I got off the plane in San Francisco around 8pm, the iconic epicenter of the medical marijuana movement that changed everything in 1996. My next step was to find my way across this city that I hadn’t been to since I was 12 and find the greyhound bus station. Toting basically my entire life plus a tent in two duffle bags and a backpack, I took a train that seemed promising and eventually landed myself at the bus depot. It was October and Further, the superstar Grateful Dead tribute band, was touring the west coast. The train station was packed. Everyone was headed up north for both the Further show or trim season and the floor of the depot was littered with “kids” passed out on their backpacks with their acoustic guitar cases still in hand. I had four hours to burn until my bus up north so I followed the pack and got a surprisingly good few hours of shuteye. At 5 in the morning I started my final leg of my trip into what is continuously and notoriously known as “the emerald triangle”.
I was headed to Trinity county California to meet up with an old friend, Brittney and join her on an adventure neither of us had ever experienced. We were going to work on a mass production “trim scene”. We were to join 25 or so other people on a farm in a small town in trinity county, where we would live in tents for the next month next to a garden of ripening 6 foot tall cannabis plants and spend our days manicuring the fresh, dried, buds. I was excited. My whole life I have always done my best to keep myself around a lot of weed, but I had never dreamed that I would one day go to work in pot paradise.
After about 20 hours of traveling I finally arrived to Redding California. My first priority was getting some weed in me, which I soon realized was a silly concern. I was not to experience a scarcity in weed for many months to come. I spent that first night at my friends boyfriends place, where I received a tutorial on how to trim dried cannabis. We stayed up until 4 in the morning blasting dubstep at almost an inaudible level (and I like my music loud), drinking whiskey, smoking, and trimming recently harvested pot. At one point one of the guys hands me a jar of weed and says, “hey man, smell this, I grew it”. It smelled great. “You want some?” of course I wanted some. He pulled out a jar and filled it with about a half ounce of fresh bud. This was it.
The next morning we packed up the ’86 VW golf and headed out for the farm. Neither of us knew what to expect, and neither of us knew weather to be excited or nervous. Somehow is was dark by the time we got there, which was weird considering we only had an hour drive, so I’m not quite sure what happened to all that time. I think we made booze run. We had finally made it to the farm. Our home indefinitely. Our workplace. You could smell the garden from a football field away: fresh, mature, ready to be harvested cannabis. The girl running the show, a petite 22-year-old friend of Brittney’s named Kelly, pointed us in the direction of the camp sight and we set up camp. Not an easy task in the northern California night. While setting up we met a few of our co-workers. I couldn’t see any of their faces, but they were wasted for sure. I wasn’t positive what was happening, but I had finally made it.