GREEN HILLS

While San Francisco Debates Zoning For Pot Clubs, Somebody Still Has
To Grow This Semilegal Medicine ' - And It's Not Always Safe

Deep in the hills of Mendocino County, past three locked gates and up
a winding dirt road, the trimmers at Green Mountain Farm are bringing
in the harvest.

The marijuana plants, which stand four to seven feet tall, are
garlanded with dense clusters of fragrant, seedless buds that must be
carefully picked and cured before they are dampened by winter rains
'Ai or seized by law enforcement, which has set a record by
destroying well over one million marijuana plants this year.

The 50 trimmers at this clandestine grow site work 16-hour days for
three weeks, hand-trimming top-grade marijuana destined for medical
marijuana patients and dispensaries in San Francisco.

"It's a race against time," says Antie M, manager of the Green
Mountain Farm collective, which is cultivating 280 plants for 125 patients.

Under state law, caregivers and patients are permitted to grow
marijuana for a group of patients and can be reimbursed for their
expenses. In exchange for allowing the growers to post medical
cannabis recommendations from patients' doctors at the grow site 'Ai
providing some degree of legal protection for the growers 'Ai the
patients receive free cannabis. Most collectives meet their expenses
by selling their surplus pot to dispensaries or directly to other patients.

Each patient at this collective will receive a quarter pound of free
cannabis, plus a chance to take in beautiful scenery, eat good food,
and listen to live music.

While San Francisco city supervisors haggle over cultivation limits
and zoning restrictions for medical cannabis dispensaries (see
sidebar), there's another reality taking place a couple hundred miles
to the north. Whatever the supervisors decide, someone has to grow
all the pot that gets smoked by patients in the city 'Ai and no
matter how friendly city officials are to the end product, the
growers are still hounded by law enforcement.

The trim camp at Green Mountain Farm is only one of many such
gatherings taking place throughout northern California this month.
And this constellation of quasi-legal outdoor marijuana grow sites
doesn't just cultivate exquisite medical cannabis.

The farmers who tend these plants are also creating environmentally
and socially responsible cannabis farms very different from the
armed, old-school, commercial marijuana plantations that feed an
insatiable market but often damage the land.

An estimated 80 percent of the medical cannabis consumed in San
Francisco comes from outside the city. Let's follow some of these
buds as they make their way into town.

Family farm Quietly cultivating a cannabis crop and then hosting 50
trimmers at a clandestine grow site miles from a power line requires
impressive planning. Arriving blindfolded at Green Mountain Farm, I
discover a comfortable camp resembling an agricultural version of a
Rainbow Family gathering.

The trimmers at Green Mountain sleep in a tidy tent village and eat
tasty vegetarian meals prepared by two paid cooks in a well-equipped
kitchen complete with two gas ranges and two refrigerators. They take
hot showers and listen to music from a laptop and iPods 'Ai all
powered by a generator running on 50- -a-gallon vegetable oil.

The cultivators here trucked in $30,000 worth of compost to privately
owned land to ensure that their cannabis met San Francisco standards.

Under California law, patients and caregiver-cultivators are allowed
to grow at least 6 mature and 12 immature plants per patient unless
the county or a doctor authorizes more. Mendocino County allows 100
square feet of plant canopy per patient. Antie M, who is descended
from eight generations of tobacco farmers, says the lush plants in
this garden meet those guidelines.

The water that sustains this crop is supplied by a well. A 10,000-
gallon tank feeds the irrigation system for the garden, which grows
to the edge of the kitchen. A 75-foot-long temporary structure, which
serves as a trimming and drying room, stands nearby.

The atmosphere in the camp is relaxed but focused. There are no
alcohol, hard drugs, or weapons, and everyone must be quiet by
midnight. Some people smoke cannabis while they work. The night I
visit, the camp puts on a talent show. A shiatsu massage therapist is
on hand for those with aching shoulders.

"We live together and work together, we sit and trim plants all day
long, it is a very harmonious organization," a 56-year-old trimmer
named Jojo says.

The trimmers at Green Mountain Farm range in age from 18 to 65. They
are people of color, white folks, queer, straight. Antie M says he
met many of the trimmers at music festivals and other gatherings.
Others are simply friends. Many trimmers are patients from the
collective who also get their free quarter pound. Some are not.

The trimmers are paid in cannabis, and the pay scale is set up to
encourage a rapid harvest. Trimmers earn 2.5 grams of cannabis an
hour for the first 100 hours, 3 grams for the next 100, and 3.5 grams
per hour after that. After the first 200 hours, those who work 8
hours a day can make an ounce 'Ai worth $400 retail 'Ai a day.

According to Antie M, 90 percent of the grow is sold to medical
cannabis dispensaries. The rest goes to patients in the collective
and workers: Trimmers who work hard the entire season can leave with
as much as $8,000 to $10,000 worth of cannabis.

"A patient can get their entire year's supply of marijuana," Antie M
says. "[With] what people earn here, they can support themselves for
a year, they can live their dreams, travel."

"If you put in a long day, you can earn two ounces a day," says a
sixtysomething trimmer named Sheila, who clips steadily at the bud in
his hands. "Thank you, God. I came to work, and I would love to hold
on to a half pound and sell the rest, maybe a pound and a half or more."

Sheila, Antie M, and many other people at Green Mountain Farm are
queer men, radical fairies who say watching friends die from HIV/AIDS
motivated them to become cultivators. A trimmer named Keer, who has
lived with HIV for 10 years, sits quietly on the sofa inside the camp
kitchen. He says he first started cultivating marijuana 15 years ago
with medical cannabis pioneer Dennis Peron. Keer says Peron
emphasized growing high-quality cannabis, not just quick marijuana
crops designed to generate fast cash.

"When Dennis and Brownie Mary came along and started the Medical
Cannabis Buyers Club in San Francisco, it felt safe, and people could
get higher-quality marijuana that was not sprayed or at least
organic," Keer says. "The seed they planted caused people to start
educating each other, and it grew into a community and set a good example."

Community service Not all the growers are men. Green Witch and
members of her all-women's cannabis collective slip quietly into San
Francisco one night, taking a break from their harvest up north. High
Priestess Farm, which the collective operates, serves 24 mostly
low-income women in San Francisco, who each receive six ounces of
free cannabis every year.

A member of the collective, named Elf, runs three patient-support
groups. She works with eight collectives, which contribute free
cannabis each week and earn the money to feed at least 100 indigent
San Francisco patients.

"The old-school model are drug dealers, and the new-school model are
community workers and healers," Green Witch says. "Our business
structure is not about a guy who is never on the land but gets a huge
percentage. We share the responsibilities, the risk and profit, evenly."

Mary Jane, a 63-year-old elder in the medical cannabis community who
grows for the Grandmother Farm collective, in Mendocino County, also
helps supply dispensaries. Her collective provides a pound of free
cannabis to patients who are often unable to grow it for themselves.

Plant yields vary wildly. Mary Jane, whose plants have been besieged
by fog and rain this year, says she'll be lucky if she gets two
ounces per plant.

Mary Jane says she's working with the Mendocino Branch of the Medical
Marijuana Patients Union to develop LINK, a matchmaking service
between cultivators and patients. "If we have a number of small
collectives growing for patients, we can help prevent profiteering
and make sure patients get their medicine," Mary Jane says.

While the collectives have protection under state law, all are
concerned about being raided by federal authorities. The women keep
their grows under 100 plants 'Ai the cutoff for a federal five-year
mandatory minimum prison sentence.

"There is a legal fund for the risk-takers, and our sister farms make
sure that no matter what happens to us, our patients will get their
medicine," Elf says.

The women of High Priestess Farm emphasize that they run an organic
farm. Benedict, who spent five and a half months alone tending the
plants at Green Mountain Farm, shares these values. And he is wary of
a possible raid by law enforcement. When he first arrived, Benedict
says, he was frightened of being arrested. "I'd lie awake at night
completely terrified."

One day law enforcement paid a visit. Three helicopters surfaced over
the ridge and circled the grow, hovering so low that Benedict says he
made eye contact with the officers inside. Those officers, Benedict
says, worked for CAMP, the California Department of Justice's
Campaign Against Marijuana Planting, which destroyed almost 100,000
marijuana plants in Mendocino County this summer.

That time, he was in luck: They never came back.

The old world The officers of CAMP meet at dawn for a raid in the
Shasta Trinity National Forrest. CAMP is an interagency marijuana
eradication task force, and there are officers here from eight
law-enforcement organizations, including the National Guard. Five
CAMP units, with 15 officers each, are on call around the state to
support local law enforcement when they raid marijuana gardens.

The men wear camouflage and carry a variety of weapons: AK-47s, .22
rifles, .410/.22 combination guns, Colt sidearms, and M16s. There's a
helicopter on site, which transports a Short Term Airborne Operations
team that drops agents into marijuana grows. The helicopter has flown
five days a week since May and burns a hundred gallons of fuel a day.

CAMP commander Michael Johnson says he relies on county officials to
tell him whether a grow site is a posted medical marijuana garden in
compliance with local cultivation limits. He says CAMP is not a
threat to medical marijuana farms.

"To my knowledge, we have not been involved in one medical marijuana
grow all this year," Johnson says.

As a California law-enforcement officer, Johnson says he respects
state medical marijuana laws and has orders from the state attorney
general's office not to step outside them.

"There is so much commercial marijuana out there, we don't have time
to deal with medical marijuana," Johnson says. "We are focused on the
large gardens-for-profit, and there are plenty of those to keep us busy."

Johnson says CAMP has destroyed well over a million plants this
season, up from 621,000, in 2004.

Funded by the state and federal government, CAMP's 2004 budget of $1
million was increased by 30 percent this year, Johnson says. He says
his unit targets multi-thousand-plant grows that are mostly on public land.

Jason Gassaway, of the Shasta County Sheriff's Department, arrives
with his dog, Jet, whose job is to run down suspects fleeing from a
grow. "Most of the grows are armed, so it's good for us to prevent
deadly encounters," Gassaway says. "Most of the time, when they see a
dog, they give up."

Johnson says three hunting parties have encountered armed growers
this year. A cultivator near Los Gatos was killed earlier this summer
in a shoot-out with a Fish and Game officer, who was wounded in the exchange.

We pile into trucks, drive to a trailhead, then hike silently up a
steep slope. A half mile up the hill, we see irrigation hoses and
smell cannabis. I look down and see we are surrounded by marijuana
plants 'Ai or what's left of them. The entire garden, camouflaged
under oak trees, has been harvested. An agent estimates the grow
appears to have been several thousand plants, cut down a few weeks ago.

The plants, terraced on the hillside, appear to have been small. The
stalks that remain support runty, shriveled buds. A detective on the
raid says most of the marijuana on these farms is sold for $2,500 a
pound out of state because it doesn't meet the standards Californians
expect from their cannabis.

Kris Hermes, legal campaign director with Americans for Safe Access,
a patients' rights group, says he has heard no reports this year of
marijuana grows raided by CAMP. But he notes that medical cannabis
growers around the state continue to be prosecuted by local, state,
and federal authorities. He points to two collectives in Butte and El
Dorado counties raided by local sheriffs last month.

Down the hill from the harvested garden, we find what remains of the
growers' camp. They've left behind their camp stove, plastic
sheeting, pots and pans, and pieces of cardboard that appear to have
been slept on. No snug tent village or lovingly prepared food for
these farmers.

Agent Eddy, a quiet Latino man, says many of the farmers apprehended
in the gardens this year come from one Mexican state.

"They come from very poor towns in Michoac^ n; the organizers go
there and pay them a couple of thousand of dollars to come here and
farm marijuana," he says. "I don't think I'd want to stay here all
season and live like this."

Johnson says CAMP made 46 arrests this year, almost all Mexican
field- workers. He says the grow owners are members of Mexican
cartels that plant multiple large grows with the assumption that a
certain percentage of them will get raided.

Hermes is skeptical about the Mexican cartel allegation, which, he
says, is an attempt to draw public support away from marijuana
growers. He says this account is similar to a claim put forth by the
Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) that a group of San Francisco
dispensary owners raided this summer were members of an Asian mafia.

"Law enforcement loves to issue sensational statements grabbing the
public attention and providing a favorable environment to justify
their harsh reactions to marijuana cultivation and distribution," Hermes says.

But CAMP officers are just as sincere about the righteousness of
their cause as the medical cannabis growers are about theirs. Many
agents point to the environmental damage done by commercial grows,
and it's clear this grow site was no environmentally sensitive
cannabis farm. We see bags of nitrogen fertilizer, rat poison, and
malathion pesticide, which the agents say leaches into the local
water supply. The hillside and the growers' camp are strewn with trash.

When we descend the hill, I ask Agent Jeff Wallace if he thinks the
environmental damage from grows on public land would be eliminated if
marijuana could be cultivated openly. "I wouldn't agree with that
argument," he says. "It's still a gateway drug for meth or cocaine; I
wouldn't want my kids out there recreationally smoking marijuana."

Johnson argues it would be too difficult to control the quality of
legal marijuana, and public land provides rent-free, cheap, well-
hidden grow sites. "People grow marijuana freely in Mendocino,"
Johnson says. "But there are still hundreds of illegal gardens. Why
would legalization stop that if there is a market and money to be
made growing it?"

Sheila, the trimmer at Green Mountain Farm, disagrees, pointing out
that large marijuana grows are still illegal. "The laws that were
created force people to be clandestine," Sheila says. "They have
created a problem for themselves; it is a way to keep busy."

The trim continues Meanwhile, back at Green Mountain Farm, the
trimmers work with quiet intensity harvesting Trainwreck, Grand Daddy
Purple, New York City Diesel, Super Kush, and other cannabis strains
grown at the site.

Each carefully numbered plant is first chopped at the base with
pruning shears, and the branches are cut off with buds intact. The
branches are trimmed and brought to the fanners, who cut off the
larger outer leaves with two patented Canadian TrimPro machines that
look like giant fans inside a metal mesh cage.

The roughly trimmed stalks are carried over to hand trimmers, who sit
among the plants on a sunny ridge. Using tiny scissors, the trimmers
carefully shape the buds. The trim is gathered in cardboard boxes on
their laps and sent to trim racks, where it is dried and used to make
hash or marijuana edibles.

After manicuring, the stalks are walked over to the dry room, kept at
a constant 50 to 60 percent humidity with the help of a humidifier, a
dehumidifier, an air conditioner, and a swamp cooler. The buds are
dried for 10 days before being snipped off the stalks and bagged.

Antie M says his intention for Green Mountain Farm is that it be a
place of healing where people can ease off alcohol, hard drugs, and
turbulence in their lives. A handsome young trimmer named Travis
Wade, who says he used cannabis to kick a methamphetamine habit, says
living on the land is strengthening his body. A trimmer named
Shockra, who fled his damaged house in New Orleans and refugee camps,
says the money he makes trimming will help him start a new life.

"Creating community is a major driving factor in bringing this all
together," says Antie M, who arranged for a six-piece band to play
all last weekend at his trim camp. "I want it to be an incredible
experience for people."

I ask Antie M if he's worried about getting busted. He says two of
his grows were raided in previous years by county authorities who
seized the crop but declined to press charges. He says he has learned
to plant smaller grows and has no animosity toward law enforcement.

"If they really want me, they can come and get me, but I am really
trying to play by the rules," Antie M says after dinner at Forrest
Farm, a smaller 100-plant grow he also manages. "It will be
interesting to see what happens between now and Halloween."

The risk Up in Lake County, Eddy Lepp's collective openly cultivated
the largest-known medical cannabis crop 'Ai 32,000 plants 'Ai and was
busted by the DEA. He's now in federal court pleading a religious
defense, because federal law does not allow him a medical defense. If
convicted, he could serve life in prison.

Phil and Bobby, the cultivators at the Oak Tree Farm collective, in
Lake County, are keeping a close watch on their grow. To prevent
potentially losing their entire crop to law enforcement, they grew a
second, early harvest in their greenhouse, forcing the buds to mature
early using light-deprivation techniques.

The two growers have also banded with other small cannabis farms to
create an insurance fund that would partially reimburse a farm that
gets raided or suffers crop failure.

But these cultivators say one of their greatest concerns is simply
being robbed. "The biggest risk is our neighbors," says Bobby, who
says two men jumped the fence in the middle of last year's harvest
and demanded a payoff. "Someone was going around with a map of the
farms last year strong-arming people."

"You can call the local authorities and have them come out and
support you and just hope that they don't turn you over to the feds,"
Phil says.

Back in San Francisco, Hector is also worried about federal agents.
His 350-plant indoor grow, which produces about two ounces per plant,
supplies a 12-member patient collective, two dispensaries, and an
AIDS hospice. Over the past year, Hector says, more of San
Francisco's medical cannabis is coming in from outside the city
because it's become perilous and costly to grow in town. "I am
concerned about the San Francisco Police Department kicking in the
door because of their past cooperation with federal officials," he says.

San Francisco's proposed dispensary regulations offer no specific
protections for grow collectives. City supervisors are debating
cultivation limits. The regulations attempt to protect dispensaries
under state law by defining them as "any association, cooperative or
collective of ten more qualified patients or primary caregivers that
facilitates the lawful distribution of medical cannabis."

Some dispensaries have become grow collectives to comply with the
law. But Hector says his collective, which does not run a retail
operation, has no intention of registering with the city and
revealing the location of its grow. To do so would be too dangerous
and expensive. "We are not going to pay $7,000 in permitting fees to
give away free marijuana to hospices," Hector says.

On the road Antie M still has to get his cannabis into the city. We
load up his vehicle with several pounds of dried, manicured bud and
head into San Francisco. "I've got some Trainwreck," he says on the
phone to a dispensary manager. "It's very sparkly."

State law allows eight ounces of medical cannabis to be transported
for each patient but doesn't explicitly permit sales to dispensaries.
Each county has different limits and interpretations by law
enforcement. They could seize the cannabis and arrest us.

Antie M asks me to keep an eye on the speedometer. He says he learned
to abide by motor vehicle laws after he was stopped once for running
a stop sign with two pounds of pot in the car. We drive like model
citizens. I watch for police. Near San Francisco City Hall, we get
stuck in heavy traffic. As we approach the dispensary, I ask Antie M
please not to make an illegal left-hand turn.

We arrive without incident, park legally, and walk into a dispensary.
It's evening, and the place is almost empty. We sit behind the
counter, and Antie M and the clerk look at the cannabis under the
microscope. It shows no sign of rot or pests and shimmers with
droplets of resin. "Beautiful job; well done," the clerk says.

The room is pungent. Purchasers come and go. A patient asks for
Trainwreck and is told they'll have it soon. It takes Antie M almost
an hour to find a scale large enough to weigh his cannabis; the
triple beam scale is too small. We finally find a larger scale to
weigh the crop. The buds weigh eight and a half pounds.

Antie M agrees to a price of $3,600 a pound. He is pleased to
discover that while most of his plants yield an average of one and
three quarter pounds of buds, he has just sold a plant that yielded
almost three pounds.

He steps into an enclosed alleyway behind the dispensary and loads
the transparent bags of cannabis into a bucket. The dispensary owner
pulls the bucket up to his second floor office and sends down $5,000
in cash. The rest of the cannabis will be sold on consignment.

Antie M puts the cash in a bag and heads back up to Green Mountain
Farm, where the harvest continues.

Ann Harrison is a San Francisco-based science and technology reporter.