Humboldt by Emily Brady Page B

coffee. The younger of the two had long red hair. His companion had a white beard and wore a red knit cap.
    â€œGood morning,” Kenny Swithenbank said. “Do you know whose property you’re on?
    â€œNo,” the older man said, “but we’re trying to be respectful.”
    A large Alaskan husky bounded up to Bob, and he reached down and gave it a pat. It smelled of clean, warm fur. Names were established. Rob was the older gentleman in the cap. Zach was twenty-two and from Colorado.
    There was the sound of a zipper opening, and a young woman emerged from one of the tents, leaving a dozen puppies yipping in her wake. Her name was Jessica. She had strawberry blond hair and looked like she could be Zach’s sister. She was wearing sweatpants and a sheer tank top that clung tightly to her eight-months-pregnant belly. She began to roll a cigarette.
    â€œWhy’d you come out here from Colorado?” Kenny asked Zach. “Marijuana maybe?”
    â€œMarijuana is my medicine,” Zach replied.
    â€œReally?” Bob asked. “Why are you sick?”
    Zach ignored him.
    â€œWhy did you come here?” Kenny pressed in a calm voice.
    Zach rambled about having heard about the redwoods, and then he conceded, “I heard there was good herb out here and jobs to trim.”
    â€œDid you find a job?” asked Kenny.
    â€œNo, but I’ve met a lot of friendly people.”
    Rob, with the red cap, interjected: “Are you kidding? The Humboldt scene is so popular, I tell people to stay away. The jobs aren’t happening because the growers go and get sixty-year-old women, or they go to Arcata and get some hot college girls.”
    â€œIt’s their million-dollar business and they aren’t going to trust strangers with it,” Kenny said knowingly. He then asked Zach what his home life was like.
    â€œWhen I was little my mom sold pot to support us,” Zach said.
    Jessica took a drag off her cigarette, seemingly oblivious to the conversation unfolding in front of her.
    â€œWhen I was here in June, this place was the shit,” she said. “The Veterans Park was open. The weather was better.”
    While Jessica was talking, Bob slipped into the bushes nearby to make a phone call. When he returned, he pulled a pair of handcuffs off his belt.
    â€œPlease stand up,” he instructed Rob, who, it turned out, was wanted on a five-year-old warrant for a parole violation in Virginia.
    Bob clicked the handcuffs onto Rob’s wrists, and Zach held a thermos up to his friend’s lips so he could have one last sip of coffee before he was hauled off to jail.
    As he turned to go, Kenny looked thoughtful.
    â€œI’m not sure who the property owner is—I think it is my cousin’s—but you guys need to think about leaving. I appreciate your respect here, but you are trespassing, and I guarantee that the owner doesn’t want you here. All the homeless camps in Southern Humboldt are on private property.”
    Back at his truck, Bob loaded Rob into the back and shut the door. It was over an hour’s drive to Eureka, the county seat, and the nearest holding tank. From the passenger seat, Bob pulled out an enormous green T-shirt and held it up against his chest. It was the T-shirt someone had made up in Shelter Cove after the L.A. Times article came out.
    â€œDon’t Be the Local Bob,” it read.
    Bob grinned, but he seemed a little perplexed. “All I did was tell the truth,” he said, shaking his head, which was that he was fed up with working in a gray area and wished the government would either totally ban marijuana or make it totally legal, but no more of this in-between stuff.
    Behind him, on a bluff in the distance, a thick black plume of burning brush curled into the air. On days like this, it was hard to imagine that there was once a time in Humboldt County when pot wasn’t everywhere.

Chapter Five
Mare
    L ate one morning in