Mexicali Blue(s)

My friend Felipe and I had visited his namesake town in Baja California del Norte, San Felipe and were returning to the great state of Alta California. We had happened upon the first day of Carnaval down in Mexico and were recovering from a night of eating, drinking, eating and drinking some more. Felipe kindly let me drive his manual transmission car about an hour north of town. This was possibly the fifth or sixth time I had ever driven a stick shift and, well the lessons were soon to begin.

 

Cruising north towards Mexicali was no big deal, keeping it in fourth gear most of the way across the wide flat expanse of desert. Soon, we entered the outskirts of town and I had to drop into third gear every once in a while and then all of a sudden we were in the city. Stop lights, stop signs, traffic circles, buses, trucks, and hundreds of other drivers. Not to mention the signs to Calexico kept you in the left lane and then all of a sudden there was an exit for “Garita Internacional” to the right. So, I just kept going, somehow avoided hitting an old lady and almost smashed into a few cars that decided to turn left from lanes to my right. Ok, still trying to find first and second quick enough to get through this un-signed traffic mess. And did I mention it was Saturday afternoon of a Mexican holiday weekend? Yup.

 

Finally I saw a large fence with a long line of cars next to it, I turned left and then somehow did not see the double yellow line meant to separate the flow of city street traffic with border crossers, and well with some difficulty I crossed it. Of course, this was after a very large truck almost rammed us and asked in Spanish if we wanted to fight, complete with hand gestures of a fist into an open palm. Well, ignoring all of the honking, I somehow squeezed into the lanes, only to be spotted by one of Mexicali’s finest about half a block away who immediately waved me over to the shoulder. Fuck. And we were almost home. First he took my license and then my friend’s registration. Then an old officer came by and apparently this ticket costs about seventy dollars. Apparently. Being that both of us only took one hundred into the country and had spent it on liquor and food, we only had thirty-five between us. I supposed that half-off was not too bad as we then were told to follow the officer to the end of the line and for the exchange of that thirty-five we would get our paperwork back. So now, I had to follow this police cruiser about nine blocks, still struggling to find first and second gear while also dealing with the inane downtown Mexicali four-way stops that no one seemed to know how use. We turned back towards the entry line and I idled along side the cruiser as we retrieved our paperwork. Now came the sitting in the line for two hours part while inching forward, trying not to kill the car too often and turning down all the vendors and beggars. Then, within about six car lengths of the actual border post our lane of traffic stopped completely while all four other lanes moved along at a relative (to the past two hours) swiftness. Once to the booth, I had to get out, open the trunk and display all the liquor we were bringing back across.

 

Then, as I suspected would happen we were selected for a “random search.” I don’t think it was too random as one white guy with a prior possession misdemeanor and a brown guy that only has his birth certificate and driver’s license on the first day of re-entry by passport began were trying to re-enter their country after only one night in Mexico. So, we had to sit in another area and have the agent take our paperwork yet again, then tap on the sides of the car and look underneath with a huge mirror on a pole, and then finally let us out, but not until I could drive over two of the largest speed bumps known to man, these things had to be a foot tall, and of course trapped me there in first gear as I finally had to squeal the tires to get the hell out of there. Finally.

Chemical Rain

The gunshots rang out in quick succession, shattering the still September morning. About twenty-five shots: POW POW POW POW . . . POW POW POW POW POW . . . POW POW POW POW! These came not long after two shirtless locals, who had huffed their way up the hill to “see what you guys were up to,” visited our crew.

We were standing beside the four-wheeler, loaded with a fifteen-gallon tank of herbicide; about to fill our three-gallon herbicide-sprayer backpacks when they arrived. Apparently, the woman who lived in the trailer at the bottom of the road had become “concerned” about our presence on the private land behind her and called the local posse into action. This being early September in the hollows of Briceville, Tennessee; snug against the sheer walls of the Cumberland Mountains, I would not have been surprised if we were precariously close to their marijuana patch.

Why were we there? To spray herbicide throughout a twenty-acre clear cut recently planted with loblolly pines. The land is owned by Coal Creek Mining and Manufacturing, which owns a large portion of four East Tennessee counties. CCM&M has mined much of this land for coal and harvests the rest for timber. When the harvest is complete, loblolly pines are planted in semi-rows so as to propagate future timber sales.

The process of spreading herbicide throughout a pine plantation is tedious. First, the mix, which consists of a dash of ammonia, a dash of blue dye (to mark the areas sprayed), and the two herbicides: Arsenal and Escort. On my first day, I read the labels for both, which caution against ingestion, contact with the skin and the eyes. I read the active ingredients, but fail to remember the long chain of complex chemicals listed. All I know is they will kill every plant but the pines. On days when rain is threatening, another pink liquid “the sticky shit;” which comes out of an unmarked bottle, is added.

Once the mix is complete, the water is added, shuttled up the hill, and distributed into the backpack sprayers. This three gallons, or approximately twenty-four pounds, of water is hoisted onto our backs and we are ready to kill all those that get in the way of the loblolly pines.

Most of the time two people, sometimes three, line up in rows fifteen feet apart and walk towards a common destination. Each person tries to keep as straight a line as possible, forging through thickets of blackberries, rose bushes, and young locust trees; all of which have some sort of thorn. One soon despises every plant that bears a thorn, and speaking for myself, enjoys the knowledge that those plants face an eventual death. The pace is slow and deliberate, with each person on the lookout for the loblolly pines.

At times, the pines are only inches high, others they reach five or six feet. Each time a sapling is encountered, the chemical rain pouring down from the nozzle of the sprayer destroys all of the non-coniferous species surrounding it. This drowns out the competition the pines are receiving from the other plants. If the other, taller deciduous trees and various weeds were allowed to grow, the pines would soon be crowded out and the owner of the pine plantation would stand to lose valuable assets.

Armed, shirtless locals are not the only disturbances. On a previous job, we were filling our sprayers when someone noticed a helicopter slowly circling distant hollows; dope hunters. Soon, the helicopter circled our location. Apparently, having a large truck full of water on top of a clear cut makes for suspicious activity, so the helicopter came back for a second look. I resisted my urge to give the DEA the bird finger.

There are a myriad of other problems encountered, such as broken and leaking sprayers spilling herbicides on our backs; the constant shift of winds that sometimes brings about a mouthful, noseful, or eyeful of toxic spray; and let’s not forget the sun and bugs. Then there is old truck that might make it to the worksite if the tailgate doesn’t fall off. The most constant concern, however, is the presence of the southern pine beetle, which just might ravage this stand of pines when it comes to maturity, thus negating all the hard work of eliminating competition. All of this so someone can have paper to wipe their ass with in thirty-five years.

The Pursuit of Happiness

An op-ed piece for legalization I wrote for the University of Tennessee student newspaper in 2003.

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I was watching television recently, when a Thomas Jefferson documentary caught my attention. When the subject of Jefferson writing the Declaration of Independence came about, there was mention of the rights: “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.” Then, I thought to myself, “what might Jefferson think about recreational use of marijuana?”

 

Everyone knows about the prohibition of alcohol and anyone who paid attention in history class is aware of why this prohibition did not work. Now, some might not realize that there is a second prohibition in effect in this country, the criminalization of the use of marijuana by private citizens in private places. I believe Mr. Jefferson might think this infringes on the second of our inalienable rights, the right to Liberty.

 

Liberty to do as one chooses to one’s own body, be it in the form of a tattoo or a piercing, or ingesting certain mind-altering substances has always been somewhat of a taboo, but the truth is that it can and should be done, based on the principles set forth in the founding of this nation.

 

I would like to point out one circular argument made by the government against recreational marijuana use, the argument that marijuana will lead to a life of crime is not duly justified. This life of crime rhetoric is only advocated by the federal government tossing people in jail for the use of marijuana in their homes and other private places. In the past year alone, nearly 800,000 people were arrested and charged in marijuana cases. Why? No reason other than they were pursuing their right to Liberty.

 

By locking up responsible marijuana smokers, the federal government is trampling on two of the three inalienable rights that Jefferson established over 225 years ago: those of the right to Liberty (to do as one pleases and chooses to one’s own body) and some might argue, the Pursuit of Happiness.

 

This leads me to more circular logic put forth in the recent anti-marijuana campaign. Most people have seen the commercial in which unsuspecting Dan’s purchase of a joint leads to a Columbian family being killed by a drug cartel, because they “got in the way.”

 

I did not think much about this commercial, until I saw yet another recent PBS television show documenting the plight of rural subsistence agriculture families living in Columbia. These families lived near a pipeline that carried the drug of oil from beneath Columbian grounds to make its way to the U.S. market.

 

Not all is well near the pipelines, however, rebels who fear money is being taken from the poor and re-distributed to the rich, have taken it upon themselves to destroy the pipeline. When this happens, families living near the pipeline are subject to oil covering their fields and polluting their wells forcing them to abandon their farms.

 

At times the oil gets into creeks and rivers and makes it impossible for towns and cities downstream to produce drinking water for their inhabitants. This is clearly something more damaging, financially and ecologically, to the people of Columbia, not to mention depriving the people of Columbia of the rights to Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness that should be afforded them as well. Of course, the federal government never mentions that anyone who purchases gasoline causes a disruption in the way of life of innocent Columbians.

 

Now, I must climb down from my soapbox and discuss responsible marijuana use. Marijuana can be classified as a controlled substance, much like alcohol and cigarettes (which cause more deaths yearly than marijuana). If this were the case, many states stand to gain profits from the taxes that will inevitably follow, thus creating funding for a myriad of public programs, such as agricultural subsidies, finance of educational reforms, or even health care reforms.

 

Under a controlled substance classification, marijuana use might also have some rules applied. First: it should be used at one’s own discretion and inside of one’s home or a private establishment, much in the same manner that alcohol is supposed to be used. Second: marijuana would have a minimum age of purchase and possession. And lastly: marijuana should not be used while driving, operating machinery or before attending to work, again in the same fashion that alcohol should not be used as such.

 

There would also be numerous economic and ecological benefits to the legalization of marijuana. Economic benefits would be reaped by the cessation of the spending of billions of dollars by the government to combat this “war on drugs,” and federal and state coffers would be overflowing with tax monies from the sale of marijuana products. There would also be economic advantages to the small farmer that might switch over to a marijuana crop, or even to a hemp crop. By promoting the growth of hemp, which is also currently illegal, there would be less dependence on timber for the paper industry, thus saving many forested acres.

 

Truly, however, one must consider: should our government trample on our rights to Life, Liberty and Pursuit of Happiness in enacting its current war on drugs? I think not!

Heads vs Feds

Report on a NORML debate in 2004

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Playing in front of an auditorium full of tie-dyes and dreadlocks on the University of Tennessee campus, an age-old question was debated: should marijuana be legalized?

 

In the debate, titled “Heads vs. Feds,” representing the pro-legalization side was Steve Hager, editor of High Times and representing the anti-legalization side was Robert M. Stutman, a veteran of the New York office of the DEA and a drug consultant for television shows on PBS and CBS.

 

Mr. Hager was allowed the floor first and he presented five reasons why he believes marijuana should be legalized. Hager’s first reason was that marijuana is good medicine, there are a number of diseases that marijuana is good for, and a number of people who are alive because of marijuana. Hager continued by mentioning that the pharmaceutical industry does not like marijuana because it is a “free” or natural medicine and not subject to patents like many pills.

 

Hager’s second argument for legalization of marijuana is that hemp (which has trace amounts of THC, the chemical in marijuana which causes the “high,” yet is still outlawed) is good for the environment. Hager dipped into early U.S. history by bringing up the fact that farmers used to be able to pay their taxes in hemp stock. Hager also pointed out there are 20,000 different hemp products and there could be four times the amount of paper production from hemp than there is currently from trees.

 

Hager’s third argument is that the current drug wars are helping to create the largest prison system in the world because of forfeitures and mandatory minimums and prisons were “festering grounds for criminal behavior.” Hager’s fourth argument for legalization of marijuana is to stop funding corruption. Hager pointed out that hemp and marijuana would be cheaper to produce than corn, soybeans, wheat and potatoes, and the real price for a pound of legal marijuana would be one or two dollars, a number that brought joyful laughter from the audience.

 

The final reason presented by Hager for legalization is that it is part of his culture. This culture, Hager mentioned, is one that is founded in peace and one that he can believe in. Hager also pointed out that this part of his culture is almost like a religion to him and many of his friends and that he should be able to exercise his religious freedoms by choosing to indulge in marijuana use.

 

Mr. Stutman’s anti-legalization presentation came next. Stutman started out by telling the audience that Hager did not present the real reason for legalization: most want legalization for the right to get high. Stutman then continued by taking down Hager’s argument of “its natural, so it must be good” by pointing out that there are other plants and natural substances that will kill users, such as arsenic and hemlock.

 

Stutman did agree with Hager on the point that cannabinoids are good medicines for a number of diseases. However, Stutman argued that the delivery system, usually smoking, was not a good form of medicine and presented the argument that studies have shown only one out of 435 chemicals in marijuana smoke present a positive medicinal effect.

 

Stutman then pointed out that Hager knows legalization as a recreational drug is not a viable argument and that it would produce far more users with worse consequences. Stutman closed his argument by presenting four reasons why he thinks marijuana should remain illegal.

 

Stutman’s first reason was that although marijuana is good for glaucoma, most who favor legalization do not have glaucoma, and marijuana use significantly contributes to automobile accidents.

 

Stutman’s second reason is that marijuana interferes with one’s ability to reason and he presented numbers from a study that said students with a “D” average in high school were four times more likely to use marijuana than students with an “A” average. Stutman continued by presenting his third reason was that marijuana causes dependence and was the second-largest self-referral drug behind alcohol.

 

The final reason presented by Stutman was Mayo Clinic research that showed marijuana smoking is more harmful than cigarette smoking and can cause lung cancer.

 

In his conclusion, Stutman said that if the public, the courts, or science can agree with legalization that he would jump to the other side, but he does not see that day coming anytime soon.

 

After both sides had presented their arguments, a lengthy question and answer session followed, during which Hager invited Stutman to the upcoming Cannabis Cup in Amsterdam. Stutman refused the offer.

 

In conclusion, both agreed that there were certain highs and lows to the legalization of marijuana and there are many areas for compromise, especially with sick persons whose use of marijuana would help their conditions. Both also agreed that the illegal use of marijuana will undoubtedly continue and that if marijuana continues to be illegal, or if it is legalized, that everyone who chooses to use marijuana should use it responsibly. 

My Official Part in the “War on Drugs”

My brush with the International War on Drugs (other than my own run-ins with the law) came one late summer day at Point Reyes National Seashore, California.

 

During our morning trail crew gathering, we were sometimes asked for volunteers for various jobs. Some times they were good jobs, others not so much. This morning, we were asked for only one volunteer and a girl that did her best to annoy the crap out of everyone, everyday, volunteered. Ah! A day without her! Relief!

 

Unfortunately, or fortunately for my part, our supervisor did not trust her to go off on her own for the morning, as the task was scheduled for the afternoon. Seeing as how I was the only person who could stand more than a few one-on-one hours with her, everyone turned my direction when the supervisor asked if someone could go along with her.

 

We were told our job for the afternoon was to head to the top of Mount Vision and assist in helicopter operations for a marijuana bust that happened the day before. Apparently, someone hiking off trail over the weekend had stumbled upon a grow site. Rumor was this site was operated by the Cartel. The Rangers had hiked in, cleared the site and cut down all the plants, to be flown out later.

 

We worked on a local trail for the morning, then removed ourselves to Mount Vision for lunch. There we met two folks from the road crew who we were to assist. Our task was to unload the nets full of plants from the helicopter into a dump truck. One of the road crew workers we all called “Willie Nelson” for his uncanny resemblance to the famous stoner/singer. There were also a some fire folks to assist with the helicopter and a few Law Enforcement Rangers, who kidded that they were going to search us on our way home. The four of us were the only folks that would directly touch the plants, other than whoever was at the grow site loading them into the net.

 

Then, we waited. And waited, and waited for the helicopter to show up. Finally around 4pm, it came swooping in. Sweet! As our shift ended at 4:30, we were soon to be collecting. Soon, the chopper flew off to collect it’s first load.

 

The chopper was quickly back and dropping the net directly into the dump truck. As soon as it was clear, the four of us climbed into the truck, jumped down and pulled the large, heavy net out from beneath the plants. Thus, we were knee deep in plants for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, none of them had quite budded out, but they still smelled rather nice! We repeated this process until near dark, when the helicopter had to leave.

 

We had been rolling around in and jumping up and down on plants all afternoon. My clothes reeked of marijuana and my boots had a green tinge to them. My mouth also felt kind of dry, but that could have been due to dehydration. I’d like to think that I had soaked in some THC just by touching all the plants, but that is doubtful.

 

Afterwards, I went to meet my buddies at the bar (since I had earned some OT, I had to buy some rounds). As soon as I parked, a local sheriff’s deputy pulled up alongside. I was busy turning my NPS-logo shirt inside out and waited in my car for a few minutes, as I didn’t want to jump out reeking like weed. I went in the bar, regaled my friends with the day’s adventures and let them smell my shirt and marvel at my green-stained boots. Anyone else think it ironic that I spent the money I earned in my small part of The War on Drugs on alcohol?

Review of “Cornbread Mafia” by James Higdon

Most people outside of central Kentucky have probably never heard of Raywick.

However, if you have smoked marijuana in the past fifty years, it is highly likely that Raywick, Kentucky has had some form of influence on your life.

In Cornbread Mafia, by James Higdon, Raywick’s not-so-secret business is put to light in a sensible way. As most people are beginning to realize what the failed “War on Drugs” has done for our side of the hemisphere, Mr. Higdon chronicles the rise of the illicit marijuana industry in and around Marion County, Kentucky, which has a very deep tradition of secret keeping. Not until well into the book does Mr. Higdon come out that he grew up in Marion County, and perhaps that is why he was allowed such great access into the lives and history of its inhabitants.

Cornbread Mafia starts out with the Prohibition era of the 1920s, as moonshining was quite rampant throughout this park of Kentucky, after several distilleries were forced to close. Mr. Higdon then continues into the outlaw era of the 1950s and 60s before delving into the marijuana culture that began in the 70s and continues until today.

The initial few chapters are a bit confusing, throwing out a lot of names and families, but they are necessary to understand the difficult inter-twinings of Marion County.

Cornbread Mafia contains some wild stories and backwoods tales, all believable, but what Mr. Higdon seems to be getting at, is that these are just simple folks out to make a living, who do something considered illegal, which everyone (even the local police) knows about, but nobody does anything about.

The “Cornbread Mafia” is a term made up by the FBI to describe two or three (one could never tell who was in cahoots and who was in a feud with the other) large growing operations that centered in Marion County, Kentucky and spread throughout the Midwest and probably all of North America.

The person who Mr. Higdon chronicles the most is one Mr. Johnny Boone, who is now a federal fugitive after having had several thousand seedlings discovered (by air) on his farm. Mr. Boone has already been to prison twice and due to the federal three strikes law, faces life in prison . . . all for growing a plant.

Mr. Higdon, by virtue of being a local, cultivates a friendship with Mr. Boone who tells him wild stories from the beginning of the cultivation craze that came across Kentucky. Mr. Boone proves himself to be a farmer with a very green thumb, who is able to come across various seeds from a mysterious globe-wandering source. He breeds, cross-breeds and cultivates various crops, which find their way across the midwest (and most likely, as the author hints, across all of North America).

Mr. Boone was one of the pioneers of marijuana cultivation. And, due to the legality of the cultivation, a mastermind at hiding his crops. Of course, this all came to a head at one point in Minnesota as his farm was busted and several people taken into custody.

Due to the Kentuckians unwillingness to go states witness against anybody, or even talk for that matter, their leaders faced long prison terms. Mr. Boone was in some of the worst federal prisons in the country for two decades, all because he kept silent about growing a plant. The closest the “Cornbread Mafia” ever came to the real Mafia was their mutual respect for each other while in prison, as both adhered to a strong code of silence, or “Omerta“, as the Italians called it. Mr. Boone even has a jailhouse tattoo that reads “Omerta” across his back.

There are several times throughout Cornbread Mafia where one who might have their ear towards modern legalization arguments agrees with the wrong done to Mr. Boone and the several other persons from Marion County.

There are other times when one cannot look past the violence that presented itself into the system. However, Mr. Higdon explains, quite thoroughly, that this is an accepted way of life and that the violence that came with it is just small-time country-folk violence that was escalated due to the extra-legal nature of the business these men were in.

As Mr. Higdon and Mr. Boone become friends while Mr. Higdon is researching his book, they have several meetings, usually at Mr. Boone’s house or a neutral place, but there is one surprise visit of Mr. Boone to Mr. Higdon’s residence.

This visit coincided with the return of the Virginia, Maryland and Washington D.C. 2008 primary returns. Mr. Higdon describes a scene in which he and Mr. Boone are watching Obama’s victory speech  . . .

“It’s a game where the only way for the Democrats to look tough on national security is by talking and acting and voting like Bush-McCain Republicans, while our troops are sent to fight tour after tour of duty in a war that should’ve never been authorized and should’ve never been waged. That’s what happens when we use 9/11 to scare up votes, and that’s why we need to do more than end a war — we need to end the mind-set that got us into war . . .

“This line strikes Johnny Boone hard. I see him react to it, visibly move by Obama’s hopeful rhetoric — because when Boon hears “we need to end the mind-set that got us into war,” he’s not thinking Iraq, he’s thinking about the war on him.

“He’s the real fucking deal, isn’t he?” Boone asks me after Obama finishes his speech to thunderous applause in Madison. I nod, feeling the same way.

“Do you ever think, if he’s elected president, that he would legalize it so that a farmer could grow a little pot?” He looks at me after he asks it, waiting for me to answer.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’d like to say yes, but probably not. Maybe in his second term.”

Due to Mr. Higdon’s association with and a picture of Mr. Boone, Mr. Higdon becomes one of the first journalists under the Obama administration to be subpoenaed. The final chapter of Cornbread Mafia details this experience along with his visits to America’s Most Wanted to be filmed discussing Mr. Boone. None of Mr. Higdon’s footage is used.

As Mr. Higdon states: “Apparently, an Ivy-League educated journalist in a Brooks Brothers suit explaining to them that Johnny Boone is a non-violent criminal and that his community doesn’t want him captured is not the sort of television they [AMW] are looking for.”

And thus, the war continues . . .

My “unofficial” parts in the “War on Drugs”

My unofficial capacities in the “War on Drugs” far outweigh my official capacity that I once had.

 

I have been brooding over all the times that I have been searched/detained because of “suspicion of marijuana” and it is just frustrating.

 

My first was the summer I was 17. Two friends and I had decided we were going to steal hood ornaments and seat belt buckles from some junk cars by the Cookeville Mall, which were being used for fire-fighter training or some such thing. We were pretty stupid, parking our car right there and being dumb 17 year olds, typically.

 

The cop detained us, but couldn’t pin anything on us, so he told us any B&E calls that night and he was coming to find us. Typical cop scare tactics bullshit. He did search the car, which I am not sure why permission was given and said he was going to haul us in if he “found any dope,” which he didn’t. He then proceeded to put our licenses on top of his car and drive away. We had gone about a mile when I realized we never got our IDs back. So, we circled back, but he was gone. We had to go to the police station and have them track the cop down, who had driven off with our IDs on his roof and they scattered over the parking lot at the Mall, where he had to go back and search for them.

 

What a waste of time (ours and his).

 

During four years of college, I went to Canada often, as it was close and the drinking age was 18. I was searched numerous times going into and out of Canada.

 

What a waste of time.

 

August 2001, I was driving northbound on US Highway 6/50 out of Green River, Utah towards Duchesne, Utah. I was going rather fast as it was a straight, flat stretch of road and cars had been passing me. Next thing I know, several cars that had passed me were now behind a RV going up a hill and I was going down a hill with a Utah Highway Patrolman coming up. I rolled my windows down, to hopefully let him get a look at my Boy Scout uniform that was hanging in the rear window (as I was taking a post-Philmont road trip). The officer was rather gruff and began his line of questioning with: “what is wrong with your license? (Assuming I had something wrong with it) And why did it take you so long to stop?” (I was doing 80 and there was a steep shoulder).

 

He then continued to tell me all about how he could smell marijuana coming from my car, which I have no clue how he could smell that well. I had smoked in my car, but it had been weeks or probably months. This line of questioning continued for some time where he insisted he smelled marijuana and I insisted he was making things up.

 

Somewhere I told him, that yes, I have smoked pot and yes, I have smoked it in my car but not anytime recently. This really irks cops as they have no control over what they can do when you tell them things like this. I then told him he could go ahead and search if he was so confident. He rolled his eyes, stopped talking, turned on his heel and walked back to his patrol car, where he wrote up a ticket.

 

When he returned, I asked why he picked me out of the crowd of speeders and he dodged that question by telling me this was “Utah’s most dangerous highway.”

 

What a waste of time.

 

August 2003, I was returning to Tennessee from my last summer at Philmont. I had some really good Taos bud that I was trying to hold onto as I wasn’t sure how long it would take for me to find anything when I got back to Knoxville. I had spent the summer living as a mountain man at Black Mountain and I had a really long beard, with a southern highway shaved into it.

 

I had been tossed out of the St. James the night prior for trying to start a fight and woken up on the floor of a bathroom in a house behind the bar. I got out of town rather quickly the next day and drove all the way to Clarksville, Arkansas – taking familiar I-40 most of the way. I had decided that as I was getting on I-40 in Clarksville, I was going to have a quick toke as that always seemed to make tedious driving better. I lucked out in that I was entering into a one-lane road due to construction and no one could see what I was doing (which was being incredibly stupid).

 

After the construction, I saw a couple of cops ahead running a speed trap and I did the dumb “tap on my breaks as I pass” thing. I was speeding – like maybe 72 in a 70 but Arkansas is a zero tolerance state for speeding. A couple of miles later I was being pulled over. I saw my hand shaking as I handed the trooper my papers and I didn’t take off my sunglasses (which was a second pair on top of my regular glasses). I am sure the trooper could smell the pot I had just smoked. He came back and stood to my left rear bumper and made some kind of vague hand gesture motioning me like he wanted me to get out of the car, which I didn’t at first understand what the hell he was doing. I got out and he began to question me, asking if he could “take a look around,” and I was not sure what to say to that. I was doing nothing but speeding and “being nervous,” but I am always “nervous” around cops. Eventually, since this guy was going to be persistent about it, I told him I had some pot and a pipe and showed him where it was.

 

I figured he would just take it and let me go on my merry way, but no . . . He then tore my car apart and found another pipe (that I had forgotten about) and some mushroom spores. When he asked what my plan with those were I said: “what do you think.” He told me he would “cut me a break” and forget about the mushrooms since that was a Felony. I knew enough to keep my mouth shut and not provoke him by telling him there probably wasn’t enough psilocybin to convict me of anything. He asked me about how much cash I had and I told him around $900 dollars from cashing a paycheck. I also slipped in that I had been out in New Mexico working at a Boy Scout camp and I was headed back to college for the fall.

 

He then said that “since I had been so honest . . . he was going to let me follow him into town to ‘be booked through’ and I would be let go shortly.” He never did tell me I was under arrest or anything. I think he might have Mirandized me as we were entering the outer doors of the jail. True to form, I got booked in pictures taken, etc., at the Pope County (Russellville, AR) Detention Center. Meanwhile, the fat corrections officers kept lecturing me on smoking pot while they were all talking about their prescribed anxiety meds they needed. I still knew enough to keep my mouth shut, but I thought maybe I had (before it was confiscated) the best anxiety medicine anyone might want.

 

An hour or so later, a bondsman took my credit card and bonded me out. I got the hell out of Arkansas (without speeding). It cost me $1500 and I now have a record that charged me with “Possession of Marijuana” as the other charge of “Possession of Paraphernalia” was dropped.

 

I did everything over the phone and felt like I was basically paying off some backwoods lawyer to sweep everything away. As long as I didn’t have to go back to Arkansas to go to court, $750 lawyer fee and $750 fine was OK by me, expensive but OK.

 

What a waste of time and money.

 

May 2004, I was crossing into Victoria, British Columbia by boat from Port Angeles, WA. I had not crossed into Canada since my “conviction” and wondered if it would come up as I crossed. Apparently, it did, as I was asked to come into a back room and talk to an Immigration officer. Why in the hell they thought I would want to immigrate to Canada (even in the W years) was beyond me. I just kept telling the officers: “I came over on the boat from Port Angeles, I want to walk around Victoria and see the sights and spend some money, then go back. Finally the officer asked if I had even been in trouble and I told him that yeah, I had a marijuana charge, which should be not big deal as I was crossing into BRITISH COLUMBIA! Turns out, it wasn’t. He asked “how many grams” and I told him less than a quarter of an ounce. He patted me down and let me go on.

 

What a waste of time.

 

September 2005 I had put my car on the M/V Coho to return from Victoria to Port Angeles. There was a car in front of me in the line in Port Angeles that had two scruffy looking 20-something males with Oregon plates. I watched as the agent had them open the trunk and ask two or three times if they “were sure there was nothing else to tell him about.” I was thinking I would get the same hard time heading through, but I told him I lived in Port Angeles and worked for Olympic National Park and he waved me through.

 

Still a waste of time. (I could have been home sooner were it not for Oregon hippies).

 

My next capacity in The Drug War was my official one I came into at Point Reyes, which I have blogged about previously.

 

Another waste of time and money (by the “good” guys).

 

March of 2007, I was returning from Jamaica into Fort Lauderdale. I knew that I would be pulled aside and I was. Probably because I had a camping backpack and I spent time in the customs line re-arranging and re-packing stuff from it into my carry-on for the overnight flight back to Las Vegas. I went through the usual BS with the agent and he eventually gave up on searching everything I had when he realized I was no harm and not stupid enough to try to smuggle things back from Jamaica. I did, however, end up missing my flight, which the airline first tried to blame on me being detained in customs and would never admit that the reason a whole bunch of people from the Montego Bay flight missed their connections is that their plane was over an hour late getting into the gate in Montego Bay. My bag, which had been searched and scanned by customs somehow made it and I finally caught up to it a couple of days later in Vegas.

 

What a waste of time and money (my money in having to spend an extra day in FLL).

 

February of 2008, I was returning from San Felipe, Mexico in a car through the Mexicali border station on a Saturday afternoon.

 

I was driving my friend Felipe’s standard shift car and creeping through the traffic for about five hours before we were met at the gate. We were asked to open the trunk and our things were rifled through. We then were told to pull to the side, which I knew would happen, and answered the same questions again. Finally, the let me go in and use the bathroom as I had been sitting in traffic for five hours and we were told to go on.

 

What a waste of time.

 

I was finally left alone about these matters for a while (still got pulled over randomly, however). That is, until I started moving my belongings from Las Vegas to Springfield.

 

December 2010, about half an hour west of Oklahoma City on I-40 I was driving my RV when I saw a speed trap set up. I kept my eye on the cops and soon, I was getting pulled over. I thought it might have something to do with my little car dolly I was towing and I was right. I had been pulled over as the cop “saw me cross the fog line” and he asked me to step back to his car. Hmm . . . where was this going? I walked back and I saw that he was from the “Oklahoma Bureau of Narcotics” I about shit a brick. I got in and chit-chatted with the cop, talking mostly about the new Hoover Dam bridge and telling him how the trucks & wind were pushing my RV around. I told him that I had the cruise around 65, but I was going to back it off to 55 or 60 and he let me go. Thank God!

 

What a waste of time that could’ve been (like my time . . . in jail . . . in Oklahoma . . .)

 

January 2011, I was driving from Las Vegas to Salt Lake City to Denver to Springfield with my car, some work clothes, ski gear, and other random things. Somewhere in western Wyoming, as I was cruising along, I saw a cop with someone pulled over ahead of me. I had the cruise set at 72 or 73 and got in the left lane to pass. As I had passed and was starting to ease back into the right lane, I saw more flashing lights on the shoulder and got back into the left lane until I passed the second trooper.

 

A couple of miles later and one of the troopers was on my tail. I still had my cruise on 73 or so and was wondering if/when this guy was going to pull me over (73 in 70, in Wyoming? Yeah right!). Finally, as I was about to pass a truck, he put on his lights.

 

When the trooper asked me if I knew why he pulled me over I said: “No.” I think he also asked the standard cop question of: “you know how fast you were going?” To which my reply was: “oh about 72, I guess.” And he told me the speed limit “was still 70.”

 

Ok, whatever. He said that he “had seen me swerve back there,” which I’ll bet is how he and his partner get all sorts of people pulled over. I asked if he was the first or second guy and he told he had been “with a black car.” I still had no clue if he was the first or second guy and a black car pulled over on I-80 is not a fact I need to register when I am driving several hundred miles for the day. I said that I had not see then second guy initially and he said something like “you didn’t see all those lights?” Then, he had me get out and come back to his car. What the hell?!? We sat there and I tried to BS with him as he wrote me up a warning. Then he began asking things like: “Are you alright? What are you nervous about?” And saying he could see my hand shake and that he could “see my heart beating through my shirt.” I said, no, I’m fine, maybe just cold (even though he had his heat blasting away) and he said I could go. Of course I was nervous! I was sitting in a cop car with no reason to be there!

 

As I was walking back to my car, he sticks his head out and asks if he could talk to me some more. OK, here it comes. He says he can’t get my story to add up (I didn’t know how difficult it was to explain I was driving from Las Vegas to Salt Lake to Denver visiting friends). Then he starts asking what my friends in Denver do. What the hell? I tell him some professional sounding jobs, which they all have.

 

He then goes through his checklist of things to ask if I have in the car, starting with a bomb and going through several drugs (to which I replied to all “No Sir!”) and ending on over $10,000 in cash (to which I kind of rolled my eyes at him). Then he asked if he could search me, to which I consented as I had nothing. I would have pressed the issue of reasonable search/maybe even refused, but it was Friday morning on a holiday weekend, this guy was clearly not busy and I didn’t want to spend all weekend in a holding cell waiting for a warrant to come through. This guy was young, probably new and probably just as nervous about searching me as I had been about being detained. He even nervously went back to his car during the search to “radio in to tell them what he was doing.” I don’t know why he didn’t call in his partner for back up, either, but whatever. He told me that “if I had any marijuana to go ahead and tell him and I could be cited and on my way.” Too bad for him, I didn’t.

 

So, the conversation is back around to marijuana. He tells me that he decided to search because I “hesitated” when he asked if I had any marijuana. I told him his decision was probably made because he ran me through NCIC and saw I has a possession charge from eight years ago. He then asks me if it’s a “medical” thing and I say sure, but I don’t have a medical card because it was too difficult to get one in Nevada. He really wanted to think that I had marijuana and kept telling me about how it was only a citation, like a speeding ticket. And I kept re-buffing. I’m guessing this guy thought I was some drug mule running loads down I-80 from Denver to points west.

 

As he searched, I stood there and told him what he would find in every bag. He never even bothered to look in my ski bag or my toiletries kit that was sitting open, on top of my duffel, which would have been the two places I would have hidden anything anyway. As I said previously, it irks the cops when you admit that you smoke but that you are traveling clean. Finally, this guy had decided I was no harm and/or he had wasted enough time with me and let me go, telling me “marijuana is still illegal in Wyoming.” OK, thanks?

 

What a waste of time.

 

October 2011, I am heading for a bluegrass festival deep in the mountains of Arkansas. As I was heading up a twisty, mountain road I saw an Arkansas State Trooper on the opposite side, facing incoming traffic. No huge deal, probably just there for traffic control. Then, he was behind me. I started getting nervous, knowing that I was going to have a rough time if he pulled me over, but I got my story straight about how I had been pulled over in Arkansas so many years before and I learned my lesson and I don’t travel with drugs, etc, etc. I just knew this guy was waiting for someone to cross one of the lines on either side of the road (which is a given on any road in the Arkansas Ozarks) to pull them over and search them. There was a pickup truck with out of state plates and band bumper-stickers in front of me as well.

 

Next thing I knew a tiny town, with a store, popped up. I threw my signal on and turned in, letting the cop pass. I sat for a few minutes, then proceeded up the mountain. Not even another mile past the town and the pickup was pulled over. Sorry, dude.

 

What a waste of time.