Training Day

Frenetic pace of late leaves little time for explication, but suffice it to say that if the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals rules that marijuana's classification as a dangerous drug with no uses whatsoever is unconstitutional next week--then EVERYTHING, including each state's medical program, is tossed in the air, nothing is certain, and we are in for a long, litigious ride.  

More after the court issues its opinion on March 25.

In the meantime, an anecdote that ties in with the bits that started awhile ago, the original bits are here, here and here.    Peace--
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It's not yet 6 a.m. the Monday following the full-moon ceremony.  I walk through a chilly fog in a northern Mendocino town.  I'm parked just off the freeway on the designated street, the Acura dwarfed among heavy pickups. I approach a group of maybe a dozen men gathered in the parking lot outside a string of darkened office-cottages. They are clad mostly in Carhart  jeans, heavy boots, woolen caps and shirts, neck gaiters or collars turned up against the mist, sipping giant coffees, passing a glass pipe and a 3-paper rocket. 
 
Looking for Ted.

No one answers, but the guy hitting the joint nods and extends it to me, and I step into their circle.  A gleaming king-cab F350 glides up and kills its lights, engine idling. The driver's window drops silently, and a wildly-bearded redhead leans out and reaches for the pipe, baring a popeye forearm with a coho salmon tattoo.
 
Someone nudges me. That'd be Ted.  
  
Morning gents, he drawls.  Dave, take five guys and meet Nate at Covelo.  You'll need three carpenters, plus people who can dig. Everyone else to Redwood Valley. He looks my way.  New guy, come with me. 

I climb into the passenger side of the cab, exhaling smoke, and feel my ears pop as I pull the door closed. Ted tosses a clipboard into the tool-cluttered rear of the cab and backs onto Highway 101. He accelerates south into the fog and turns on the headlights, then turns to me.
 
So. How do we know you?

Isis, I say.  Came down for full moon and harvest.  I'm  camped on her north ridge for maybe another week, with a searchlight, a siren and dogs----

He nods knowingly, beard waving.  Good plan. Glad you're there.  Scooby'll rip you right off.

Beg pardon?

He laughs. Those darn kids. Like at the end of every Scooby Doo.   He thumps his chest, holds out a rough hand. Ted. Resin Nate's my little brother. 

Gurn. We shake.

Do construction?

I can frame, I've done foundation work--

Perfect.  Lot of folks got flooded this past spring, so today we put in another french drain.  We only work grows, and we can't keep up.  He rummages around the console caddy, hands me a silver box. Gear's in there.  Load up a bowl for Nate. He starts to decelerate.

Nate? 

Cops impounded his truck--there he is!

And there he was, sitting atop a cooler on the shoulder of southbound 101, framed by a misty mountain in pre-dawn light. Resin Nate smoothed back his dreads and stood up.