Medical marijuana plantation fires up in spring
by JEFF BARNARD, mercurynews.com
May 14th 2011 8:16 AM
JACKSONVILLE, Ore.—The burnt end of a joint between his
fingers and a white plastic lighter in his fist, James Bowman watched the half
dozen young men, shirts off in the warm spring sun, shovels working to the beat
of loud rock music, as they prepared the soil for the biggest medical marijuana
plantation in Oregon.
It is springtime on The Farm, a cooperative in the heart of Applegate Valley
wine country that will grow some 200 plants to supply about 70 card-carrying
medical marijuana users.
Here, surrounded by wineries, bed and breakfasts, churches and a school, the
legal side of marijuana operates in plain sight, visible to hang gliders
soaring overhead, drivers on nearby roads, and viewers of Google Maps.
Over the winter volunteers have trimmed the dried buds from last year's crop,
cut slips from mother plants, and rooted them in little plastic bags of potting
soil now stacked against the side of a greenhouse. In June, they will plant the
clones in circles of loam fed by plastic drip lines. Through summer, volunteers
will wrap the heavy branches with duct tape to keep them from breaking. And
under a harvest moon in October they will patrol the grounds with Tasers and
pepper spray until it is time to bring in the bud.
It is all perfectly legal under state law as long as Bowman, his partners and
volunteers don't get greedy or careless.
Because waiting are drug cops like Grants Pass Police Sgt. Ray Myers, part of
the Rogue Area Drug
Enforcement taskforce.
"The fact is that they can grow marijuana right under our nose,"' said Myers.
"Until we catch them doing something illegal with it, there is nothing we can
do about it."
If the state medical marijuana database shows a growth site as registered, the
law doesn't allow police to even inspect crops without an invitation or
probable cause of a crime. They can't troll through the list of legal sites,
either. Still, police regularly bust medical marijuana growers, often after
traffic stops when the officer smells marijuana. If there's a load in the
trunk, the grower must be able to prove it belongs to those with medical
marijuana cards.
Sometimes police end up helping the growers, once foiling a plot to rip off The
Farm.
The neighbors don't seem too concerned.
"Unless someone is mad at you, there is a live and let live philosophy here,"
said Tony Largaespada, who runs the tasting room at a nearby vineyard.
Bowman, 51, learned his craft as an outlaw grower, part of the subculture that
has thrived in the Emerald Triangle of southwestern Oregon and northwestern
California for 40 years, since hippies and survivalists came here to make their
living outside the mainstream. He is frustrated that police and even some in
the medical marijuana movement look at the growers as bad guys.
"They like pot now, but still don't like potheads,"' he said. "They are trying
to ease out the people who kept this plant alive and vital. We're the ones who
went to jail, lost our properties, lost our kids. We're the ones who
sacrificed. If anyone is going to prosper from this it should be the people who
paid the biggest price."
Bowman started smoking pot as a teenager in Iowa, where he first tried to grow
his own. In the 1980s he moved first to Humboldt County in California, and then
up to the Illinois Valley in southwestern Oregon's Josephine County. The region
was settled during the Gold Rush, but now struggles with the timber industry in
decline.
It has Oregon's densest population of medical marijuana patients and growers.
State figures show 3.5 percent of residents held patient cards last year, and
2.2 percent held grower cards. Neighboring Jackson County, where Bowman
resides, and legally smokes pot for chronic pain, migraines, and depression.
Busted for growing marijuana in the Illinois Valley, Bowman did three years in
federal prison in the early 1990s. In 1998, Oregon voters authorized medical
marijuana. Since 2002 Bowman has been growing it here, on 5 acres owned by his
girlfriend, with the number of patients getting a little bigger every year. He
and his partners hope to buy this land, and cash in like he never could as an
outlaw.
But because the law prohibits growers from being paid for more than electricity
and materials, like fertilizer, they have to depend on donations from
benefactors Bowman will not name.
"Even though we work, we're basically like the guys sitting on the side of the
road, saying, 'Hey, I need some money,'" he said. "What we want to do is be
able to pay taxes like everyone else. But we can't, because of the sale
language."
The main crop comes from 30 proven strains with names like Arcata Trainwreck,
each one preferred by some patient for treating a particular ailment. The
mother plants are kept in a second-floor greenhouse with sheet plastic sides.
The clones are rooted in sheds below, then get moved out to greenhouses. Bowman
is always looking for something new, cross-pollinating and testing the results.
Those starts are in another greenhouse, along with sprouting melon seeds, part
of the diversification effort to produce organic vegetables.
Bowman gets help from 30 volunteers.
Ben Smith, 29, of Ashland works half the year building schools in Central
America, but when he is home, takes care of his dad, a medical marijuana
patient.
"Before I got clones from here, I couldn't grow anything,"' he said.
Patrick LeRoy, 49, of Grants Pass, was a carpenter, but can't work since
breaking his back and neck. Hunched in a chair under a fluorescent light, he
trims buds—"I do it for my donation"—which he smokes for chronic pain.
"It's like a family farm,"' Bowman said.
Original Page:
http://www.mercurynews.com/breaking-news/ci_18063893?nclick_check=1
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