When Grows Go Bad

Here's a story about unreal estate that could only happen behind the Green Curtain.

Only in Mendo, where your business is your own and few questions are asked on a good day, could a story like this happen. I thought only in Mendocino County could three tattooed guys rent 50 acres to legally grow marijuana from a guy who didn't own the land. That is, until I found out how long this one guy's been doing it. Now I can only wonder how many more are out there.

Welcome to the Era of Grassnost -- living in the times when marijuana seems legal, but it isn't. You're allowed to grow it; you just can't sell it.

 

While others are cautious and plodding, sitting on massive stashes, waiting for the market to recover from the hope and promise that never came with Proposition 19, there are your Wall Street Growers who snake and slither towards the power and money that comes with growing high-grade bud these days.

And sooner or later, if they're growing outdoors, all roads lead to the Emerald Triangle. That is, if you want to grow legally. And you can; you just have to have the correct paperwork and, of course, the right spot to grow your millions.

Bringing us back to the axiom of life that every business person knows -- location, location, location -- meet Lew Lindsey, unreal estate agent extraordinaire (not his real name).

By humble accounts, there are thousands and thousands of citizens growing marijuana in the hilly, woodsy country starting north of Cloverdale (about 100 miles north of San Francisco) and reaching east and west and stretching up all way to Oregon and the heavens beyond.

The Mendocino County Health Department has made broad inroads concerning marijuana. In an effort to bring illegal growers out of the shadows while legislation moves progressively forward, Sheriff Tom Allman created the Zip-Tie Program, a process where medical growers can sign up with the Sheriff's Department, register their grow, and receive zip-ties at $65 apiece.

Because they are growing for established medical marijuana dispensaries, it's all legal. It took guts on the sheriff's part to create the program and it took even more intestinal fortitude for growers to come forward after years of hiding in the shadows to say, "Hey, yes, in fact I am a marijuana grower. Where do I sign up?"

With so many people trying to usher in a new era of marijuana, trying to do the right thing, trying to make sure there is safe access for any patient that wants medicine, law enforcement officials have the responsibility to make sure the growers' rights are protected. In a situation that is already precarious, you don't need human tools like Lew Lindsey screwing it up for the rest of us.

Some may say you can't stop greed. But if we want to get to the next level, we, the movement, have to stop the Lew Lindseys of the world.

Dollar Signs In Their Eyes

 

The three young prospectors coming from San Francisco couldn't believe their good fortune. They had more than the $100,000 needed to start their special grow, especially for what they had in mind. They had dollar signs in their eyes as big as the Hollywood sign, the place they would be unloading their cannabis in November.

All they had to do is make it through the spring, summer and early fall, then they would be rich young men. They had the backers, the DVD's for growing, plus they had a "thumb," an in-house expert grower that they hired for the summer. Trailers, tents and other supplies were set to be delivered as soon as they found that perfect spot.

These young men represent a trend that has always been a part of the Northern California landscape -- the Wall Street growers. Those Fast Buck Freddies who think they can turn a crop over for quick profits and have little regard for the medicine or for the land. In the parlance of most organic growers, "They grow without Love."

Since these ganja opportunists think they have great clones or imported seeds, plus the bucks to grow, all they need now is a guide to show them where to place their golden seeds.

Lew Thinks He's A Playa

For Lew Lindsey, life is a sloppy fresh strawberry ready to take a bite from. At 68 years young, in his silk-screen imprinted hip-hop jeans with old man bright tri-color suspenders, he flashes a smile with a line of talk that would make Jay-Z vomit.

Lew not only thinks he's a playa, but he knows it. For all the shady deals that are made in the darkness of the redwoods, Lew's bony fingers are in many of them, especially if there is a way to rip someone off. He'd even take the locals, which is pretty much unheard-of, even by Trinity standards.

With his young Internet-ordered companion at his side, Lew works the Triangle with a history of bad land deals, bad truck deals, and pretty much being unscrupulous to whomever he meets. But he's not that much different than many of the gentleman growers of the area concerning his one big dream. Just one big score, then hello Thailand! The same thing Lew's been saying for years at the beginning of every season: "One more score, then I'm outta here!"

But Lew Lindsey is greedy. The well is running and it doesn't look like it's going to be dry for some time. His emails were full of eager dudes looking for real estate to grow on. When he rented the land to the two previous tenants, nothing went wrong. Why would this time be different?

It was almost a no-brainer. The cops have sanctified it. The tenants paid cash up front. Hell, the police even visited the grow twice, setting up a strong chain-link fence across the entry drive to make sure the grow was safe.

Just one more summer and then he was out of here.

Scraping The Hills

The three Wall Streeters couldn't believe their luck. Not only had the old man done them a solid on the land, but someone before them had started to carve a road into the side of their mountain, leading down to a natural spring needed for the watering of their plants.

This hearty bunch wasn't going to be deterred like the previous growers. With their capital investment funds, they were able to bring in bulldozers and other heavy-duty equipment and build this road right.

Scraping the hills, digging up deer trails that have been there for eons, the growers shaped and manipulated the land for their one seasonal need.

Because the hills were too sharp and steep, the road never worked, so they left it uncompleted. Instead, two 5,000-gallon reservoir tanks were dropped and filled by the local water merchants.

 

The same was done with fencing, tubing and hoses and all the housing, all provided by locals who support this industry. And why not? Wall Street growers had gone to the Sheriff's Department, registered, and had all their paperwork and permits on full view for anyone to see.

They were legal. This was a legal grow.

The Wall Streeters made it through the summer. They erected a military canvas tent, 50x50, to cure and trim in. They set up the fans and blowers. Now, all they needed was trimmers.

Most inhabitants of what is called the Emerald Triangle live up there for a variety of good reasons. While growing dope might be high on the list for some, others just want their privacy.

Solitude and seclusion are intrinsic components to Northern California living. If they wanted to see people, they'd live in a city.

Most people can claim a mountaintop to themselves or they share the view with a few others that have lived next to them, whom they possibly barely know except for emergency situations. The word "neighbor" is used loosely up here. It might take five years or more before neighbors begin to talk and trust each other.

When the Wall Streeters brought in trimmers, the unknown laborers who take the wild and uncut marijuana flower tops and groom them into delicious, shapely looking buds, primed for distribution, eyebrows were raised. Because the Wall Streeters weren't part of the local scene, they had to hire the trimmers literally off the street.

Now the population of the mountaintop increased from "a few" to "too many." Neighbors began to arm themselves because of all the unknowns that could happen. After living for decades in almost total seclusion, residents near the Wall Streeters hung privacy fences and draped their compounds so prying eyes couldn't see in.

With so much on the line, and a balance that has been made plumb by years of dedicated work and by locals keeping to themselves (much like the Appalachian moonshiners did in their day), the Wall Streeters were wrecking the harmony of the mountain.

The new kids on the block were threatening a quiet, secluded lifestyle that had been there for years before the Greedheads' arrival, and would be there years after the later summer departures.

Fall came and the Wall Streeters' industrial grow became silent. They were gone. All the residue of their business and craft was left behind. The only thing they took with them was their crop.

 

Even the "larf" -- leaf and partial flower tops trimmed from the buds -- was left behind.

Even the "larf" -- the leaf and partial flower tops that are trimmed and placed into a bucket or box for future uses like hash-making or for edibles -- was left behind.

It was like a ghost town of empty trailers with garbage and unused garden supplies left strewn everywhere. Because the growers left their beer and soda pop empties piled high in a trash barrel, the local bear population had their way with the campsite.

The windows to the trailers are sliced open like a sardine can. Plastic containers that held the compounds and the magic "organic" grow formulas lay like cobblestones forced into the earth.

It looked almost like a massacre had happened moments before. The damage that was left behind was horrifying.

And some people don't care where their dope comes from.

Rich, Golden Land

There used to be a lot of land available in Northern California, some years back. I know a few who bought some small parcels in the Seventies, sending a few dollars every month to a p.o. box and now own their own place. Others got rich via the Web and bought land that way.

 

But for the most part, it is old lumber or railroad families that divided up NorCal, owning a majority of acres and acres of rich, golden land -- land that goes back to the Gold Rush and has been in the family's portfolio for generations.

This area has been fought over for years. From the genocide of local Natives to the turbulent timber industry disputes and the days of spotted owl hunting, people take their land very seriously.

That's why locals didn't grow marijuana on their own property. They could lose everything -- house, land, and family -- if they got busted. So you grew on other people's land. If the law was onto you, you could just move.

This is another reason why the Sheriff's Department's introduction of the zip-tie program is a huge advancement. It allows growers to grow on their own land, legally.

On the other side of the fence, this is also why local Republican gentry -- whose families have resided in the hills of Northern California for eons -- hate marijuana growers. It's because of what the marijuana growers have done to their property with seemingly such little regard for the land -- end of story.

That's why a marijuana grower called the real owner of the land that the Wall Streeters grew on, and apprised him of the situation.

 

Needless to say, the actual landlord was livid beyond words. Not only had he no knowledge of the scamming bogus real estate agent, it had happened three times, for three consecutive years.

But beyond the embarrassment of the scam, the land was ruined. For at least a hundred years, the topsoil and the mycelium layer that protects the ground and allows for renewal and rebirth have been destroyed. The ancient redwoods and rare Madera trees that were cut down for more open sunshine are gone.

The trees and brush that were cleared for the grow are bundled at the foot of a canyon. By the end of next summer, that area, full of discarded wood and brush, will be dried out under a burning sun and soon will be a tinderbox, ready to explode.

The Weed Field and the Damage Done

It is really impossible to calculate the damage this type of grow can cause.

There are so many victims in this scenario, it's hard to know where to start. The actual landlord/owner of the property; he's responsible for the clean-up and all the damage left behind. The Sheriff's Department; they issued permits because of correct paperwork that showed erroneous land coordinates.

And, of course, the land itself.

The growers thought they had a legal grow, even though they left the area devastated. They should be found and sued for the land mismanagement they caused, and then some.

And the there's Lew Lindsey. He needs to be stopped. The guy is no stranger to the court system, but always seems to squeak through somehow.

He's attempting to bring down a fragile eco-commodity arrangement that is just in its infancy. There are Lew Lindseys everywhere there's a quick buck to be scammed.

He has nothing to do with medical marijuana or the movement. He's just a greedhead.

The Fix

Most authentic real estate agents in the North Country carry a GPS to know where they are. They use them to check property lines and boundaries. That's all law enforcement needs to do to verify if a marijuana grow is actually where it is supposed to be, as stated in the paperwork. It's a learning process.

There are permitted green growers who work in concert with the Earth. They don't shape the landscape -- they work with the curves and bends.

They use rainwater for watering, and grow above the soil, not damaging the ground.

Patients who need their medicine clean and green don't have to worry. It can be done.



Rush Can't Talk

Real Housewives of the Weeds Wanna-Be’s

 

“Angela” blames most of her problems on the economy. “I had a total of three houses, the one I lived in and two others I bought as investments in early ’04. After my real estate business stalled in ‘08, I was basically sitting on three empty houses that I couldn’t move or even rent. That when I decided that maybe there was another way, I would grow Marijuana.”

And that’s where all of Angela’s troubles started.

Angela remembers a joint being passed around a dorm during college, but that was the extent of her druggy experience. She married early and was divorced fifteen years later with two kids to support.

Wow, almost sounds like the makings for a boring cable show.

There are now ‘universities’ popping up all over the country based on the Oakerstam University (Richard Lee’s baby) model that teaches all things cannabis to anyone who has the money for tuition. From baked goods to growing, a neophyte off the street can get a well-rounded education and supposedly learn everything there is to know about cannabis.

But until you get your hands a little dirty: you’re in for a real world education.

Angela went to a local hydroponic store that had recently opened in her East Bay community. For the first few months she followed the DVD’s and books on growing pot that she purchased in the garden center. But she had a hard time getting her grows set up and working at full functionality. In fact, her first few harvests were complete failures.

That’s when she started borrowing money from her sons and other family members.

“Y’know, in for a penny, in for a pound,” Angela says in a kind of a retrospectively embarrassed tone.

Can I ask how much you ended up borrowing from your family?

“A little less than a hundred grand.”

You’re joking?

“I wish I was,” Angela sighs.

“It all started at my local store where I had purchased my lights and whole set-up. I met two different people at two different times; each would play a role in my downfall.”

 Go on…

“This is going to sound stupid but during my second or third attempt at growing marijuana, I had a cruise already booked with a few gal pals and couldn’t get out of it. I had met some young men at our garden center. They had been very nice to me in the store and we ended speaking in the parking lot about some of the issues I was having. They seemed very knowledgeable and very helpful-and were most concerned that I get a good harvest. I told them that I needed to leave my plants alone for ten days. Could I get by with leaving my lights and food and water on timers? They said no. For a price, they would watch my plants. I was lucky I only gave them the keys to my two empty houses, not my personal home.

I came back from the cruise and from the moment I opened the front door, I could smell pot and I knew there was a problem. They had taken all my plants, lights and wiring. They cleaned me out.”

That’s awful.

“Then later I met a man more my age, in his late fifties. He said he’d been growing for years and would love to help me. But before that could happen, he needed me to buy him pre-paid phones at a strip mall store. When I told him I didn’t have the money for it - he was out of town at the time - he sent me a stuffed Koala bear with ten one hundred dollar bills inside.”

Weren’t you suspicious?

“No, he said, he was sending it inside the stuffed animal for tax reasons. Then he had me doing all sorts of stuff for him. Buying things in my name, for his business, not having anything to do with growing, or having anything to do with marijuana.”

What happened?

“He was suddenly gone one day and I haven’t been able to reach him.”

Do you worry that he knows where you live and could still have some contact with you?

“I’ve sold the three houses at a loss. I live in a small apartment now a little closer to out of town now. My kids and sisters don’t speak to me because I still owe them money. At sixty-two, I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”

Since I’ve been writing about the world of marijuana, I’ve heard millions of sad tales of Weed gone wrong. From home invasions where the bad guys dress up like the Feds and steal your pot from under your noses to violent rip-offs where guns and violence are used.

Here in San Francisco, there is a glut of weed. You can barely sell it, and if you do, you’re going to be crying the whole way home because of how wee little you’ve let your harvest go for.

Because of the TV show, Weeds, or because of the tough economic times we are in, more and more uneducated and inexperienced civilians are turning to pot for money. It just seems like everyone’d doing it and, actually, how hard can it be?

Personally, as much as I like the actors on Weeds, most of my friends and I can’t stand watching the show. The show was created for couples in Sherman Oaks who after a hard day at their straight jobs, like to roll a pinner on the weekends and get stoned and pretend like they are bad-ass dealers like Nancy Botwin, the Valley’s answer to Al Capone. It’s like a study of watching amateurs at work. They may get some small details correct, but for the most part, it is a story of how to put your family in harm’s way.

There are growers that have been doing this for thirty years or more, who know what they are doing. This is who the ‘hobbyist’ compete with.

 What’s the difference between a hobbyist grower and a pro?

I went to the experts.

“We define a hobbyist as a person who is growing up to five plants and spends around four to six hundred on lights for their grow. Professionals will have around thirty plants or more, in your typical indoor grow, and the price tag is in the thousands, easily,” says Louie of the Green Goddess Hydroponics, opened last October in the heart of San Francisco, a little north of the Tenderloin.

In the short time that I spoke with Louie and his boss, customers kept coming into the store which is barely larger than a magazine kiosk.

The tight shelves are packed with additives and enhancers for budding and flowering with names like ‘Beastie Bloomz’ or simply, ‘All Natural Nirvana.’

I asked them what it is like to run a hydroponic store in this era of ‘Grassnost’, when it feels like weed is already legal. Can a person come in and say, for example, I want to grow me some weed, can you help? Or do they still have to use the code that they’re trying to grow some big, juicy tomatoes that you can get high on?

“If we are too open, and our distributors hear about it, we could be cut off. We deal with some very traditional garden center providers and distributors, and they don’t want to get into the politics of the situation,” the owner tells me candidly.

But when a young couple in their twenties ask Louie about the right time to add the blooming agent, the knowledgeable clerk corrected him and told him to add it just a few days before blooming, not a week before like the young man had thought. 

So, how much of your business would you say has to do with growing marijuana, versus growing tomatoes?

“Ninety percent of our business is with the indoor grower,” one of them states.

How many of them are hobbyists? The folks who are growing a few plants to see what will happen.

“It’s hard to say. We sometimes will spend up to an hour with some customers, because…well…because, they don’t know what they’re doing.”

You sell books, DVD’s and other grow info?

“Yes, but you still have to explain a lot to them. Some have no experience at all. Some are thinking of growing for additional funds. Some just want a personal stash. But we want everyone to be successful, so they’ll come back and buy more stuff.”

I asked if there are predators that are looking for greenish growers to take advantage of, lurking in these parts.

“We get some in here who seemingly have a different agenda than ours. They interrupt our conversations with customers, to put their two-cents in.”

Do they ever walk out with a customer in hopes of trying to get involve with the customer’s grow?

“We try to stop that, but when people have thousands invested, and are not sure where their next job is coming from, people get scared. You have to be careful that the wrong set of ears isn’t listening, people will take advantage of those who don’t know.”

During my interview, two gentlemen from Modesto wandered in wondering where they might be able to unload some high-grade indoor in this town.

Louie and I just shook our head and said good luck. There is so much dope in this town, that unless Ed Rosenthal or some dispensary taster likes it, you’re not going to be able to move it.

For a moment the hydroponic store had the feeling of a café or record store, where like minded people gathered to find out what only those in the know know. Then it was gone.

The gentlemen left in quandary wondering why a guy can’t get rid of supposedly great weed in this day and age.

I left the store wondering where this Green Rush is going and how many more people are going to get hurt while others make big money.

It reminds a guy of minions of nameless miners and prospectors who died penniless and broke for their efforts.  I recall one profitable storekeeper’s name, from that last rush, as I walk to a dispensary in my black Levi Strauss’.

It’s all happening.



Who's scared of a little Snow