HARVEST HIGH

Work Of Bringing In Pot Is Mind-Numbing, And So's The Buzz

Montreal -- the call comes at the crack of noon. An old friend I
haven't seen in years has an interesting proposition. Knowing how
attentively I follow judicial and political marijuana developments,
he asks: How would I like to cover a real bust, complete with
camouflaged cops, ATVs and military helicopters? "The whole nine
yards," he says cryptically. A friend, he explains, has 350 plants
ready for harvest somewhere in the Golden Triangle, a lively corner
of rural southwestern Quebec where, in recent years, marijuana has
become a growth industry.

Police and armed forces helicopters are reportedly busting three or
four outdoor operations a day, and my friend's friend is certain
he'll be next.

"It's hot out there," he says, "and he's scared shitless. He's a
farmer, fer crissake."

We agree that police propaganda and sloppy journalism have left the
public with the erroneous perception that Mom Boucher and his cronies
control every roach clip, rolling paper and marijuana plant in Quebec.

"He's afraid," my friend explains, "that his kids are gonna pick up
the paper and read that their old man's some kind of biker."

It's an offer I could refuse, but don't. As promised, the next
morning two escorts, Scout and Elvis, are at my door. Following the
customary handshakes and a complimentary spliff, we head across the
Mercier, down 138, into the heart of marijuana country.

The harvest site consists of two mobile homes hammered together next
to a gigantic wooden barn. Behind stands a thick grove of trees.

"Smells like skunk," says I, stepping from the van. "It's the patch,"
the farmer replies, nodding toward the woods. "Call me Escobud."

The day, which had started nicely, has turned cold. Under grey,
menacing skies, I button my jacket.

"Good for us," he says as we head into the bush, "bad for flying."

I don't see the patch until we're almost in the middle of it, but the
smell is overwhelming. The plants, a Dutch Friesland variety
particularly suited to this climate, are under a partial canopy of
birch and aspen and are a deep, dark, highly visible green, with buds
so heavy they're held up with binder twine.

The plants aren't quite ready, he says, a hint of sadness in his
voice. "See? These buds aren't quite hard enough. Still, they have to
come out."

He's been a guerrilla farmer for 15 years, and it shows, both in his
high-calibre plants and the physical and mental toll that comes with
age and the territory: tendonitis, chest pains, backache, lack of
sleep and appetite. "No way to make a living," he says.

"But if they come in and bust me tomorrow, what'll we eat? If they
take my farm away, where would we live?"

There's no way of knowing how many people in rural Quebec --- or the
Rest Of Canada, for that matter --- make their living this way, but
as an experienced journalist, I'd say lots.

D.B. Cooper has worked for Escobud for eight seasons. What's not
processed at harvest time is stored for mid-winter, when she and her
friends gather for trimming parties.

"They're like old-fashioned quilting bees," she says with an Iris
Demented grin. "We sit around, gossip and trim dooby. Just your
typical rural Canadian homemakers, trying to get by."

Elvis has been eavesdropping on our conversation and now joins in.
"You'd be surprised how many people need this," he says. "Out my way,
my whole town is dooby-dependent --- the pizza parlour, the hardware
store, the depanneur, even the daycare centre."

Everyone, he explains, grows or harvests marijuana. Those who don't
depend on those who do. So widespread is the industry, they've even
given it a proper name.

"We call it "Tom' amongst ourselves," he says. "As in, "How's Tom
doing?' "Oh, Tom's doing fine.' Or, "Oh, Tom's doing poorly these
days.'"

"When someone gets busted, we say, "Poor Tom died." Like everyone
else, Elvis has heard the biker stories and thinks most of them are
bullshit. "There's bikers in our town," he laughs, "but they all
drive 10- and 18-speed CCMs."

He recounts how a local grower once chased some tourists off his
property with a shotgun. "Townspeople were so upset, they turned him
in to the cops, and no one said a word. We've got lots of little kids
around --- we don't need that kind of shit."

That night, I share a bunk bed in the trimming room with Scout, Elvis
and a veritable giant called Fat Boy. D.B. and Escobud take separate
rooms while Cookie, the cook, sleeps in a camper behind the barn.

My first morning in the country breaks bright and glorious, with nary
a cloud or breath of wind. Perfect flying weather dampens spirits
around the table, but breakfast itself is good: pancakes, toast and
coffee.

Scout hears it first --- the unmistakable, apocalyptic whump-whump-
whump of a heavy-duty chopper.

Cookie dashes out with his binoculars while Fat Boy and Elvis head
for the woods. Escobud steels himself for whatever shit is in store.

"That's it," he thinks aloud. "We're busted." Like an idiot, I stand
waiting for a photo op. The sound grows so loud the walls shake. We
can't see the copter, but the whumps soon become thumps --- he's
hovering low, heading straight for us.

Suddenly he appears, big, brown and ugly, just over the treetops, but
we only see him long enough to watch him do the unexpected. As he
approaches, he abruptly banks and heads off into the eastern sky.

The sigh of relief can be heard for miles. "That's it! Let's get 'em
out of there now!" commands Escobud. For 16 backbreaking hours, he
and the crew frantically chop down all 350 plants and haul them into
the barn. When the job is done, Cookie grins.

"Fuck their choppers now --- crop's in the barn."

Now the drying begins. The biggest and best of the buds are separated
and placed on large, flat screens. The remaining plants are hung on
wires running the length of the barn. Depending on humidity and
internal temperature, it takes two to three days before marijuana is
dry enough to trim.

Care must be taken lest it become so dry that it crumbles to powder
on the trimming room floor.

The trimming room itself is little more than a large wooden box --
"the size of a jail cell," quips Elvis -- located at the back of the
barn. Here, trimmers will spend 18 long and painful hours a day,
under hot, heavy lights, preparing the end product.

They sit in plastic lawn chairs, with scissors and cookie trays. Cut
marijuana is dumped on a huge table, and they draw individual pieces
to trim. The primary job is to clean out traces of bud rot and come
up with a presentable-looking bud.

Thoroughness is paramount. Much of this crop is destined for medical
use. A little bud rot might give a healthy toker a mild cough, but a
chemo patient might get something much worse.

It looks like a pain-in-the-ass job, but as Fat Boy explains, "After
10 hours, your ass goes numb." He's said to be the fastest and best
trimmer around --- his fingers verily fly and his scissors are a blur.

He credits his success to a unique regime. He starts each trimming
day with a humongous joint of prime bud and primo hash, chased down
with a glass of Tang. Then he slaps on his Discman headphones and
cranks the volume to the max.

For the next 18 hours, oblivious to the world, he trims dooby and
listens to techno-industrial/heavy metal fusion full-blast and fully
blasted, stopping only to change CDs or roll another joint.

The pay's not great --- $12 to $15 an hour --- but the benefits are
pretty good. Like the brown, sticky stuff that gets all over the
scissors and fingers and the gold powder that builds up on the cookie
tray. That's 100-per-cent pure hash, and a veteran like Fat Boy can
pan out at 3 to 4 grams a day.

Then there's the food. Cookie and Escobud outdo themselves with a
glazed turkey and all the trimmings, washed down with fine California
wine. For dessert, Cookie makes cookies, but I decline when I hear
the recipe: ounce and a half of bud per two dozen, add flour, sugar
and water, and bake till done.

Things go smoothly for the rest of the week. The aerial surveillance
continues, but less intensely. Twice, a small Cessna buzzes the
trees. Once the pilot briefly cuts the motor, scaring the shit out of
everyone.

Marcel, a neighbour on hiatus pending the outcome of a bust last
year, stops by with news of other raids in the area: 600 plants down
the road yesterday, 450 the day before.

"They (the police) are having a very good year," he says. The
trimmers pick up the pace --- from table to trays, trays to the bag,
onto the second screen, then final bagging. Work doesn't stop until
late one afternoon, when Escobud enters with the news they've been
waiting for.

"That's it," he beams with his illegal smile. "Barn's empty."

(The 350 plants eventually yield about 265 pounds of marketable
marijuana. Depending on market conditions, it will sell for $1,500 to
$2,000 a pound. Half of it will wind up in the streets of Montreal
and Sherbrooke, the rest distributed to a network of long-time
friends and associates in Toronto, Peterborough, Sudbury and points
west.)

That night, Escobud and I stand outside staring at the stars, sharing
a final joint. In the distance, a pack of coyotes howl their approval.

"Looks like you came for nothing," he says. "Sorry you didn't get
your big bust story."

We look at each other for a long, ludicrous moment, then crack up.
"Nah," he laughs. "That's bullshit. I'm not sorry at all."