deliver. If it wasnât the transients, who were lured there by the pot thing, it was the pot thing itself. Bob viewed Humboldt as one big marijuana haven. Sometimes, when he was driving along in his white department-issued Ford Expedition and the marijuana industry ads came on the radio, they were just so blatant heâd have to reach over and just shut it off, like the one for âSweet Sticky Fingers,â which was supposed to help remove gummy marijuana resin from oneâs hands.
But then something crazy would happen that would shock Bob out of the silence, those only-in-Humboldt thingsâlike the morning he came across two garbage bags stuffed full of weed in the middle of the highway (they had blown off the back of a truck after a government raid). One time, he saw a man he knew walking toward the bank with massive amounts of cash bulging out of the top of his bag. Another day they got a call at the station from a local motel about a maid who couldnât clean the bathroom in a certain room because it was so full of marijuana. Sure enough, forty pounds of processed pot was found stacked in the shower, on the floor, and on the toilet. Marijuana was literally everywhere in Humboldt County, and Bob was just awaiting the day when he would see starter pot plants for sale next to the trays of baby tomatoes and sunny marigolds the local grocery stores set outside every spring.
Of course Bob knew that marijuana was big business in Humboldt County. Heâd spent part of his childhood there, but heâd moved away for many years and didnât really understand what it all meant until he started patrolling the Garberville area in 2006 and noticed all the black garbage bags in the backs of trucks that werenât headed to the dump. It slowly dawned on him that trash bags were what growers used to transport unprocessed marijuana. Then Bob started pulling over people in $40,000 and $50,000 trucks with no visible means of support. Suddenly, the giant pot leaf that towered above the Hemp Connection store on Main Street began to take on a new meaning.
It took Bob a mere month in Southern Humboldt to conclude that America had totally lost the War on Drugs. Everywhere he turned, heâd see that green plant towering above the high fences in peopleâs yards. Every time he confiscated pot from someone he pulled over, he realized it wasnât even a molecule in a drop of water compared to what was out there. What he was doing made no difference at all.
It wasnât easy being a deputy sheriff in a town of outlaws.
Just that month, Bob had busted a guy for transporting eighty pounds of pot. Depending on how the pot was grown and which state it was destined for, those eighty pounds were likely worth somewhere between $120,000 and $240,000. The man Bob arrested posted bail and got his truck back that same afternoon. It was what Bob called a âdoper dieselâ truck, a hulking Ford F-250 or a Dodge Ram, owned by a guy who grows weed indoors with diesel-ââp owered generators. Bob knew the man got out of jail that same day, because he drove by Bob and waved.
âThe laws need to be reworked,â Bob would say. âWe just need to acknowledge that we lost the war on marijuana.â
Bob looked forward to the day when he could go into a liquor store and see a pack of Winston Purple Kush next to packs of Salem Sour Diesel and Marlboro Red Hairs. He knew this was a pot growerâs greatest fear, the corporatization of the industry, but heâd tell them it was going to be like the microbrewery model versus Anheuser-Busch. Sure, big companies were going to get in on the racket, but they were going to sell leaves, shake, not the primo, high-quality stuff local farmers had spent decades perfecting. In Bobâs vision, there would be rolling tobaccoâlike pouches of Humboldt Gold, full of fat, fragrant buds.
Maybe this would mean that all the growers werenât going to be able to
But then something crazy would happen that would shock Bob out of the silence, those only-in-Humboldt thingsâlike the morning he came across two garbage bags stuffed full of weed in the middle of the highway (they had blown off the back of a truck after a government raid). One time, he saw a man he knew walking toward the bank with massive amounts of cash bulging out of the top of his bag. Another day they got a call at the station from a local motel about a maid who couldnât clean the bathroom in a certain room because it was so full of marijuana. Sure enough, forty pounds of processed pot was found stacked in the shower, on the floor, and on the toilet. Marijuana was literally everywhere in Humboldt County, and Bob was just awaiting the day when he would see starter pot plants for sale next to the trays of baby tomatoes and sunny marigolds the local grocery stores set outside every spring.
Of course Bob knew that marijuana was big business in Humboldt County. Heâd spent part of his childhood there, but heâd moved away for many years and didnât really understand what it all meant until he started patrolling the Garberville area in 2006 and noticed all the black garbage bags in the backs of trucks that werenât headed to the dump. It slowly dawned on him that trash bags were what growers used to transport unprocessed marijuana. Then Bob started pulling over people in $40,000 and $50,000 trucks with no visible means of support. Suddenly, the giant pot leaf that towered above the Hemp Connection store on Main Street began to take on a new meaning.
It took Bob a mere month in Southern Humboldt to conclude that America had totally lost the War on Drugs. Everywhere he turned, heâd see that green plant towering above the high fences in peopleâs yards. Every time he confiscated pot from someone he pulled over, he realized it wasnât even a molecule in a drop of water compared to what was out there. What he was doing made no difference at all.
It wasnât easy being a deputy sheriff in a town of outlaws.
Just that month, Bob had busted a guy for transporting eighty pounds of pot. Depending on how the pot was grown and which state it was destined for, those eighty pounds were likely worth somewhere between $120,000 and $240,000. The man Bob arrested posted bail and got his truck back that same afternoon. It was what Bob called a âdoper dieselâ truck, a hulking Ford F-250 or a Dodge Ram, owned by a guy who grows weed indoors with diesel-ââp owered generators. Bob knew the man got out of jail that same day, because he drove by Bob and waved.
âThe laws need to be reworked,â Bob would say. âWe just need to acknowledge that we lost the war on marijuana.â
Bob looked forward to the day when he could go into a liquor store and see a pack of Winston Purple Kush next to packs of Salem Sour Diesel and Marlboro Red Hairs. He knew this was a pot growerâs greatest fear, the corporatization of the industry, but heâd tell them it was going to be like the microbrewery model versus Anheuser-Busch. Sure, big companies were going to get in on the racket, but they were going to sell leaves, shake, not the primo, high-quality stuff local farmers had spent decades perfecting. In Bobâs vision, there would be rolling tobaccoâlike pouches of Humboldt Gold, full of fat, fragrant buds.
Maybe this would mean that all the growers werenât going to be able to
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