Obama Marijuana Seeds

Yes, we cannabis! : How Obama Reduced Northern California’s Pot Prices By 75%

Bringing Change We Couldn’t Believe

"Although a female may lay as many as 100 to 150 eggs at time, only a few will survive to grow to adulthood and breed. Life is perilous for a tiny hatchling sea turtle," The Leatherback Sea Turtle-An Endangered Species.

Much like their turtle counterparts, outdoor marijuana growers in Northern California have evolved in order to ensure the survival, through adulthood, of their tiny hatchlings facing their own perilous environments. Some of their Darwinian leaps are legendary, others functional yet clumsy- lacking the elegance of a well-choreographed primal ballet of genetic entanglements climaxing in the thrill of creation of new and unique lifelines. The kind of climax that made God take a day off.

This story involves how the sea-turtles’ techniques were employed by marijuana growers and the strange effects the strategy had on the community the one year, that one man, changed the ecosystem- temporarily suspending the extent of peril the Northern Cali hatchlings would face and bringing about a situation with so many pros and cons that the final version of the Glut of ’09 will remain not completely told for years.

The air and sound pollution of choppers was no small issue and the initial news that feds wouldn’t be buzzing residents’ properties, and just generally bothering people, pleased the residents tremendously. A huge stride forward occurred on June 11, 2001, when the US Supreme Court ruled that the use of thermal imaging (infrared) scanners to look at homes for evidence of crimes is unconstitutional without a warrant as it allowed for surreptitious voyeurism as images of couples making love could be discerned. I remember getting calls from thrilled growers nearly a decade ago, and enjoying the predictable results of self-reliance that now allow for top of the line domestic availability, with the commercial B.C. bud becoming just a bad memory. But now this? No more Federales?

The administration had felt a sharp backlash for continued DEA raids on medical marijuana facilities after the president had campaigned this would end. Obama/Medical Marijuana supporters wanted answers. California played their part in campaign contributions. There were promises to keep, and miles and miles before we sleep. In a rare case of recognizing accountability for policy assurances made by a campaigning politician, White House spokesman Nick Shapiro, explained a shift in DEA deployment, stating that the Obama administration’s stance was that “federal resources should not be used to circumvent state laws.”

Obama was altering the ecosystem, affirming states’ rights to enforce the laws they created. Much like the 80 year old leathery sea turtles in the Gulf, and Mr. Jones- as told by Zimmerman- something was happening here but we don’t know what it is. People always planted at least one for the cops, one for the thieves, one for the animals, and one for themselves. And, if all went well, that was a solid strategy. I was eager to see the results of a timeless quandary: What would happen if a sea-turtle found her plan, dictated by nature, had failed and she now had hundreds of turtles to prepare and get out into the world?

It had been a beautiful fall and a bountiful harvest. Pride in the results of untold labors in one of the few American trades being reclaimed from outsourcing added a certain cocky tinge to omnipresent permagrins. At a small suburban home in Northern California several generations of marijuana enthusiasts were passing a golden afternoon speculating on the coming harvest and what effect it would have on their lives. Glassy amber chunks of butane-extracted concentrate had been ignited causing the rock to turn to, essentially, lava and blow away my faith in the power of Full Melt Bubble Hash. We had been speculating on what we were smoking when I suggested it was butane extract which I read had occasionally caused explosions and fires during its creation in areas like Vancouver. The old timer didn’t say much, and my suspicion that still waters ran deep was confirmed, as he murmured a reply of seeing doors blown clear off their hinges and reminded me not to tamp the lava hash down if I valued my fingers.

A bumper harvest sounded great for most present. The strains were tried and true: Sour Diesesl, Grand Daddy Purps, Bubba Kush, a fine-tuned Herer crossed with Cindy’99. We knew the harvest was going to be heavy and typical pound prices meant little right now. Some were dealing with serious anxiety, this was not a hobby or criminal endeavor. Their livelihoods, and in some cases their lives and their patients’ lives, were about to be impacted in ways they had been speculating on for months. They wanted stability and the undisturbed continuance of miraculously functioning medicine with predictable availability and price.

Two others reminded me of salivating cartoon wolves with expressions indicating they were playing for keeps and eyes gleaming with lust for adventure. They were confident they would be welcomed in Los Angeles with bags of cash and never-ending pleas for more. Their normal MO, consistent with others I’d met in the area, was to deal with the Bay Area and the 60-odd dispensaries in Sacramento. LA had yet to be saturated with the real deal, keeping prices at dispensaries there tragically high for patients with many selling $20 grams. They anticipated tremendous profit margins by getting medicine to the LA area before the dust of the harvest settled, leaving adjusted and, temporarily, stable market prices.

Visitors came and went. Negotiations took place. A month ago the retail price for Bubba Kush was $4500. By the end of that week these same eager buyers were practically chasing away growers asking $1500. Then $1000. The old timer had seemed like he knew this was coming. He had been much more quiet than usual the past few months, and this was especially evident when talk of the upcoming harvest passed beyond optimism. Growers were not only counting their chickens before they hatched, but making these calculations assuming that bulk prices of $25,000 for 10lbs were written in stone and discounting the possibility that hatched chikens would be ubiquitous, almost underfoot. If 90% of sea-turtle eggs survived, would people really give a damn that British Petroleum was burning them alive?

It took months for things to balance out and, all things considered, it was a very good year for residents at all strata of the business. There were tense moments, certainly. It hurts to have the Grapefruit nugs you slaved for scoffed at when you ask for a couple grand a pound. The old timer explained that frustrations climaxed when suppliers started saying they didn’t give a damn how much was around, they weren’t going to be paid a few bucks an hour for watering, fertilizing, trimming, drying, curing, risking and worrying. Their expected risk to benefit ratio was shot to hell and this was their bread and butter. Some bit the bullet and took cash on delivery for 25% of what they had hoped, their expressions somber. Some, without urgent bills to pay, filled freezers of vacuum-sealed bags, retaining their holdings like confident commodity brokers. The price had bottomed out. Their frozen turkey bags would only go up in price. Others headed down to Southern California, where, as Lawrence Ferlinghetti wrote, the American dream came too true.

Obama’s stock had soared in certain circles. Many here were experiencing, for the first time, the goosebumps and optimism provoked by Obama’s assurances that positive change was coming. The unchecked harvest was the gift that kept on giving. As days grew shorter in the high desert, the novelty of the year’s crop wore thinner. Folks had familiarized themselves with the new flavors and peculiarities of the local wares, and the growers had remained busy processing an inordinate amount of trim into hash. Full Melt Bubble is still going for $10 bucks a gram all the way up. There was a time that a gram could fetch $100. After all the trim had been churned in 5 or 20 galon buckets full of ice water and specially-screened bags, 1 oz 2” cubes had been hydraulically pressed. The cubes were a sight to behold. After enjoying the feeling of having a surplus of a once-mythical concentrate, questions linger. Cheap slabs of full melt are great, absolutely, but the industrial output of a gourmet product was also concerning. California’s got full legalization on the ballot. Can there be too much of a good thing? Could it mean the shift in reputation from the best to the worst as less love would be given to more product in a rush to meet quotas. Only a few years ago, BC Bud had undergone just that dizzying fall. Many in the lower 48 wouldn’t even look at Beasters, as their reputation for a generic and commercial product was just too big. By the time it got to Florida, for example, it had passed through so many hands no one knew what the strain was and the product had been diluted kif-hording scoundrels.

It will be an interesting few years. California is debating full-legalization and an increasing number of states appear to be on the verge of joining the 14 who’ve already decriminalized for medical use. The growers of Northern Cali are the architects of their own future and this moment is crucial how that blueprint will look. If they can maintain their impressive attention to detail and quality as business expands beyond a cottage industry then the sky’s the limit. Advertisements for wildly expensive trimming machines and unrepentant sober capitalists among us bring doubts though. Holding a quarter pound of rock hard cubes of full melt I speculate at these concerns and daydream of people pronouncing “Humboldt” like they do “Schwag.” It’s a strange world. Hippies may one day rebuke these pioneers with a sneer, “I don’t even want to see it if it’s from The Emerald Triangle.”