all those nutrients and lumens, only to sacrifice up to 30% of yield. Nor do I cherish lopping ripe buds for a possibly ill-fated cloning attempt when they could be put to better use; too much wasted goodness. There is no doubt that the first two methods may produce new growth—a good 50% chance, by my estimate. Yet the question is this: At what cost? In both instances, harvest is severely compromised (with corresponding reductions in yield) and you are left with a mutilated mess to dry.
Solution 3?
That’s more like it. A full harvest to enjoy plus the potential to regenerate 60 new colas in the same pot. It’s a no brainer. In fact, it’s just like magic!
It may sound far-fetched, but the reality is anything but. This book is about refining existing wisdom and then applying it creatively. It offers a planned, tried and consistent technique; a reliable system allowing you to grow a single plant over and over again. Yummy. Decision made: Solution 3. Safe now to address the bloodied toe.
In the early 1980s I befriended my first real counter-culture hippie. He was a child of the 60s, growing up within a roach’s throw of Haight Street. His attitude, artistic freedom and explorative mind impressed me no end. I was young, a little sheltered, still living at home and Ricky J wanted to introduce me to the wonders of the herb. Then, as now, it is a pleasure (some would say a duty) to mentor a friend in the canna-way.
“Mind-blowing, illuminating and life-changing,” he teased before quietly cautioning, “The first time can be a little elusive; you may not notice anything.” He gifted me two books in preparation for the journey. One for before (the hilarious parody of dope culture: A Child’s Garden of Grass by Jack S. Margolis) and one for after (The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams).
I had, unknown to my good friend, also made a score of my own, and I’m not talking primo green here. Her name was Billie-Jean; a super-sweet, beaming island girl who just happened to be hosting at the Spanish cantina I was frequenting. As we sat in her beat-up V.W. Beetle around the corner from Tokyo Jo’s, she reached into her oversized hippie bag, pulling out a joint.
“Evva gotten high?” she asked—adding, almost immediately, “A little luvin’ goes a long way!” Taken aback at the bizarre and coincidental turn of events, my rambling and confused attempt at explaining the man-that’s-weird look on my face was cut short with the unintentional double entendre, “… are we going to do it, or what?” Unable to resist the glow of her skin, the glitter of her blue, blue eyes and her moist shiny lips, I succumbed. But only after she quietly whispered, “Don’t expect too much, it can be pretty subtle. You may not even notice.”
Hmmm.
Following her instructions to the letter, the joint was properly lit. I was careful not to slobber, and received the relevant training on holding the toke and other breathing tricks. The car was bursting with smoke. But nothing. I felt nothing—apart from the titillation any young man should feel sharing a lipstick stained doobie with an incredible woman. Dinner was amazing. We settled in, bare feet entwined beneath the sunken table, enjoying the beautifully prepared teriyaki and shabu shabu. Dessert consisted of frozen ice cream—something that, I have to admit, never made sense to me. However, this evening the batter/crumb-work was marvelous; the way it partly crumbled, yet retained a shell-like formation that would, at times, slip gracefully along the gently curved arch of the spoon and then just hang. The little bubbles in the melting ice cream slid about with an amazing smoothness…
“You’re high,” she said.
The spoon made a little click on my teeth each time I passed it by my lips. I’d not noticed this before.
“You’re high,” she said again.
The music was simply wonderful and I don’t think I’d before heard some of the instrumentation in what were familiar tunes.
“You’re high,” she said once more.
“Nah, no I am not,” I purred back—quickly correcting myself as I looked up. The glimmer in this girl’s eyes, the way the lighting in the room sparkled, and the surgically rendered mess of ice cream and crumbs convincing me. I had found the space. Or it had found me. Either way, it was wonderful.1
Many have reported the elusiveness of the initial “high” of marijuana, including famed astronomer and Pulitzer Prize winner Carl Sagan, who (writing as Mr. X2) in Marihuana Reconsidered (1971), said: “My initial experiences were entirely disappointing; there was no effect at all, and I began to entertain a variety of hypotheses about cannabis being a placebo…” Legendary cannabis activist and author of The Emperor Wears No Clothes, Jack Herer, tells a similar tale about his first experience.3 If you ask around, those who remember the period between the 60s and 80s will relate similar stories.
Consider the same scenario—that is, introducing a newbie to the joys of the herb—shifted to the current day. Could you, in all fairness (while rolling a joint of Chronic) declare to a friend, “… look mate, this is really subtle. You may not notice much at all.” I think not. Today’s cannabis seems—for the most part—a different experience to what it was decades ago.
Donning our retrospectacles, and peering at history, I think we can finger prohibition as the catalyst for this shift.
The 60s, 70s and early 80s were, undoubtedly, sativa-based times. Think “hippies, daisy-chains and Itchycoo Park” and you’ll be recalling sativa days. The word “mellow” describes the period. Some of today’s popular strains of cannabis sativa are Carnival, Yummy and Cotton Candy. The advertised names mirror the plant’s qualities—gentle and fun. It has been said, “a good sativa is like slipping into a lovely warm bath.”
On the other hand, today’s most widely used variety, cannabis indica, produces an effect more readily felt in the body. The terms “body-hit,” “one-toke-wonder” and “couch-lock” are often attributed to particularly potent strains of indica. Advertised names are also an indication of how hard these strains impact the end user. Would anyone expect anything gentle or subtle from plants labeled Kong, The Beast or Zombie Virus? None of these tally neatly with the let’s go sit in the sunshine, sing and make daisy chains images of yesteryear’s subtle highs.
So, why the shift?
Prohibition. As raids, busts and chemical defoliation became more of a risk in the last decades of the century, growers were forced indoors: The tall-growing sativa, with its long flowering time of between 12 and 20 weeks, simply became untenable. Ceilings were too low to accommodate such tall and leggy plants and the time between harvests was too long. Cannabis indica, on the other hand, is a small and squat plant that flowers in a very brief eight or so weeks and is easier to manage indoors.
Make no mistake, this shift indoors marked a turning point in our relationship with the species. It is this profound change that concerns us the most here. While I believe the segue from sativa to indica is alone sufficient to account for the oft-declared “cannabis is getting stronger”
