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Quick Hits (page 3)

Opium Plantation in Sierra National Forest

By: Stacy Finz (S.F. Chronicle)

Officials have discovered 40,000 opium poppies in the Sierra National Forest, 35 miles northeast of Fresno, raising concerns that drug cartels may be looking at California's lush public lands to set up illicit farms.

U.S. Forest Service officials said this is largest crop of the narcotic- producing plants they have ever found in California. The plants are not typically grown in the United States, say federal drug agents. Opium poppies, which thrive in dry climates, are more commonly grown in Asia, Mexico and most recently in Colombia.

But agents from the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration say that people in the heroin and opium trade may be following in the footsteps of marijuana growers, who in the past 10 years have set up multimillion-dollar plantations in remote areas of national parks and forests across the state. Those farms, some believed to be financed by Mexican drug cartels, often are guarded by armed men, posing a danger to hikers and hunters who wander off designated trails.

"At this point we just don't know what to make of it," said Gordon Taylor, the agent in charge of the DEA office in Sacramento. "We've never seen anything like this before. We're definitely going to assist the U.S. Forest Service in pursuing the case and continue to monitor the situation."

Nonnative vegetation

Earlier this week, a hiker discovered almost two acres of the 1-to-3-feet tall lavender poppies in a remote area of the national forest near the Madera County town of North Fork, about five miles south of Bass Lake. He knew instantly that the plants were not native and informed a ranger, said Sue Exline, a spokeswoman for the U.S. Forest Service. When the ranger and a narcotics agent returned to the site Tuesday, they found three men wearing camouflage suits scoring the buds of the plants to remove the opium.

The men ran away. But later that day authorities talked to a man who they believe may have been part of the group. He was wandering alone on a dirt road and had brown opium stains on his hands, Exline said. But without enough evidence to make an arrest, she said, they had to let him go.

Not like pot plots

She said that, unlike the marijuana farms, there was no sign that anyone was living on the poppy plantation. Matt Mathes, the spokesman for the U.S. Forest Service in California, said the poppy growers also appeared to be more environmentally sensitive than the marijuana farmers. Pot growers have been known to cut trees, use pesticides and divert water from neighboring creeks and streams for irrigation. The poppies had been planted on a south-facing slope that had been cleared of vegetation by a fire in 2001, and any man-made damage to the area appeared to be minor, according to Mathes.

All the plants have been cleared and are being tested in a DEA laboratory. Taylor said it is unclear whether the growers planned to use the opium to be processed into heroin or to be used raw. DEA agents are aware of opium being imported into Fresno and Sacramento from Southeast Asia. Taylor said some people in the Central Valley smoke opium in pipes or inhale the fumes from a trench of tin foil, known on the street as "chasing the dragon."

Four pounds of heroin

The 40,000 plants found in the Sierra Nevada could have produced 40 pounds of raw opium or 4 pounds of heroin, he said. A pound of heroin sells wholesale for between $16,000 and $18,000. He said a retail gram goes for between $50 to $100 a gram. Taylor said the DEA doesn't know what opium sells for today, but in 1999 it could go for as much as $15,000 a pound.

Opium poppies once were widely grown throughout the United States and used in medicines. But a law passed in 1942 made it illegal to grow the plant domestically.

Larry Johnson, owner of North Fork's Gas--n--Stuf, a one-stop shopping store in the 135-year-old mill town, said the community is no stranger to the drug trade.

"We're nationally know for the marijuana grown here," he said, laughing. Although Johnson has a good sense of humor about it all, he is concerned that drugs are putting a black mark on the small hamlet. News of the opium poppies was all anyone was talking about Friday, Johnson said.

"I've seen what drugs have done to people," he said. "We're like Mayberry U. S.A. and we don't need the national news making us famous for something we don't want to be known for."

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Mary Jane'z Novelties

Growin' Our Own (page 3)

Smuggling Weed From Missouri to San Francisco - Part 3

By: Two Dumb Shits

Click here for part one. Click here for part two.

In this story you'll read the details of a smuggling run made by two bay area high school graduates on a commercial jet. After the graduation night party, loaded on mescaline, they drove from San Francisco to the midwest. There they picked a load of green bud "hemp," from a remote Iowa river bottom. They drove it down to the Kansas City, Missouri airport. Leaving the car there, they boarded a TWA flight and flew the midwest hemp back out to San Francisco. In Frisco, they dried it and sold it. Some went to friends and some was sold in the Haight-Ashbury area. Our next adventures: running into a cop and spending our smuggling money in New Orleans.

Back to Missouri

From San Francisco we flew back to the Kansas City, Missouri airport. Departing the jet, we went to the parking lot where Jimmy's trusty VW Bug was waiting for us. Jimmy didn't want to pay the $5.00 parking fee. As if he were the commander of an army tank, he drove his little Bug over the curbs and avoided the attendants collection booth. Then we made another get away, east and into the state of Kansas.

Kansas

We hadn't been to Kansas before, and it was only a few minutes away. Heading west we regrouped and again checked our maps. We reached Topeka when it was dark and drove around looking for a bar and some action. When we entered the dimly lit bar, we saw some old black folks sitting around drinking. The music was my favorite, some old Charlie Mussleman and blues. We tried to order some drinks, but were refused. We never got to an ID check, as we were told this was a member's club, and you had to bring your own booze. The bar kept your bottle and you could come over and drink from your bottle. Disappointed, we left. The atmosphere was appealing to us. We anticipated that we would hear many new stories and make new friends. I don't know if they objected to two young white kids interfering with their routine, but at the time it never entered our minds.

Going back into Missouri we headed for the old family plantation. It was by the Mississippi River, near Hannibal, where Mark Twain grew up. I'd never been there and I never announced my visit.

We toured the mid section of Missouri. Fields, rolling hills, lots of hemp. We were near Columbia, and decided to take a cave tour. Missouri has limestone and is full of caves. The cave we entered was huge. It was 8 miles long and, during the Civil War, hid a calvary with hundreds of soldiers and horses. This cave we were in had saved all these lives. Finally we arrived at St. Louis and headed north. Arriving at the 120+ year old home, we got our first experience with southerners. These cousins couldn't believe that I was their long lost relative. They didn't know my great grandfather ever had a son who left home at 15 for California. Well I showed them my license and filled them in. They said, "Oh you're from the land of fruits and nuts." Then they had a good laugh. Next, I was accepted. They showed me the family Civil War revolvers, swords, some distant uncle's white KKK uniform with red cross and pointed hood. I was honestly shocked. I got filled in on the Missouri part of the family. We spent the night in what may have been a haunted mansion. Spooky with hurricane lanterns, shadows and creaking noises all night. In the morning we had the best Missouri breakfast. They served up the 200 year old secret family recipe of Virginia home cured bacon. After our thanks and good-byes, we departed for New Orleans.

We had zig-zagged the western side of the country and were ready to enter the Hippie hating south. This was around the time the movie Easy Rider was released and we'd heard about the south. Fortunately we still had our straight looking, smuggling haircuts. We went across the Mississippi River over an old bridge that was like the bridge in the Billy Joel music video for the song 'River of Dreams'. Now we were in Illinois. After another half hour we crossed back into Missouri. At some small town we saw tornado devastation. It ripped a path tearing up everything in its way. We saw a 100 foot steel tower twisted and laying on the ground. We remembered a cousin telling about how she heard a sound like a freight train. She opened the door to her garage and that part of her house was nowhere around. Somehow the twister had taken the garage but left the house untouched. She told us to watch out. We were to park in a low spot and lay down in a hole. This should protect us. We were happy that we didn't have to apply this friendly advice.

Tennessee - running a state trooper off the road

We crossed into Tennessee. Jimmy was driving and he was so excited at seeing the Dr. Ross dog food factory that he went across the line and the oncoming car drove off the road. He was sad about it as we looked back into the cloud of dust. This was more than being sorry as our good luck now changed. Out of the dust cloud came a Tennessee State Trooper, with his cherry lights a flashin'. "Oh shit, we're busted now." I never told you, but these VW Bugs have a metal plate covering a vertical hollow space just under the passenger side floor mat. Under Jimmy's we had some stash, like more mescaline, and some Mexican weed. This was too much evidence to eat in the next 30 seconds. Jimmy pulled to the side of the 2 lane highway and the mad Trooper did likewise. His patrol car had a film of dust all over it and his face was beet red as he approached us. Thoughts of Easy Rider and southern justice ran like lightening through our heads. When was the last time you ran a cop off the road? I thanked GOD for my destiny that I wasn't the driver when this happened. So the red faced and red neck cop was yelling at Jimmy, while I was praying to GOD for a miracle, any small miracle, to happen. Jimmy explained that he was so excited about seeing the Dr. Ross dog food plant that he must've looked away for a second. He was sincerely sorry. Jimmy was the best story teller I've ever met. He started telling about how his dad was the pilot captain of a US bomber during WWII. Jimmy had been named after the tail gunner who had no children. They were shot down over France and only escaped German prison camps with the help of the French underground. We had come all this way at the request of the tail gunner who owned the small town of Marked Tree, Arkansas. The gunner and Jimmy never met and the gunner was dying. It was his last request in life to meet his namesake, Jimmy. I have to tell you I had tears watering up in my eyes then and I still do as I write this memory down. The cop was so touched that I saw him take a finger and reach under his flight style sunglasses to rub his eyes. With only a warning we kept heading south. I thanked GOD for sending us this miracle. We decided to leave Tennessee without seeing any sights. Jimmy's WWII story was almost completely true. The only part that Jimmy made up was the part about the gunner having no children, dying and wanting to meet Jimmy before he died. All the rest was true. In fact Jimmy's Dad flew on both fronts and is self credited for discovering the jet stream. This was one time when, low on fuel over the Pacific, he got his plane and crew back safe. Jimmy's Dad was a true war hero.

Arkansas

We zig zagged back over into Arkansas. We went through the beautiful wooded Ozarks. We came to a 4 corners stop sign. This crossing separated four different counties. On one corner was a liquor store. We stopped in for some sodas. We asked why they were the only liquor store around. The owner said that the other 3 counties were dry. This meant that they could sell no booze. We went to Marked Tree, Arkansas and met the tail gunner. He owned almost everything in this red brick turn of the century town. The drug store, laundromat, store, etc. He was happy to finally meet his namesake, Jimmy. After many war stories about how great his Dad was we pressed on.

Mississippi

Getting through Mississippi was a long drive. There were Stuckey's Diners which we'd never seen. There was a tremendous amount of farming. Farms weren't like back home. There were crude towers with guards who watched the black workers. It seemed like a prison set up or something, perhaps a remnant from plantation days. Black workers dragging long sacks along the ground. We stopped at the Holiday Inn in Sardus, Mississippi and got some sleep.

Louisiana

We went through Baton Rouge, and wondered at the bayous. These overgrown creeks and rivers maybe led to some secret hidden places where families still lived without electricity and traveled by rafts, canoes and small boats. We didn't want to go exploring the bayous. We imagined snakes in the water and hanging from the Spanish moss covered trees. Ghosts, alligators, and creepy, dangerous animals probably unknown to modern man. There were probably cannibals back there where you would be eaten and never found. "The cops are probably afraid to go there," was Jimmy's conclusion. I said, "Hey, its gotta be a great place to grow weed."

New Orleans

When we got to New Orleans we found out that another rumor was true. At 18 we could legally drink. We walked over to Bourbon Street. We stopped to look into a Dutch door. You know this is a door cut in half where the bottom can be closed while the top is open. We saw an old black man in a white apron. He was standing in a closet facing the sidewalk. He had cases of beer stacked around him and to the ceiling. Ice chests were cooling the canned beer down. We each ordered a can of beer. The man ripped the pop tops off the cans, and threw them towards his feet. In those days pop tops came off. I looked down over the lower door and saw a big galvanized wash tub brimming with these pop tops. This man had the perfect business. Small space, low overhead, in a prominent location. His only clean up was to dump the pop top tub when it got full. We walked on, openly drinking our beers, looking at the sex shows, other tourists and the sites and sounds of this rockin' town. We kept seeing these large hurricane drinking glasses and asked where they came from. Pat O'Brian's was the place to get these. We went there. We had 4 of these tall, icy, refreshing drinks while sitting outside near a fountain. The fountain had no water, but a lit natural gas flame. We wanted to turn our friends onto these drinks and got the recipe from the bartender. I remember that these have 4 shots of rum. The drunk hit us when we found this out. We went back around the corner to Bourbon Street. We hailed a cab to get a local tour. The cab contained a fare, a nasty lady of the night. She readily invited us to share her cab. Her short dress and low cut top revealed many of her finer points. As we turned left off Bourbon and onto a side street the cabbie yelled "Look there's a stabbing !" Sure enough, a big guy in a blue Hawaiian shirt was going backwards as the knife was coming out from above his belly button. This was the first and only stabbing we've seen. The cabbie didn't stop and never called the cops. Instead he took us to the lady's destination, a Cuban bar in some remote area. We got out and paid our driver. We partied in the bar, with people who spoke little English. The music was some of the best I can remember, and we smelled? YES, it was weed. We got stoned with this gal and some cool Cubans. Have you ever been stoned and listened to Latin blues? I wished I'd taken a hit of mescaline for this place. Well I met a beautiful Latin lady and Jimmy found one too. Our prostitute friend set us up and we went to some rooms upstairs. I don't have to give you the details, but it was a time I'll never forget. A few days later we left for Texas.

Texas and back to California

We got to Houston at night. There was a channel that was dug 50 miles from the Gulf of Mexico that made Houston a sea port. We found a sleazy motel and rang the night bell. A black guy came to the window carrying a shotgun. We immediately figured that the rooms would be cheap. We gave him $15.00, and went to sleep. We drove through Texas for 2 more days. We went to the Alamo and saw Davy Crockett's beaded vest. It looked real small like a woman's size 4. Then onto New Mexico. In Arizona we heard about jobs at a copper mine, but passed. We mailed all of our cherry bombs home from Phoenix. We met some poor Indians. We hired them to take us out in the desert to locate peyote cactus. They came up with some spiney ‘look a like' cactus. We gave these nice guys $5.00 and at the California border agricultural check we turned this cactus in. The guard looked upset as he went and put leather gloves on and placed our cactus onto a metal garbage can lid. We traveled onto Newport Beach, where we spent the summer. I got a job at Hobie Catamaran as a fiberglass worker. If you want to see what happened next read the busted in Tijuana story.

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Pipeline (page 3)

On the Right - Reefer Madness

By: William F. Buckley

The experience of Ed Rosenthal of Oakland, California accelerates the day when heavy dilemmas in our legal system might just force a fresh look at our marijuana laws. Presumably that will have to happen when state legislators, congressmen, and presidents are in recess, because the great enemy of sensible reform has been, of course, politicians high from righteousness.

What happened to Rosenthal was that he was convicted of marijuana cultivation and conspiracy, facing a conceivable sentence of l00 years in prison and a fine of $4.5 million. The defense attorney had been forbidden by presiding Federal District Judge Charles Breyer to advise the jury of the perspectives of the defense. The city of Oakland, instructed by a statewide proposition in l996, had enacted an ordinance authorizing the growth of marijuana for medical use. The judge took the flat position that local laws do not override federal laws; therefore the verdict could not be influenced by the legal contradiction, and therefore the jurors shouldn't be sidetracked by hearing about it.

The reasoning was identical to that of Judge George King in the case of computer guru and poet Peter McWilliams. Judge King did not permit McWilliams to base his defense on the California initiative. McWilliams died from AIDS, while awaiting sentencing, unrelieved by the marijuana that critically lessened his nausea.

Sentencing day for Rosenthal was at hand on June 5, and there was some commotion when the thought was expressed that the guilty finding could mean life in prison. One juror had told the press that if she had known such might be the consequence of a guilty finding, she, and presumably other jurors, would not have voted as they did. The day came, and Judge Breyer, perhaps with a wink of the eye, sentenced Rosenthal to one day in jail and a $1,000 fine.

Now Ed Rosenthal is not to be confused with a stray felon who took a toke at an outdoor movie with his date. Oh no. Rosenthal is a full-time practitioner of resistance to marijuana legislation. He has written several books, totaling in sales over 1 million. In one of his most recent, The Closet Cultivator, he outlined how to build an indoor-marijuana-growing system impossible to detect through any method other than betrayal. When arrested, he was linked to a nearby warehouse full of the drug, ostensibly consigned for medical use.

Rosenthal had been teasing the law along about as provocatively as one can do. He had a monthly radio show, and a little while before his arrest his guest was San Francisco's district attorney, Terence Hallinan, who praised efforts by medical-marijuana cooperatives and permitted himself the obiter dictum on existing laws that "the government anti-drug policy is a big lie that's supported by a thousand other lies."

Eric Schlosser of The Atlantic Monthly has published a deeply informative and readable book called Reefer Madness. He wonderfully illustrates the complexity, contradiction, and futility of extant drug laws. Although Governor Clinton of Arkansas introduced legislation to lessen state penalties for marijuana, he went on, as president, to treat marijuana as if it were as innocent as adultery. He doubled the arrests for marijuana infractions. When Nixon declared his tough-drug policies, athwart the recommendation of his own commission which had advocated licensing marijuana for individual home consumption, arrests climbed to over 100,000 per year. In 2001, 720,000 Americans were arrested for pot. About 20,000 inmates in the federal system have been incarcerated primarily for a marijuana offense. Those in state systems would equal that figure, and exceed it. The problem is more than the laws' contradictions.

The Uniform Sentencing Act has given prosecutors, not judges, almost plenary powers over defendants, power ruthlessly used to extract information and to encourage duplicity and to make property rights insecure. Judicial process is convoluted to the point where a judge can reasonably exercise a choice between 100 years in prison and one day in prison. The marijuana laws can most directly be compared to the Prohibition-era laws, which didn't work, undermined the law, and were capriciously enforced.

Pot consumption varies, but not in correlation with the laws' throwweight. If you buy an ounce in New York State, that could bring you a fine of $l00; in Louisiana, a jail sentence of twenty years.

Ed Rosenthal is quoted by author Schlosser. Will the laws in America dissipate, as they have done in Europe? He doesn't think so. "They've made the laws so brittle, one day they're going to break." The whole edifice of prohibition would come down, he predicted, "like the fall of the Berlin Wall." Schlosser nicely summarized Rosenthal's prediction. "A group of powerful, white, middle-aged men will meet in a room to discuss what to do about marijuana. And they will reach the only logical conclusion: tax it."

Like booze, some will then go on to abuse it, though with consequences less dire.

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