Death of a Street Artist

Chapter 4 - Emerald Triangle

Halfway through his second decade as a street artist, Thomas Mathews had begun to supplement his income by growing pot, just three hours north of San Francisco in a region nicknamed The Emerald Triangle, due to its high concentration of underground marijuana growers. Thomas' sales of weed were so significant that they quickly surpassed the money that he made selling handmade candles as a street artist. In fact, sales were so good he was now taking on a new employee, Brian Reed, to help out on his small pot farm.

        The sun burned brightly on a warm June morning as Thomas' insect-green Chevy van, dented with its rust-holes painted with primer, took the two men northward on their way to Thomas' country property. After first crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, they drove through Marin County and still further north. Having been on the road now for over an hour, Thomas began to describe his small farm to Brian.

        "My setup's small," said Thomas, "compared to many operations in the county. On some farms, a handful of guys will partner up and buy over a hundred acres, then divide it up into separate gardens, one for each partner."

        Puzzled, Brian spoke. "I don't get it. If the whole idea of having a pot farm is to become more independent and drop out of the rat-race — why'd they want to work in a group, and maybe have lots of arguments and fights?"

        "Well, there's lots of hidden things you gotta do in this business. You constantly need to buy supplies — fertilizer, plumbing equipment for irrigation, digging tools, and more. And most of all, you need to protect your crop from poachers — guys who'll come on your land and steal your plants in the middle of the night."

        "Shit, really? Thought you just had to bury the seeds and water the plants. Being it's so isolated up there, how do the poachers even know how to get to your property, and then find your gardens?"

        "Oh, they figure it out. Poaching's a big business, especially when you consider that a full-grown pot plant might be worth over five-thousand dollars on the street. Most of the time, poachers are experienced campers who know how to backpack through your property, after parking their cars way off at a distance. Even just filling one knapsack with mature buds can be worth eight thousand dollars on the street. But on a big farm with lots of partners, the growers can pool their resources and hire guards who'll walk around with rifles, even during the night, and protect the gardens."

        "Sounds crazy! Never realized the scene was that heavy up there. But you don't have any partners, do you, who'll hang around and protect your harvest?"

        "No, but I do have twenty acres, put my gardens in the center of my land, and have some dogs that patrol the area. And my old lady, Carol, stays up there fulltime to deal with the situation. But we don't have any rifles or anything. If poachers ever do come out on our land, they'd probably be armed, and we don't want to get into a shootout, just over money. Let'em take the fuckin plants — better to have your health."

        "Carol? I thought your girlfriend's name was Suzanne something?"

        "No. That was a long time ago. It's Carol who's up on my property. You'll like her."

        "So..." continued Brian, "you've been doing this for years, and you've not had any trouble with poachers? How common are they?"

        "Poachers are always around, but they're not usually a problem if your land is hard to find from a county road. But for the big farms, they're a constant concern — those guys don't wanna lose a single harvest, so they have guards walking around with rifles every night. You know that street artist guy, Ryan? He works on one of those big operations, and he always carries a semiautomatic rifle when he's out walking around on his land." He chuckled. "And they say he's usually naked when he's doing his patrols."