The Ojai Post

These farms, of course, often consisted of stands of no more than twenty or so plants, invariably hidden away on Black Mountain, Sulfur Mountain, or along the Nordhoff Ridge, going back into the Los Padres and Sespe. There was a thriving culture back then, with small farmers trading seeds, watching each others stands, and lovingly tending their small patches of sunshine. There was money in it, sure, but the idea then was to make an Ojai living from producing buds like art – make enough to live well and trade, because you did work reasonably hard and undoubtedly produced something rare and fine. But no need to get all excessive and rich.

And so it was that after perhaps a decade or so, a truly amazing Ojai strain – the legendary Ojai Bud – developed. This was magical pot, dope of sensitive flavor, real depth and incredible bouquet.

But of course, since unlike wine and nicotine and coffee and tea, which being legal cannot be about what they are about, we can also talk about the legendary high that Ojai Bud delivered.

Recall, back at that time, there was emerging the Humboldt County-style indica, the stuff of High Times centerfolds, which delivered a delicious, powerful high, full of giddy laughter and silliness, but also dynamite charges of the synapses, replete with all sorts of pleasant connections and fleeting insights. On the other side was the mysterious Thai stick, a delicious, heavy brown weed that came tightly wrapped around its namesake stick. Thai stick delivered the “stupid high”, caricatured by Jeff Spicoli in Fast Times At Ridgemont High, which came out not too long after this time. Powerful, pleasant, lush and dreamy - but forget about clever talk and the like.

Ojai Bud was like the resolution of the dialectic that came of synapse-firing, giddy Humboldt indica and dreamy, pleasantly stupid Thai stick. See, in the mix of seed sharing and experimenting with the climate and soils and all, it came to pass that farmers who were growing Thai and related Colombian strains began to cross-pollinate with early northern California indica strains, looking for something that would grow tight and lush and gorgeous in our dry, oven-like summers (with the help of watering systems and whatever else might be cooked up). The result was the legendary Ojai Bud.

Like all dialectic resolutions, Ojai Bud took you to a new place, of beautiful, dreamy visions, deliciously sparkling libido, giddy, clever laughter, and hyperawareness – of the Universe, big, small and all around.

It was something. Old Ojai hands can tell you of the things that came out of Ojai Bud highs that we still enjoy today. Music, art, movies, architecture, literature, craziness in general. You’d be surprised, if you don’t know already.

Anyway, as we all know today, all good things come to an end. The Ojai Bud was not permitted to grow free and achieve its promise. Something called the Ventura Sheriff was bent on eradication. And then, of course, Ronald Reagan, and the “Just-Say-No (Or We’ll Burn Your Plants, Take Your Cash and Car and House, Kick Your Family To The Street and Throw You In Prison)” school came along, and the end was written in the tragedy we all know today. Many of our favorite citizens actually went to jail. It was sad and cruel. And the Ojai Bud, the legendary Ojai Bud, was lost.

But perhaps not completely. Because, as legend has it, there was a shepherd to the seed who, the story tells us, refused to let it go.

He was known around the valley as the “old marijuanero.” He was a gentleman of Mexican origin, who had been a pot farmer in his home state of Sonora before coming to Ojai in the 1970s, after the authorities in Mexico made it impossible to grow pot as tradition required. He had lost everything, coming here with little more than his jeans, shirt, boots and wide sombrero – and his knowledge of ancient Sonoran indigenous methods of pot farming. (Many believe he was actually the source of the Ojai Bud seed, though he was heard to deny it.) He was instantly in demand, as in fact, many of Ojai’s well-known thrill-seeking farmers of that time were more enthusiasm than actual skill, knowledge or hard labor. He was the critical link that taught Ojai farmers how to make something that achieved generous peaks in the steamy hills of Thailand and rain-drenched redwood forests of Humboldt County reach its apotheosis in the arid hills of Ojai (which are not so dissimilar from the highlands of Sonora, where the potgrowing technique went back through generations of indigenous tradition). He was said to be involved in every desirable patch of pot grown in these hills, and it was his name that Hollywood moguls seeking their necessary creative lubrication asked for as they rolled up the 33 in their Turbo Carreras, trying to keep supplied with the elixir that meant the difference between minions cranking out magic - or pabulem.

And as the whole wonderful thing came crashing down, it was his name that everyone wondered about. Not just the authorities, such as they were. Musicians, filmmakers, producers, the beating heart of our creative industry desperately searched for him and the promise of one more toke of legendary Ojai Bud.

Alas, he could not be found. And so, our creative industries sunk into the lost decade of the 1980s. Great art was gone, without that magical spark that it took to push it just over the edge to the sublime. Music tanked. Movies tilted to the pedestrian. Hollywood went into a funk, reduced to chasing filthy lucre in the absence of any creative spark.

The thrill was gone.

But not completely. As the 1980s came to a close, people in the know began to recognize some of those old Ojai Bud qualities showing up in some of the music, film and art that was coming back on the scene. Some suspected a connection, and began to search the hills. And some say that the old marijuanero was found, by a lucky few.

Nobody will say for sure. But many locals can tell you that someone matching his description still roams these hills, perhaps more ghost than real. You may have seen him too, if you have hiked the backcountry perhaps on a Friday night in the late summer, as the sun begins to set. Out of nowhere, coming down the trail, you see him, laughing and telling jokes to himself in Spanish, with his sombrero, jeans and big belt buckle and mustache and boots and machete, heading down looking like he’s ready for a night on the town after a hard week of work in the deep hills. He’ll nod his sombrero to you as you pass. And you will see that his boot tracks start out of nowhere just behind where you first saw him.

I don’t know if he is a ghost or an angel, or that same old guy, still plugging away preserving the tradition three decades on. I like to think he’s all three.