A WEEK ON A POT FARM

Some Frequently Asked Questions

I graduated cum laude from my university. I read the Utne Reader and
the Economist. I know the difference between Miles Davis and John
Coltrane. I speak three languages. I've never gotten a speeding ticket.

Incidentally, I also love smoking pot, but I'm not what anyone would
call a criminal. Nor do I have a criminal nature, by any means.

Despite the risk, I decided to work at a pot farm for a week this
fall because I've been an out-of-work journalist for more than a year
and it paid good money. Everyone I've told about my experience has
asked tons of questions. Here are a few of the most frequently asked:

How did you get the job?

My dad's best friend, Bernie, had been a forest ranger in Northern
California; he moved to Mendocino County in the late 1980s, bought a
plot of land and became immersed in the whole growing culture.
Because my father died 10 years ago, I never actually knew his best
friend very well, but he had apparently run a pretty efficient
operation that involved being off the grid (no electricity, no
running water, accessible only through private roads), growing some
indoor and outdoor pot strains, hydroponic technology and pretty
intense partying. We were re-introduced about a year ago, which is
when he invited me to work on his property.

It would probably last a few weeks, he said, and I'd probably have to
camp out, but it paid good money: $200 per pound of pot trimmed.

I live in the city; from my third-floor apartment, I can hear sirens
going nonstop. On my block, there are taco trucks, 24-hour liquor
stores, garbage everywhere. Working at a pot farm would pay me under
the table. That meant I could collect unemployment, pay my rent and
have enough money left over for groceries this month!

I was in. Later on, I'd find out that Bernie's farm was raided last
year and I should've been more afraid than I was. But at the time the
idea of working in the remote woods, powered only by gasoline and the
sun, being away from the city--to work with pot--seemed so Hunter S.
Thompson, I couldn't pass it up.

What exactly does "scissor work" involve?

Scissor work is the euphemism used for cutting buds from marijuana
stalks and trimming leaves to reveal the bud and shape it into a
smokeable product. Usually, the marijuana stalk has one giant bud at
the tip of the stalk and baby buds all throughout the stem. The task
was to trim all the water leaves and make sure their stems didn't
show up. It helped if you were a marijuana enthusiast because even as
beginners you knew what bud was supposed to look like: You had to
trim it until it resembled a Christmas tree.

The dried marijuana stalks came in giant plastic bins; each was
labeled with the name of the strain: "OG Kush" or "Train Wreck." We'd
take a bunch of stalks, bring them to our trays and start trimming.

The tools of the trade varied: We worked with long rectangular trays,
six pairs of scissors, cups of alcohol and oil, and lots and lots of
paper towels. The mantra was to "keep your tray and scissors
clean"--the only real activity other than trimming was cleaning your
scissors. We'd soak them in a glass of alcohol, wipe them off, then
soak them in vegetable oil so they wouldn't gunk up from the THC.
Clean scissors, I learned, were key to an efficient trim scene.

There were all kinds of techniques: I was taught to trim the bud,
save the trim in a bag so it could be used to make bubble hash (waste
not, want not!), then toss the manicured buds into a paper bag. We
labeled the bags with the strain and our name.

It was grueling work--we were hunched over trays and dusty bins of
pot for 12 to 15 hours a day. Seasoned pros trimmed an average of two
pounds a day. For beginners, a pound a day was average. After the
first day, I was dreaming of trimming buds. I'd see a tree, a bush, a
plant--and I'd feel like cutting the leaves off to turn it into a
perfect Christmas-tree-shaped bud.

What does the pot farm look like?

You could say it was rustic fabulous. The property we were on was
beautiful--there were redwood trees everywhere. Usually, October and
November are pretty cold months, so we were prepared to be
self-contained. I had a tent, plenty of warm clothes, a sleeping bag.
Then it turned out to be 70 degrees and sunny every day I was there.
There was no electricity, which meant no computers, no cell phones,
no running water.

Do you play Bob Marley at work?

Bernie needed a generator to dry the pot 24/7. That meant we could
play music from speakers all day. It also meant that I heard most of
Bob Marley's catalog, and possibly every other reggae album made,
during the week I trimmed weed.

What did you eat?

Bernie took care of everyone's food. It may just have been because we
were stoned all the time, but I never ate so well while camping in my
life. We had spaghetti, garlic bread, salads made with organic
vegetables, gourmet sandwiches, mochas.

Did you sample the goods?

Of course! That was the big draw of the job. But apparently pot needs
time to cure, so I didn't get super-stoned by smoking freshly trimmed bud.

What were your co-workers like?

Really, the trim scene depends on who you're working with. I was
lucky that I worked with only chill people. Everyone was serious and
worked all day. But it could very easily have been a nightmare of a
workplace; usually there are a lot of other drugs, and a lot of
alcohol. Everyone did, however, really like pot and smoked a lot of it.

If you can deal with the anxiety of possibly getting arrested, being
"off the grid" and unavailable to friends and family for long periods
of time and the tension of camping for a week with no electricity,
it's a good job for you. I learned there's a "trim and travel"
scene--people make enough money to travel the world after spending
months trimming pot. One guy I worked with had just come back from
Asia; another had spent months in Amsterdam.

How did you get paid?

I made $1,600 trimming pot for a week, but I left the farm three
weeks ago, and I still haven't gotten paid. Bernie's supposed to wire
me the money as a direct deposit this week. He's an old friend of the
family, so there's no way he can cheat me. He can't afford to; I know
where he lives, what he does and where he works.