The only marijuana magazine bringing you the stories of other pot smokers and smugglers.

Growin' Our Own (page 2)

Viva El Pot Brothers

By: Robert P.

Don't think, even for a second, that growing pot for pleasure and profit is for the young. Not even close. And that is what this story - it's actually true by the way - is all about.

My two great uncles, Edmund and Edsel; don't worry about their last names - it's not important; born in 1917, have been growing and selling this wonderful weed called marijuana for decades with a fairly short break in 1984 - 1985. It's not because they're poor and are trying to scratch out a living. They are both quite well off, thank you very much. They do it because ... well hell, people are willing to buy it. Its the all American way. Same as booze during prohibition. People still drank. People still smoke.

Now Edmund and Edsel have this apple farm in New Mexico. Let me tell you, they are in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Nothing and nobody around for miles. Well, their apple farm did, and continues to do, quite well. However old Edmund and Edsel thought that supplementing the apple income did not sound like a bad idea at all. Sure beats the hell out of government farm subsidies, which we the taxpayer pay for. I like their attitude. Saving us taxpayers money and all. They each should get a medal.

Those two yahoos are not greedy so they figured they would start with a small crop of pot and see what happened. So, they furrowed between just one row of apple trees and planted the first set of "happy seeds." Yeah, that's what they called 'em. Being successful farmers, they knew the business end of things. Getting a crop to market. Apples are easy, take 'em to the store. Pot, on the other hand, is slightly more complicated.

Being fine upstanding citizens of the State of New Mexico and Christians to boot, Edmund and Edsel knew full well that there are exactly two kinds of sinning, clean and dirty. Lemme 'splain this to the uninitiated. Clean sinning is like cheating on your wife, but not getting your girlfriend pregnant and doing it out of town (gotta keep the locals on your side). Dirty sinning is cheating on your wife, getting your girlfriend pregnant (then dumping her), and doing it in your own house while your wife is at the store (not a good idea). Soooo, the brothers decided to harvest and sell their cash crop in El Paso (we New Mexicans call it El Pazoo), Texas. Come harvest time, as it was their first crop and not overly large, Edmund and Edsel harvested their pot crop by hand, placed the 'fruits' of their labor into gunny sacks and drove to El Pazoo. Needless to say they found a legitimate buyer and came home with quite a bit more non-taxable income in their pockets than they had before.

Over the next several years Edmund and Edsel kept increasing the size of the ... ummmm, pot patch. Finally, the patch got so big, and they were getting older, that they needed equipment to harvest the crop. One of them, can't remember which one, called my cousin who was managing the family farm and asked to borrow - you're not going to believe this - the tractor towed New Holland hay baler. A three wire at that! They also borrowed the cutter and rower. Naturally my cousin said 'OK', you don't turn down kin after all. Thus the harvesting operation required just one person, was a whole lot faster and produced a uniform bale weight. 125 pound bale o' pot. Don't you just love it when a plan comes together? For transportation of the bales, the good old 1964 Ford F-350 flat bed did just fine. Money kept ... rolling in, to say the least.

Like I said, Edmund and Edsel did this for, quite literally, decades. 1960's - 1984. But all good things must come to an end, at least temporarily. During the summer of 84, a dry year by most standards, the blasted DEA was doing fly-overs of property, looking for "excess" water usage. Lo and behold the jerks of the DEA zeroed in on the apple farm. A fairly short time later, couple of weeks or so, these same fools (DEA obviously) went to the county sheriff and told him what was up and they were going to raid the apple farm. Excuse me, but that doesn't cut it back home. If anybody is going to raid anybody it's going to be handled by the county sheriff. Not some alphabet soup city slicker outsider organization. No way. It just doesn't happen. As an aside, are you starting to understand the difference between clean and dirty sinning? Keeping the locals on your side? It can pay dividends as you shall shortly read.

The day of the raid arrived, not at night, no dynamic entry. Nope, nothing like that. Two marked patrol cars. The sheriff and three deputies. They parked in front of the house, walked up to the front door and knocked. Great Aunt Gertrude (Edmund and Edsel's sister) answered the door. After initial small talk -- discussing the state of the union and all, the sheriff asked Aunt Gertrude if Edmund and Edsel were home, he needed to talk to them.

Gertrude knew something was up. 'Them brothers up to no good again sheriff?' or something like that. Never the less she went and got them, after inviting the sheriff and entourage inside. A short time later, its not a real big house, the pot brothers show up and the sheriff, once again after small talk told them what the DEA had told him. Believe it or not Edmund and Edsel 'fessed up to "producing" marijuana, I'll get to that in a minute. The sheriff fully understood the situation instantly. Edmund and Edsel being fine upstanding citizens of the State of New Mexico and Christians to boot were not "drug dealers" in the classic sense of the word. Not at all. At worst, they both got caught clean sinning. But the law was the law and justice must be served.

And served it was. With the assistance of the New Holland alfalfa cutter, not the baler, and the 3 deputies, the pot patch was mowed down. Under the supervision of the elected sheriff. Talk about clear cutting. What a shame. It was then transported to a clearing a few acres away from the apple rows and ... burnt. Burnt to a cinder. Nothing left at all.

Not being there when the raid happened I have no idea if all the parties stood down wind. It would have been a nice touch though.

As for Edmund and Edsel, no charges were ever filed. What did I tell you about clean sinning? Keep it in mind. Also, a new cost effective underground irrigation system, discovered by the University of New Mexico, Roswell Branch, (yeah, those are the same idiots that believe in aliens) will make it more so plenty too hard for the DEA to pin excess water usage on Edmund and Edsel in the future.

Oh, before I forget, and this is very important for all future producers of pot, Edmund and Edsel were not and are not dealers. Producers yes, dealers no. They raise a crop and sell said crop to a wholesaler. They do not, in any way, 'refine' the product for resale purposes. That is the difference. May seem small, but nonetheless, important.

Edsel is gone now. Edmund is still quite spry and mentally sharp in his 80's. Is he still producing? I'll never tell.

The Legend of Panama Red

By: Anonymous

In this story you'll learn who and how this 12 ton load of Panama Red was smuggled into California.

Have you ever heard the legend of Panama Red? I mean you have heard of Panama Red haven't you? Well here's the true story about a load that came into California, in 1969.

I drove up Highway 1, to Maple Street, in Tam Valley, and turned left. If you know where this is, it's near Mill Valley. I went to my connection's house to see what exotic weed had come in. He had Yucatan Green, which was fully filled into white plastic bags. It had a fruity aroma, and you could uncoil the kiwi colored green leaves back into their natural finger and hand shapes. I'd never seen weed cured this well. It was somehow cured like pliable tobacco leaves. The price was $150. a pound which was a lot back in those days. Next a brown grocery sack came out of the closet, which I noticed was full of both white plastic bags and the brown grocery bags. From my quick glance I estimated about 10 bags of weed in all.

As the top of the brown bag was unfolded I immediately smelled the strong aroma of fresh tilled earth, perhaps the smell when you turn over a mulching log, combined with red clay. Then I distinguished another smell. The smell of fresh earth was mixed with a strong hashish smell. A handful of the well dried small buds was pulled out and laid on the stainless steel plate of the triple-beam. I was in wonder as I had never seen any weed that wasn't green or gold. To my amazement these small buds were a bright rusty color. Not brown like the Colombian Gold I scored a few years later, but you know, a rusty red color. I asked: Where's this weed from?

My connection told me the story.

This is Panama Red. This stuff grows in the mountains north of the Panama Canal. The soil is red to black, with rain all the time. It's impossible to get this weed, but I have access to about a ton of it.

How much is it for a pound, I asked him.

It's $220. a pound. My wad of cash choked in my pocket, as I had thought that the Yucatan green was expensive. He could read me. He pulled out a paper from his Zig-Zag pack, and rolled a pinhead joint. Then he lit it up, making a yellow flame as the empty paper end burned into the weed. He took the first puff, which sent off, two thin intertwined lines of blue gray hashish like smoke, heading towards the ceiling.

He was already well stoned from encounters with his earlier customers, and when I first walked into his home I had noticed how his eyes were glazed over. He looked like the poster of a wizard, with his long hair, beard, and crystal ball eyes. If this were possible, he looked even more euphoric from the one hit; and his eyes rolled back, and closed, as he slowly stabbed the smoking pinner across the table in my direction. As I reached out for it, he said in a choked breath while exhaling smoke: You'll probably never get weed this good again.

I knew his word was always true. My connection and his group had smuggled hashish from Afghanistan, India, and Morocco. He'd been busted for importing hash in the bottom of a crate of snakes. He always had exotic weed and hash. He wouldn't mess around with the weed I could get from the pilots in my part of the state. The only stuff I could get in my area was Mexican weed which ran about $80. to $120. a brick. We called this weed, reg, for regular. The reg kilos or bricks came wrapped in red, green or blue construction paper and was taped off with masking tape. This was the regular bottom line, non-exotic, weed that was somewhat harsh to the throat, but got you stoned. We resold for $10. a lid, or if you weren't around back then, a lid is an ounce.

The hashish smell of the pinner was overcoming my thoughts, as I took a hit of pure heaven. The smoke was so smooth, with a taste just like it's unburnt smell of fresh clean earth and hashish. I thought it tasted like Lebanese Red hash, mixed with fresh earth, as I barely watched the smoke vining it's way upwards. It was hash without the bite. Then the stone came on as I took my second hit. My senses suddenly kicked into hyper space as I became acutely aware of everything. My hearing, my thinking, my senses were all rocketed into Stonesville, which is a different place for every one of us. Within a minute I realized I was really stoned. I laughed. Shortly after three hits, I started seeing trails, colors, and realized this weed was a psychedelic high too. Lots of colors, and laughs, in a mellow floating state. A weed to bring out your innermost thoughts, to philosophize, about the finer points of life and existence, with those of like mind.

In 1969, I bought five pounds of Panama Red, which is the most stony weed I have ever smoked, even to this day. When I got back home where the local Hippies were used to the $10. price of an oz., of reg, I knew I couldn't sell this rusty red weed. First, since it wasn't green, they wouldn't believe it was weed. Second, the price would be about four times what they were used to paying for an oz. of reg weed. I kept telling myself nobody was ready for this rusty weed which would send anybody, especially these locals to heaven. I knew that if I rolled pinners, it would take me years to smoke all of this exotic weed. I figured at least 80 joints to an oz., and I had 80 ozs., and let's see, that's 6400 joints. I couldn't take time to do one a day, so I figured maybe 150 a year, and um, it would take me over forty-two years to smoke all of this weed. It would lose it's potency after a year or two. Then the lightbulb came on. I'd roll up about 10 pinners and just give them away. I understood that even my friends could figure out that this was the best weed in the world. After they had smoked this fantastic weed, they would realize how stoned they were, and with the weed rolled up they wouldn't know it wasn't green! Great idea! I reached into my pocket again as I arrived at the toll booth on the Golden Gate Bridge entering San Francisco, stoned out of my mind.

I want you to know something, when I got home that's exactly what I did. I passed out the pinners and asked my friends to just try it and give me their opinions. They questioned me about the small sized joints, and I said what are you complaining about, it's free. Then the phone started ringing with questions like: What was that? Is that laced with acid? That can't be ordinary weed. Do you have any more? Then I got to tell the story of Panama Red to them, which if you ever smoked the real thing, I need not say more.

MEETING THE SMUGGLER

On another score trip north, about a month later, I discovered that my connection had moved to Stinson Beach. You might know where he moved if you ever went there. It was the third house back from the beach, it was on the left, the one with the purple door. When the purple door opened I gasped as I thought I saw my dad sitting down counting cash on a coffee table. I realized that it really wasn't my Dad, but the guy was a dead ringer for my dad. He had a receding conservative haircut, with brown hair, and graying sideburns. Same facial features. My connection introduced him, and for his protection, I'll just call him Roy. Roy was counting out $40,000. cash, another installment for the fronting of his illegal, precious cargo of Panama Red to my connection. This was a lot of money for a weed deal back in 1969, and probably one of a hundred bags of money picked up by Roy. You figure it out. If he sold his Panama Red for only $120. a pound, times 24,000 pounds he grossed about $2.9 million from his load. Thirty years ago this money had the purchasing power of about 4 times more than what it would buy today. However, I have no idea what Panama Red would cost today as I have never found it again. I've had Colombian Gold, but it's more of a brown tobacco color. Red is a very earthy, rusty color and I haven't even seen any counterfeit stuff offered. I haven't even seen the seeds offered. The $40,000. Roy was counting out was only a payment for about 300 pounds. Payment for a ton would be $240,000. Don't forget he had the money from selling the fish too.

Roy was a very candid person, treating me as if he'd known me his whole life. He explained the Panama Red saga. He bought a surplus submarine chaser, a 90 footer. He sold most of the military gear and paid for the vessel, with money left over. It was a typical government deal where millions were spent to build and outfit the ship, and then it was later sold for peanuts. Roy outfitted it as a fishing boat. He got a crew together and went south. He loaded in 12 tons of Panama Red, and then he and his crew went fishing. They covered the weed with tuna, iced it and headed back north. The ship was checked out, and cleared for entry. As they returned to the Bay Area, he made contact with his man onshore in northern California, who with a few hours notice, got a small fleet of fishing and sailboats together. This fleet was obviously pre-planned. The fleet was a fleet of dealers who went under the Golden Gate Bridge out about 25 miles, and towards the Farallon Islands, where the Panama Red was quickly offloaded onto these smaller boats. One Harbor Master inside the bay was in on it too, so there was little chance of anybody getting caught. I can't tell you if it was day or night, foggy, or anything about the conditions, but I do know from other smugglers that they use the worst weather conditions for all of their activities. If it's hard for them it's hard for the cops to catch them. Roy said he retired off this trip and that he sold his fish, the ship, and intended on paying the IRS it's taxes on the fish, if any were due. Roy told me the city he lived in, and I'll give you a hint, he lived between San Francisco, and San Jose. If you know him, tell him thanks from me.

I grew some plants from the very small brown seeds. The plants had stalks with alternating green and purple vertical lines. The dark green leaves had purple veins. I got tired of watering them, so I sold the crop where it stood, by selling a map with it's location. My friends nicknamed me Panama Red, for waking them up to this high. There's been no more Panama Red, that I'm aware of. If I'm wrong I'd like to read your story.

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