The Secret Garden

For almost 2 hours we followed a narrow winding path which forked off from the main trail near our camp at Big Meadows.


There was a fair amount of traffic upon the Appalachian Trail that Saturday morning...

Hey Jim, great to see you back. We could do with your sanity 'round here.
There've been a few skunks and other strange creatures trying to get into this camp
and the natives are getting too spooked about it. Maybe you can let them taste the great
outdoors and show them how to relax properly.
Look forward to your post.
Tom.

hi dusk......

welcome back ........i´m happy to see you......

maybe we can now sit at that campfire and share more stories..............well actually i like to listen to your stories.........

...and had already passed 8 or so hikers during the first quarter mile of our hike.

The time had come to make 'Medicine', but with hikers either ahead or behind of us and no doubt more to pass, we decided to get off the trail thus finding an out of the way spot so as to spark up. In short time Flip spotted a small path, barely noticeable. It forked off sharply, somewhat running parallel with Little Hawksbill Creek's downflow. We expected this route to provide us a scenic place for abit of substance induced lofty headedness. Twenty minutes of downhill walking and we found a decent wide,flat rock outcropping to serve as a perch, allowing views of both path and stream.

Yet we could not see very far because all around us like so many dark temple columns rose a Forest of grey Tree trunks supporting late Summer's leafy green canopy. Lingering Morning fog hung in dim patches along the wooded slope..

Yep, , it's looking good.

Great storytelling Jim.

This was a shadowy place of wild beauty. As we enjoyed our pipe the Sun was just beginning to break through both overcast Sky and low fog. Ghostly tendrils of mist swirled around our perch liken to wandering Spirits.

The weed was a brownish mid-grade affair, not up to 'high' standards but better than naught as our regular guy back home didn't pan out in time, thus we resorted to other means. But tinged with the breathtaking scenery and Mountain air, plus a double measure of 'Medicine' things seemed to fall into place. Finishing our Pipe we drank from the canteen and were off again upon this small downhill trace.

As the Crow flies we were only about a mile or less from camp, but on this twisting path our trek seemed about twice that distance. I was beginning to think this was a Deer Trail as no human would blaze a path with so many bends and sharp turns.

Now the Sky had cleared and Sunbeams cut through the canopy like golden rays burning away what was left of Morning's mist.

After several more bends we sighted what looked to be a clearing upon a level rise left of us. We left the small path and started a ascent upwards to this clearing..

Upon nearing our mark we were greeted by what smelled like a Skunk's unloaded secretion riding along on a slight downward breeze. We knew there were many Skunks in the BigMeadows area. Often they boldly come through that Campground during evening foraging or extorting tasty handouts with raise-tail threats. Campers are more than happy to comply.

Emerging from the shadows we stood on a upland's meadow's edge and the scent was thick..

Turning to flip I said -"Don't think it's a Skunk, it's not the same, it almost smells like..."

We slowly advanced along a faint trace through wild shrubbery and tall meadow grass, but were halted by an unusual tangle of Greenbrier which Flip knocked aside with his walkingstick.

The thorny vines fell away like a swinging fence gate and we proceeded through this head-high natural hedge of tangled creepers, vine, bramble and bush. More than once thorns caught our clothing. there was about 20' feet of this before emerging into a smaller clearing.

Oddly enough I first took notice of the machete hacked brush surrounding this clearing..

You are a wonderful story teller. The suspense is killing me. I have a couple of ideas what you found but I don't want to spoil your story. I will keep watching for your next post.

Flip's voice was abit faultering - "Lookee there Jim" I saw what he was pointing to but had a hard time getting any words out at that moment.

We stood there. Uncontrollable, my legs were shaking in the same manner as whenever I had a big Trout hooked and fighting.

"Great jumping Catfish" I whispered.

It resembled a strand of Bamboo, but this was no canebrake. 10, to 12' high they grew stretching to catch the Morning sun. Thousands of delicate, dependent leaves like long green tapering fingers of open hands. On every plant long, thick clusters of flowering tops. Hair like stigma gave them a reddish hue. A sure sign of Herbal Goodness.

We were standing smack-dab in the middle of a fucking HighTimes Magazine centerfold.


Following a short period of tense silence with eyes darting about scanning the area, we heard and saw no other large living creature there or near abouts..

Sure of our surroundings to some degree I unsnapped and drew my Schrade bladed OldTimer-Sharpfinger skinning knife then sliced off one of the smaller tops. Cutting the 6" bud in twain I popped a half into my mouth and chewed then gave the other portion to Flip who did likewise. "Eat it man".

Friends never enjoyed a finer fresh salad.

Marveling like men in a lost Goldmine we counted 27 plants, all big females, flowering tops puffed out in lustful passion waiting to catch pollen I knew would never arrive on the breeze. This was no wild-weed patch.
This was a masterpiece of Marijuana Cultivation, damn near ready for harvest.

Someone's Secret Garden

"Who ever grew this shit, knows their shit" I said admiring the beauties.
"Yep" returned Flip, "Grew em in the middle of a bramble, like we use to"

Aye this was someone's crop, I hoped it was not booby trapped..

Following abit more time of blissful gandering and sniffing we busied ourselves with the task of carefully clipping a good many sticky, pungent scented flowering tops, some a foot in length and big around as a standard flashlight.

Stuffing them into the not overly large pack Flip had brought along we finished our task. The pack was now buldging and tight against the seams. He was barlely able to snap it shut. We then set about stuffing the former contents ( snacks and first aid stuff) into my outer shirt, which I tied into a small bundle.

"Lets get moving Flip"

Could do no more at this place without waiting for trouble to arrive at any given moment, hour, or day so we booked with our loot..

Twisting, turning this same small path led us back to the Appalachian Trail and now we were feeling the heady effects of our earlier snack. Even contained in Flip's pack we could smell the pungent aroma of it's contents. After drying we were looking to have around a quarter lb of top-grade Cannabis. A sight better than what we had before hand. Flip was already yammering on about unloading and going back for more.

I stopped.

"Look man, the others are surely gonna know we're holding, but we can't let them know where that patch is" I added - "The Bear can hardly walk on that lame ankle and besides, he put down the Pipe after getting that City gig in fear of a piss test, but Charlie, along with those 2 Dibble Brothers can't know, if so, things could go bad" I went on to remind the BirdMan that we had almost 7 more full days at BigMeadows and having a heap of fresh Reefer at our camp would not be a wise choice.

"Don't worry you fucking Pothead, we'll grab abit more just before we split next Saturday"

Having grown a few good crops in the past I had mixed feelings concerning such acts of thievery, yet weighed out the possibilites of another raid.


With all haste we booked it back to BigMeadows Campground and did our best to give other Hikers a wide birth least they catch of whiff of what was in Flip's pack. The same held true through the camping area so we made a wide circle to our campsite..

LongHunter wrote:

Having grown a few good crops in the past I had mixed feelings concerning such acts of thievery, yet weighed out the possibilites of another raid.

mixed feelings about the thievery, eh?
gotta say, i am disappointed in you, you had seemed
like an honorable man until this story...
shame on you

Bear was the only one up while others still slumbered. Small wonder they drained a 1/2 gallon of Vodka before passing out. He was hobbling about on a lame ankle, an injury which was the result of kicking out an ornate stainedglass window at Williamsburg's GreenLeaf Cafe/Tavern. Some three weeks previous during a berserk moment of savage drunken fury, he put a size 15 Dingo Boot through the glass following an altercation with several sotted-up William and Mary bravos. After his high-kick, he came down on the other foot wrong and it turned. I remember pulling over after our getaway then cutting the boot off his swiftly swelling foot and ankle before driving him to the ER.

"Out for a strolll I see" was the extent of his greeting then gestured us to grab some coffee he had just brewed, which we politely declined.

Nostrils expanded in loud, long range sniffing, he asked - "What the fuck is that smell BlackJim ?"


"Bear" I said, "We have sort of a situation here, and almost at hand" then told Flip to open the pack..

ok, the story continues, perhaps to rationalize or justify the theft?

all i know is, if i had nurtured 27 female beauties
to almost harvest and found someone had come
in and raped them, i woulda been heartbroken......

The Great Bear took the pack from Flip's hands, gazed at it's contents then stuck his furry muzzle inside taking in a long whiff. Placing the pack down atop picnic table he tilted his head and inquired directly "Where in the hell did you come across this shit ?" Being the most trustworthy among us we related our adventure honestly and in so many words.

"Well Chucky, and the Dibble Brothers are still in a coma, they got even more shitface than me" he informed us and went on - "I'd put that shit away if I waz you all, people can probaly smell that weed as far as Luray"

Flip had the idea of making a smokey fire to mask the scent as I set about hanging the tops from what ever could be found within our storage tent. Closed up in late Summer's heat trapped within the tent could perhaps speed up the drying process.


Although the Campfire's smoke may of covered the smell from afar, we could still catch whiffs of the curing Reefer within our camp and it wasn't too long before Charlie popped his head out of a flap and asked who was smoking hash ?

"Hash?"

We told him a Polecat had passed through right at Dawn.

I called Flip aside and requested he get some zip-lock sandwich bags from the campstore.

"You bagging up some sandwiches Jimmy ?"

Charlie had overheard and then turned watching with bug-eyes as Flip's truck pulled out.

"What kind of sandwichs ?" he asked sniffing the air..

Oh this reminds me of my fathers story. The settings mind you were were slightly altered to more of an urban jungle. Out the old man pulls what would be considered a rather large quanity of the aunt mary around a circle on eagerly onlookers awaiting in anticipation. The rolling papers took form a brick wall enough to roll 4 hand widths long. Around and round this ginormous joint was handled with care and respect to knock out a few dozen people.

Once consumed the roach was backed up full of hash that was smoked for several days later.

WineHippie wrote:

ok, the story continues, perhaps to rationalize or justify the theft?

all i know is, if i had nurtured 27 female beauties
to almost harvest and found someone had come
in and raped them, i woulda been heartbroken......

A gangling lad in his mid 20s Charlie was not among the Universe's brightest stars or sparkles, yet he was good at fishing and for a few laughs. A true clown most of the time his appetite for
'High Living never seemed satisfied. Living rent free with parents his entire weekly paycheck went towards dope, booze and blurry bar-room Belles. Many times he was broke and begging by Monday due to his shitting in high cotton all weekend long. Like his side of the family he too was bug-eyed or as Flip called them - 'Frog-eyed'. I can't say awhole lot as they are my cousins. As for Charlie, we took him for what he was, either mildly retarded or brain damaged, possibly both. I always felt obliged to look out after him as much as possible, but could do nothing to curb his desire for hard drugs .

I lied to him - "No sandwiches Charlie just gotta bag up abit of homegrown we bought from some Kat down on the trail"..

"Some Kat selling homegrown on the trail" poured through the Dibble's tent like strained peas.

"About goddamn time you motherfuckers awoke from the dark dead " Bear snarled, and with that the Brothers Dibble rolled out, one after the other.

Denny was the older of the two, in fact he was the eldest member of our company. Dark of eye, hair and complexion, he was somewhat quiet and reserved when sober, but became rather gabby after a few good quaffs.

R.W. whom we called Mr. Celebration appeared very different from his brother. Although of the same height and build he was more fair in complextion with a poofy blondish overstyled mullet-cut, quite popular among some during the 80s.
Boisterous, boastful and even more so while drinking, which in his case was mostly all the time. R.W. tended to be abit of a fop. Brushed out in big brand name duds, he never appeared unkept and if even a minute particle of campfire soot spotted some of his garb, he would change that article of clothing for something spotless.

He was the only Kat I knew who would bring fancy suitcases on a camping trip..

R.W. then told the Great Bear - "We're lucky to get any sleep at all, thanks to your snorring you big oaf, so do us a flavor and sleep in one of the trucks tonight with windows up"

"Shut the Fuck up and get some coffee, I just brewed it" Bear growled back at the dandy

"Not touching that sludge you brew, Heir Bear" R.W. snapped back grabbing a beer out of our cooler, popping the top and guzzling it half down.

"Yeah that will wake you up Heir Dribble" I said tapping upon his can with 2 fingers.

"So how much weed did you cop Jim, any good ?" Denny asked while lighting up a Marlboro.

"Oh just some homegrown Denny, gotta let it dry out abit more, I think it was picked just this morning"

At that point Denny and R.W. excused themselves, departing off towards the campground's shower/shithouse with towells and toiletries in hand.

Slapping his hand upon our picnic table Charlie began cackling on about heat drying some over the fire. A heavy duty Toker since he was a young boy, Charlie had a nose for good weed and knew some was stashed within our camp..

When I was growing, curing weed was most often hung upside down until about 2/3s dry. It made for good, slow and even burning smoke.

But due to our current condition a quick-dry was well in order. There was a need to get this stuff bagged up and put away pronto. After all BigMeadows is Federal Property, part of the Shenandoah National Park. I really didn't want to go back for any more of the buds as the thought of it all brought on some degree of concern. Really didn't wish to end up at the Federal Joint in Petersburg with poachers, growers, dealers or the wayward CivilWar artifact hunter caught a few too many times with a metal detector in National Park Lands.

We had enough to see us through and abit more, I had to weigh it all out as this drying process was putting limits upon my vacation. But what about Flip, he seemed dead set on going back for a bundle, and if Charlie and the Brothers got on to all of this,, FUCK!

In the heat of this storage tent, maybe 2 days with abit of good Sun.

I entered and by this time it smelled like an Afghani Hash Hovel. Grabbing a couple of large already wilting buds I proceeded to roll them up in foil wrap. The result, a silver-hued tusk-like affair.

Got the hell out of that sweat-lodge but quick.

"You drying it in there?" Charlie asked advancing in swift motion.

"Just stay the fuck out Chucky, don't let me catch you in there, or I'll lop your hands off"

He backed up, not removing his large eyes from the storage tent..

"Look a Magik horn" laughed the Great Bear as he took notice to my creation. "Here" I handed it to him where upon he put one end to his lips and issued forth a strange contrived booming sound, while I grabbed a fire poking stick. I motioned for 'Heimdall' to give up his horn, then using the pokingstick as to hold it aloft well above the flame.

Flip pulled up and hopped out with a fountain drink, a Little Debbie Snackcake, some heavily scented bug candles along with a box of zip-locks.

He asked me what was cooking.

"Brain Sausage"..

Jim, I'm going to refuse to read your stories, although very tempted, until the end.
They are just too good, I can't wait from one post 'til the next.
So, all or nothing!