early 1970’s, and Pakistan in the late 1970’s through the early 2000’s. He practically lived in Peshawar for awhile. His old Afghani digs first played into the hands of the Soviets, and then into the hands of the Taliban, so he had to move to northern Pakistan to continue his work. His contacts ranged from DC-3 fly boys to boat-barge combo captains who sailed the oceans and could deliver serious weight in one shot across the world. Or two or three or four. You can imagine the reputation and street credentials he carried when it came to making deals at this level. He never carried a gun, never dealt hard drugs, and rarely used a phone. He would rather fly a 1,000 miles to sit down and talk with someone than use a phone unless it was a secure line, scrambled with what was quite the hi-tech gizmo for the time. a handheld jumbo device that you put your phone against or more specifically, into! A bit later a much smaller version of a scrambler that you held in front of the phone handset hit the market and Mr. C was one of the first to get a dozen. They were made in Europe and he felt they were clean of any back-doors or built-in decryption angles. Today this would be a moot point since even the current 256 DES cipher can be cracked in a relatively short time by the NSA, though our government will tell you otherwise just to keep you feeling safe so you’ll continue trusting your current technology to keep secrets. Throughout the years whispers of CIA involvement swirled around Mr. C, no wonder.

This opportunity was all or nothing, We had to take all 50 tons or none at all. And it had to be within a week or two because the weed would get funky sitting in the humidity down there. This was a serious point when discussing Colombian weed and why issues of degenerating quality were common in tropical places – it was damn difficult to dry and cure large quantities in such humidity even if the rainy season didn’t interfere, which if it did could be catastrophic. This dry/cure factor alone, I believe, brought about the wave of commercial to dirtbag quality Colombo that plagued the market in later years once they began their increasingly colossal plantation grows and began literally throwing it at our borders. Growing 50 or 100 tons is fine if you have a way to dry it, but guess what, it’s not that easy in the back hills or mountains of third-world countries. I know many guerilla growers reading this history this can testify to the fact that when you have that sudden big, bumper crop that you’ve always wanted, new problems arise. It’s that economy of scale for weed, baby.

Drying and curing is definitely tough when guerilla growing and so is transporting that larger load to wherever you have to go. It can turn out to be a nightmare….unless you’ve planned well for your new growth. High-end Colombo was more likely to travel in smaller loads whether by air or sea. Thus, as Colombian became popular the quality became uneven as so many exporters got into the biz in a big way. Most Colombo earned the rating of mere commercial quality as the years progressed. Eventually the coke business made weed so secondary and so unattractive in SA that even commercial bales became difficult to find. Fortunately those who had good connections they could still get the Santa Marta Gold, or Red, or Black Colombo. But many exporters switched sides and felt why move boatloads of weed when a suitcase of cola was worth the same and much easier to import, stash, and deal? Ironically, as you have witnessed over the past 35 years, coke began coming in by the boatload anyway. I guess some folks have never heard of “too much of a good thing”.

We met at a local sushi bar in Redwood City and broke the news to Mr. C over a bottle of hot sake. Nothing like sushi and sake to get a plan on its way. He wasn’t that surprised about the quantity of herb in question, however he did pull me aside quietly and asked me how well I knew Peter once we hit him with this, “ Oh yeah, the split will be 50-50 between us and the transportation guys. Your boys will get 25 tons for bringing it in”. A split like this was unusual and instantly set off the red flares. Next he asked how long I had known Peter. Then he asked where we had met. Then he asked was I sure he was OK. He was collected yet nervous.

I could tell he was concerned because it sounded to good to be true and one of the first rules in the biz is if it sounds to good to be true…it usually is. The too good to be true offer is often the bait on a sting operation’s fishing rod, reading to reel in the sucker that jumps at it. I have had one, maybe two, genuine situations that were not only TGTBT but also turned out to be massively bonus, like a hidden treasure that fell into my lap and proved to be better yet. Still, you know how it goes most of the time.

Mr. C was somewhat satisfied when I gave him all the details confirming my friendship and faith in Peter. Peter had been hanging out for several years in the same small Arizona town that Mr. C hailed from and though they had never met, he had heard talk of a Colombian in the area for several years through mutual friends. He respected my friendship with Peter as well, but being a skillful professional who has never seen the inside of a jail, he had to be convinced, really convinced, before he’d lift a finger.

An offer of such magnitude on the first date was unsettling. Back at the table I whispered to Peter that Mr. C was reluctant. What could we do to prove your people are for real? Think about it, I said, if it was you would you jump in? He asked Mr. C if his boatmen had worked in Colombia before and Mr. C said yes. Peter wrote a name down on a napkin (oh the napkins that must be floating around in people’s collections) and gave it to Mr. C. He told him to give that name to his captain and wait and see. I found out later that though it was a gamble, the name on that napkin opened all the doors. Peter added that Mr. C’s guys should use their connections to double-check that Peter was in the family. Peter gambled on the fact that virtually no one outside of those who had actually been there and done that would recognize the name. He knew it carried weight and even if they thought he was a narc using top-secret info, their connections would keep calling on the next higher guy until someone said, oh yeah, Peter, he’s in the car.

The rest was history. Mr. C drove away and left us to our sushi feast. An hour or so later he walked back in smiling from ear to ear. It hadn’t taken many calls at all and his captain confirmed that he had even moved a load or two for that family once before. That group was one of the few dozen with substantial clout that controlled the world of weed in South America in the late 70’s and early 80’s, with cartel names or leaders that you would recognize later in the news for their better-known move into coca products as the Disco era unfolded and the need for that white fuel expanded. His boatmen would pull it off, as many a nameless, invisible boatload had been smuggled in the past. Docks would be swarming with helpers and warehouses would get full. Vehicles would come and go and the daily grind of the commercial weed business would carry on as it had for endless years, played out in ports around the world.

Mr. C, the man whose name I cannot speak, is still out there. He says he’s retired, a line I had heard from him more than once throughout the years. God bless him. His legendary skill and dedication to the weed world exclusively has earned him a lot of gold stars in the continuing book of Cannabis. Who knows, maybe you bought a bit of hash back then, too, from a guy who knew a guy who knew the guy.
 
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waveguide

Active member
Veteran
*edited*

apologies for alarmism.. previous post was true, and in such circumstances one must consider and react all possibilities (and being vocal

is a great way to deter harassment)

in this case, yes.. seed investigations are conducted by the dept. of agriculture. in case you didn't know that.
 

waveguide

Active member
Veteran
..and to keep this on topic (i so wish there was some place to talk about growing *here* ... some place people used)

re: "running out of gas..."

while the ag. dept is outside, the postman pulls up. ...with my other order.

;)

..back under the radar for this guy who yields about one gram a month in el shitecab. thx for investigating :p

:blowbubbles:
 

Madjag

Active member
Veteran
"See, It's All Perfect"

"See, It's All Perfect"

That's one of my favorite Neeb Karori Baba sayings. It says a lot more than most folks can imagine.

It takes panoramic awareness, the opposite of focused, tunnel vision, to see that indeed, all is perfect in the cosmic sense. To me it also seems that the more a person is open to accepting everything as a gift, a lesson, a sign, or some form of usable energy, the easier life becomes. Go with the flow, please.

Not understanding this simplicity, huge numbers of people, especially those who wield great power through money, religion, or politics are busy trying to control the morality of other people. Not content to merely work on themselves and focus on their own issues, these folks strive to make others follow their rules of morality that have no place in the life of an adult already living the Golden Rule, like you and me.

Victimless crimes must be overlooked, excused, forgiven, and forgotten. Until then, humans will continue to run in circles, chasing a world that cannot and should not be required to exist. Bad power-trips should be outlawed instead.

The strong oak tree eventually meets its match and either snaps in the wind or is totally uprooted by it. Bamboo bends until it touches the ground, yielding to the forces upon it, however it recovers and stands again once it has weathered the storm.

The world is changing at an exponential rate. In Ghengis Khan's day it took months, even years to target an enemy, move into a new region, and mount a battle. Now it's as fast as pressing a button, launching a drone, and firing a Hellfire missile at the target’s house or car.

Synthetic Biology is at the door with Pandora's Box as a gift for everyone. Are humans wise enough to wield such God-like power? Hold on, because you're going to find out in a big way over the next 5-15 years.

"Making life better, one part at a time" - SyntheticBiology.org website motto​

For an herb grower Syn Bio might mean reliably and repeatedly reproducing strains, and huge volumes, in seemingly flawless ways. You'll be able to shop online for terpenes that offer whatever flavor or "entourage effects" that you desire in your “Frankenweed” as well the ability to design the ratio of major cannabinoids in your strain creation. Want to include early-flowering traits because you live in Iceland? Why bother when you can add the freezing-resistant genes of an Arctic fish and still harvest in the snow? No one will be able to tell the difference by taste so why not go for the convenience? Think you'd like to turn up the mind-altering effects of your brand to the extent that your customers will have difficulty remembering if they have smoked weed or eaten mushrooms? It can be done with simple combinations of genes coming soon to a webstore near you.

Don’t laugh or say bullshit quite yet. Read the article I linked to above, it’s long and captivating, and then come back to comment. The world as we know it is already changing like a chameleon and what we think we’re looking at is actually something else. Recombinant DNA, GMO crops, Transgenic Tomatoes with fish genes inserted, and more exceptions than you’d like to know are already out there in the agricultural stream.

“The DNA plasmid that is inserted into the genome of the FLAVR SAVR tomato is not considered to be a new substance since DNA is found in all living things and is destroyed in the human digestive tract. Thus, the only new substance introduced into the FLAVR SAVR tomato by genetic engineering is APH(3’)II (Engel 77), the bacterial antibiotic. A substance like APH(3’)II is the cause for the greatest concern in genetically altered plants because it is a new chemical not found in the natural varieties that has the potential of being toxic or severely allergenic to humans. For example, a gene from a cold-water fish was introduced into strains of strawberries and citrus to induce frost resistance, but the resulting protein could induce allergic reactions in people who are allergic to seafood (Engel 101). “
The Transgenic Tomato

( Set to the movie song “Bad Boys” )
Humans, humans, whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when the genes own you?

So, OK, we’ll live to be 125 years old, still have a sharp memory, and sex will no longer be a just memory past 80. Our body parts will be replaced, or most likely be re-grown and regenerated from within our bodies, rendering us as slick as Steve Austin, the Six Million Dollar Man. What next?

I think it’s very feasible to conceive that within 10-15 years we won’t be smoking weed at all in order to get the effects we so dearly treasure. The same will be true for LSD, mushrooms, Peyote, and all therapeutic, psychoactive plants. You might go through the motions and light up the pipe in order to experience that Old-School feeling again, however you could just as easily take a pill, use an electronic device, or eat a Power Bar with the genetic info included in the pharmaceutical, or the specific part of the brain stimulated, or the genetic ingredients whipped into the confection.

Remember the Korova Milk Bar in Clockwork Orange? Like the easy access to the mescaline drinks that Alex and his boyz enjoyed before their stompin’ fun, the bio hackers, who I guarantee are on their way, will ensure that these “advances” are available to the masses, obtained legally or not, perhaps at a steep price, too, but nevertheless it will be out there once the technology is in place.

Organic food for thought…..
 
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Madjag

Active member
Veteran
RCC's Excellent Arizona Adventure

RCC's Excellent Arizona Adventure

You have to know how conservative Arizona was in the Barry Goldwater days to appreciate what it was like for me to meet a total stranger at the Phoenix Sky Harbor airport baggage claim, see him grab his suitcase off the carousel, and pull out several thousand cannabis seeds in colorfully labeled packets. I was used to managing a fair amount of healthy paranoia, the kind that tempers one against leaving roaches in the ashtray or smoking a joint in dense traffic where you might get made by a plain clothes police, so I for one was confused and getting ready to split.

Standing beneath the airport surveillance cameras smack dab in the middle of the baggage claim area and watching a stoned-out hippie hand me 3,000 Skunk #1 and Afghani #1 seeds was beyond my comprehension. I looked in all directions. Was this a setup? Should I just boogie? How could this guy be so open and easy and not be worried about the cops?

He was from Santa Cruz. of course….

Thus began my friendship with RCC as well as my introduction to how Cali guys ride….at least in 1978 or thereabouts. We left the airport quickly in my 64 Buick Electra, a true chrome lead sled, and shot up Interstate 17 to the Verde Valley on our escape. We had met through his column in High Times magazine and I had only corresponded with him through letters, that’s right, real letter mail, and his plan, much to my surprise, entailed the personal delivery of my seeds. I believe his decision to deliver in person was based partly upon his curiosity concerning what I was up to way out in the deep canyons of Arizona and partly because I was his largest single customer up to that point. Mailing 5 G’s worth of seeds was not an option. How could you insure them?


The going price was $2.00 per seed and had been discounted to $1.75 because of the volume we were purchasing. I could have bargained to pay less, however I was so jazzed at the idea of getting such powerful, “certified and true-breeding” strains that I honestly didn’t care. With these seeds we would blow away the current Arizona market as well as the new market we were considering, Manhattan. My Rasta connection was interested and I knew it would only take a few test tokes to convince them that this smoke was beyond anything they had ever encountered, Lamb’s Bread and all. When the boss Rasta finally took a few tiny draws on a New York needle and went ballistic, I knew we were in the car.

We landed my 225 V-8 in short order at my house and I felt a lot better. Close calls of that sort of bizarre nature were uncommon in my world because we ran a tight outfit at Madjag. Loose lips sinking ships or any of the crew making the wrong kind of friends was not allowed and peacefully enforced. We looked after each other and our success up to that point was enviable though not legendary. To hit that next level of brilliant success would have its own new challenges, even while being careful to a “T”. Legendary moves would require even greater awareness in order to stay invisible on the home front. Just like the movies where one guy just has to tell another “friend” about his special secret, we all had to remind one another that we were not in it for fame or money alone. It was the lifestyle and freedom that really made our lives so sweet. Like the National Security Administration’s (NSA) motto, Never Say Anything, we worked hard at being silent.

Besides being quiet and avoiding parties and bars, hiding in plain sight was the other side of the coin while being guerrilla growers. Everyone we knew wanted to know what we did for a living. Lying gets old though we did it anyway. Selling solar electric photovoltaic panels during those days was a nice cover and offered the side benefit of blending in with the local alternative energy people and passive solar builders as well. I even made some money at it and learned quite a bit that would come in handy later in life when I put up my own small stand-alone PV system on my remote land’s cabin. When RCC fell into our world he knew none of these things about us. He merely knew we were growers from AZ who he wanted to meet in person.

The seeds were truly outstanding, freshly minted Afghani #1 and Skunk #1, the stuff of High Times legends that we wanted to lovingly plant in our gardens. In today’s world of dozens of decent online cannabis seed companies that offer an unbelievable selection of outstanding seeds, remember that back in the 1970’s the weed seed business was virtually nonexistent. You got your seeds from the seeded weed you bought or from friends. Meeting RCC was a dream come true for us. His seeds were the result of a friend’s Afghani, Indian, Nepal, and Asian herb collection travels followed by lengthy grow outs that included serious phenotype criteria and genetic selection. Mr. Santa Cruz was equally very interested in our experiences and enjoyed the photos we had taken in our previous years’ gardens. Though he wasn’t ready to visit Madjag canyon on this visit, he promised he’d return during the summer season in order to examine our work in person. It would be 4 or 5 months until he returned so we did the obligatory Jerome and Sedona fly-by tour for a little fun on this initial visit. RCC fit in anywhere and our first meeting was a smoky success. We could hardly wait to get him back and into our canyon world. We were sure he’d be blown away by the raw high-desert nature since his previous experience had been solely with various California-style gardens, the deeply forested Redwood areas of the southern San Francisco peninsula or the dense rolling hills of northern Cali’s Emerald Triangle.

RCC had flown home to his seed lab and our work intensified. The early season chores of hiking in supplies like 5-Gallon gas cans for our 5 HP Briggs & Stratton centrifugal pump, a larger tent that had been spray painted in perfect camo colors, and more Yellow Front foam slabs for camping were soon underway. We needed a lot more blood meal and bone meal this year because we were going to plant two gardens simultaneously. A second pump, a second tent, virtually doubles of everything we had been using in the years before would be necessary. The gardens were several miles apart so we had totally independent camps and equipment stashes. The thought was (a little optimistic, but hey) that should one garden get popped and we were aware enough to know about it, we could still pull off the other. We could enter from an entirely different direction and avoid any surveillance, too, thus insuring the success of at least one garden. We were aiming for 100 mature female plants per garden, an estimate that was not entirely outrageous since one of the gardens we would be using had yielded around 90 plants the year before.


Hiking 50 pound sacks of blood meal or bone meal for an hour through a dense juniper-pinyon landscape, dropping 1500 feet over refrigerator-size boulders into a remote canyon, and then continuing the passage for another 1 ½ hours along the tall forest of the canyon creek was not only difficult and dangerous, it was repetitively tiring. It would swallow many man-hour workdays that could be better spent preparing the two gardens, pruning the adjacent brush and turning/fertilizing the soil. We would need 10 bags each of blood meal and bone meal, 200 feet of 3” heavy-duty industrial rubber hose with fire hose spin-on fittings, and at least 6 of the 5-gallon gas cans filled to the brim. We learned the hard way that gas cans had to be double-bagged in trash bags and sealed closed with duct tape so that the fumes caused from the repeated shaking of the cans during the strenuous hike would not permeate our lungs and clothing. Before we discovered this even our cheese smelled of petrol. The blood meal and bone meal were also candidates for bagging because of the eternal stench that they could impart to one’s hair and clothing. Nothing like waking up in the night for a sip of water and smelling blood meal and gas everywhere in the pristine wilderness! Hey, learn as you go, eh?

We definitely needed an alternative. Helicopters were discussed because of our old friend John who could pilot one with ease. After speaking to him and discovering what it would cost we ditched that hallucination. He would have to qualify in whatever ship he wanted to rent by spending 10 hours training with an instructor in order to be certified in that craft. Then there would be the rental price itself, easily in the thousands. No, we had to figure another way or get real busy lugging those 50-pound packs. Time was of the essence. I don’t know how the concept arose, but one of the crew suggested an airdrop. Fly in low and slow and drop the bags. How cool would that be.

None other than Mr. C turned out to be the man who would pull it off. Pilot, adventurer, and all-around deviato, Mr. C set us up with a test drop of involving only two 50-pound bags. He thought it wise to give it a check first and evaluate the flight approach as well as the actual drop zone. We took the front passenger seat out of his famous tail-dragger Cessna and went for a spin. In addition to wrapping the fertilizer bags in multiple trash bags and duct taping them thoroughly, we also took off the passenger door so I could crouch down inside the plane and hold the sack outside against the fuselage ready for the drop. At his signal I would release the bag and we’d watch it tumble toward the garden.

We flew the canyon rim several times making sure that there were no ranchers, hikers, or forest service employees lingering in the vicinity. All was clear and the test drop was on. Mr. C brought his 185 around and started a deep descent into Madjag Canyon, keeping the drop zone in sight by using a small inner canyon ridge as his place marker. I slipped one bag out the door and held on for dear life. The angle for holding the bundle was not exactly safe or comfortable and I suddenly realized that we had not accounted for the air drag pushing on the bundle and working to tear it from my grip. Is this what the Mexicans go through when they make aerial weed drops in the desert?

I heard the word “now” and let go. I looked up and saw trees flying into my immediate vision. Before I could say a fucking word we pitched upward and barely cleared the trees on that inner canyon ridge that we had used for a landmark. Mr. C pulled up and up and finally when we were just above the canyon rim he said, “That was close.” I nervously began questioning him about the need for another test drop. He said it was no problem and we should take advantage of our time today. I agreed and we started a second pass. We duplicated our first drop with the exception that Mr. C pulled up much quicker and said “now” perhaps a second earlier. We flew out of the canyon and did a third fly-by, this time to see how well we had hit our drop zone.

It wasn’t too difficult to spot our drop. Since one of the bags was bone meal it had left a bright white blotch about 10 feet long and 5 feet wide across the open part of the alluvial plateau we had chosen for our second garden. Even without hitting a tree branch the bag had ripped open wildly and splashed its perfect white color for all to see. I was pretty sure that it would be quite visible from the canyon edge as well as from an aerial perspective. Bummer….


We learned a lot from that test flight. We used our new knowledge of the drop approach to make sure that our next two drops involving hoses as well as fertilizer bundles would be successful, safer, and more accurate. In addition to a garbage bag around each 50-pound bag we also mummified the entire bag with a roll of duct tape per bag and then tied sturdy brown rope in a series of knots about 5 inches apart around the whole bundle. It looked like a woven net around a duct tape mummy bundle. It gave me a much better grip to hold onto until I released the payload and insured that even if the bag ripped slightly upon splashdown, crashing into a rock or sharp branch, it would not expose its brilliant color for all to see. It could tear but not explode. The blood meal, being deep red-brown, wasn’t an issue nor was the 4 heavy coils of 3” black rubber hoses with the quick release fittings. We also compensated for the extra weight of an additional 300 pounds per flight and avoided any more close calls with that dangerous inner canyon, tree-lined ridge. Mr. C had survived more bizarre 3rd world air missions than I could ever conceive so I knew I was in good hands. Still, ya gotta be cool, calm, and collected for this line of work…. and trust the pilot without question.

Spring moved into summer. The breezy, cool 80-degree days gave way quickly to the 95-103 heat. At least the day’s heat was offset by a nice 35-40 degree temperature differential after 10 pm. The cool 65-70 degree nights at the bottom of our canyon were almost always accompanied by an alternating up-canyon/down-canyon breeze and that meant a good night’s rest. The daily creek swim, staying in until you felt frozen, was a lifesaver, too, as the typical intense sun and crispy heat became the norm. Our new garden, the Anasazi, was fully stocked with a new pump and hose system, a new tent, plenty of gas for the whole season, and lots of organic fertilizer courtesy of Air Sinsemilla. Even Mr. C had agreed to accept 3-4 ounces at harvest time in exchange for the three flights he piloted for us. Sweet that was.

As we drifted off to sleep, talking about the day’s work and what was ahead, the nocturnal soundtrack of crickets took over as the daytime hypnotic songs of the cicadas faded away. The breeze started its alternating canyon flow, and the occasional sound of night birds echoed throughout our domain. We were at peace.

RCC returned like a storm, arriving suddenly at my humble abode in his own rental car on one fine June morning. We greeted and sat around the living room where my second daughter had been born just a few years earlier, a cozy space where many a smoke had floated past the huge Two Grey Hills Navajo rug on the wall. What the house lacked in construction (it was 70 years old and had an outhouse still standing when we bought it) it made up for in the numerous collections of worldwide handicrafts, local trippy art, unique mineral specimens, and Native American blankets and rugs. Cover the old wood paneling and make it your own space, I always say.


RCC pulled out his trusty zippered leather pouch that opened to reveal 6 or 8 glass vials containing his favorite herb strains. Right then I knew I was in trouble because I was no record smoker, in fact, I was the tester for our harvests only because my smoking style was more typical of the average weed smoker than the other wizards in our crew who could suck down an ounce in as little as a few days and in no more than a week. His favored Thai, Colombian, Mexican, and hybrid strains like Skunk #1 were one-by-one described, examined up close with a loop, deeply sampled for aroma, and ultimately rolled into small joints for sampling. As he finished one joint and started on a second variety I found myself falling backwards through deep space. Turns out I was merely lying on the living room carpet with my eyes closed, but the disorientation from too much weed was pounding me out of consciousness. RCC was obviously one of the top 5 smokers I had ever met who could virtually chain-smoke any amount of any herb. I especially liked that he didn’t use the word “pot”, in fact he hated that word. He spoke of weed as “the Sacred Herb”, and still does today. “It shows respect,” he said. True dat.

My partner and I spent three days and 2 nights every week in the gardens once the 4-month prep phase was completed and the planting was done. One night for each garden with half a day at the front and back for getting in and getting out. The hike in or out varied from 1 ½ - 2 hours and there was always the drive to and from home that took another 2 hours each way. This year, after much thought and research, we chose to be extra careful and didn’t park our own vehicles at the end of any adjacent dirt roads or 4x4 trails near our canyon as we had in years past. Instead, we paid two lady friends to drive us, drop us off in the outback, and pick us up at a set time 2 days later. They took turns and alternated the weeks that they got to be the driver and use a different car, usually their own. When we passed through the nearby small town on the route to our canyon area we laid down on the seats of the car so that any casual observer would only see a young, pretty lady driving by. It cost us $60 for each week’s round-trip plus a bonus package of 2-4 ounces after harvest, but it was a supreme bargain considering the issues surrounding vehicles being parked repeatedly in the same backcountry area or being frequently observed on these remote roads. The subsequent possibility of the plates being run by local authorities was very real once the word got out among ranchers, police, and forest service employees that vehicles parked at such remote points week after week could indicate growers returning to work their gardens. They kept an eye out for such regularly parked vehicles, especially if it wasn’t hunting season or it was during the crazy summer heat when no one in their right mind would be out hiking. It stacked the odds against most Arizona wilderness growers because they just couldn’t get it together to take such elaborate precautions or simply deemed them as silly and unnecessary and did it the way they always had in the years before. I know of two such growers whose truck plates were run, found to be registered to an address in Jerome (our nearby unique hippy haven) and were watched secretively until they completed their year, brought back their harvest, and were pruning it in Jerome. It all vaporized early one autumn morning when the Prescott Area Narcotics Task Force (PANT) burst in the door and said, “Gotcha.” You can’t take too many precautions now can you?

RCC was back in town for the promised garden visit. He felt more comfortable making it a day trip and just to be safe, not camping out in the area. He was in good physical shape for the grueling round-trip hike and at our request had promised to not take any photos along the way or at the gardens. Looking back I wish we had actually encouraged him to take photos. He could have promised instead to just keep them for himself and to later give us copies. Today I would treasure those shots because RCC was, and is, a damn good photographer. We took plenty of photos ourselves over the years; however it’s always nice to have another person’s artistic energy at work, especially a veteran grower and weed connoisseur’s personal shots. Damn.

Our visit went smoothly and RCC was amazed. Not only from the standpoint of the engineering and security we had built into our project, but also the remoteness and desert canyon beauty that we lived and worked within. At one point he said something that I’ll always remember. He said, “I can’t believe you are growing in dirt!” When questioned, he refined his statement and said that in his area of northern Cali the soil was full of humus and richly colored, spongy and moist, with a correspondingly fine yield. He considered 1-2 pounds per plant as a good baseline even under guerrilla growing conditions. Our night-time only watering system with its intricate spider web of hoses and flood zones impressed him, however he just couldn’t believe that the soil medium we were using was basically sand and silt, accumulated over the millenniums in the ancient alluvial flats just 20 feet above the deep canyon’s creek bottom. There were cottonwoods, sycamores, and a few varieties of deciduous shrubs adding their annual leaves to the decay on these flats, however not enough to make the soil even close to what he had always taken for granted back home in Cali as decent, basic soil. Crazy.

We didn’t hear from RCC until long after our fall harvest. He was off on an exploratory jaunt to find a place where he and his partner could grow a really, really large amount of his insanely strong herb. I still like to believe that what he saw on his visit to our garden is what inspired him to plan his own remote plantation. I introduced him to a wealthy friend who had some remote, boat-only access land in the Ozarks. It seemed like a good fit. But that’s another story….

It turned out to be a true bonus year and our hard work was well rewarded. After that harvest was sold we were able to do many things that we had never been able to do before. A couple of months in Jamaica with the wife and kids were first on my list. Buying a nice remote ranch in Zane Gray’s Rim country would be next. Funny how money can do that. Still, we were humble and quiet, even though we itched to do a movie, a film that could capture the tough and exciting guerrilla lifestyle we were living. Perhaps we could get a movie star down here who would bankroll a documentary. We could grow one more year and film much of the everyday action, intensifying certain aspects of the work in order to make it more captivating to the movie-going public. There could be helicopters, too. We could stage fake emergencies and illustrate how we would overcome such contingencies. It would be a winner at Sundance!

Nah.
 
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Barbanegra

Member
I love the robes man. The canyons -> just wow!


A wilderness grow like this is epic stuff. I dream of such an adventure. To do a Belini in this style, before I get too old. I'm from the metropolis, but I love the wild, hiking and camping. Take a year for high stake wilderness action, the big adventure.
Still need to find that wilderness, but...

If such should ever come into planning -> I will want it filmed.
Properly. Sundance shit. In hooded robes like yours, if the film people agree. :smoke:


Yeah man, I like the story very much. Very interesting. Thank you for sharing.
 

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