This is our farm column from farmer Casey O’Neill. O’Neill is the owner operator of HappyDay Farms north of Laytonville, and a long time advocate for the cannabis community in Mendocino Co; more of his writing can be found here. The opinions expressed in this column are those of the writer. If you would like to submit a letter to the editor feel free to write to [email protected].
It always amazes me how much water can come out of the sky and flow across the land in these big storms. The difference in experience between the dry and wet times in this Mediterranean climate leaves me in awe, and sometimes in deep struggle. With so much variability, farming here is as much about adaptability as it is experience and planning.
Over time I learn to be more resilient, more capable of shifting my expectations, but it’s still not easy. I remember Januarys that were warm and sunny, dry enough that we did significant dirt work and bed prep. As a kid, I remember multiple periods during Christmas break where we children were out tromping the hills in a mild warmth that needed only a t-shirt. We played in the creeks which had begun to flow again with fall rains.
The landscape up here on the ridgeline dries down completely in the late summer, until there are only the smallest trickles of springwater and the storages in man-made ponds. The dryness is intense, by the time we edge towards the fall rains, even my soul feels parched. We struggle to keep water flowing to plants and animals and into our own bodies. Water is the lifeblood, so elemental that there is almost a tendency to take it for granted, until it’s gone or short in supply, and then you really feel it.
In true feast-or-famine, the winter storms bring water in such abundance that it becomes a problem at the opposite end of the spectrum. I spend hours during each storm making sure animals have dry bedding and directing flows, checking ditches, reshaping water bars. As always, the goal with flowing water is to Slow it, Spread it, Sink it. Especially up here at higher elevations on the ridgeline, the more we can encourage water to infiltrate, the better it does for the groundwater.
There is a reason that water is one of the elements, that it is, indeed, elemental. A force unto itself, with voice and will for movement. Water brings rejoicing, deep, fundamental succor, yet it also can deliver catastrophe and cataclysm. Our human management is so many matchsticks in the face of a massive storm, yet over time these matchsticks add up to something that matters.
The old timers talk about the ‘64 flood, and how much brutal logging was done in the lead-up to that winter with impending regulation. The heavy rains had fewer trees and less healthy forest soils to slow them, and the waters rushed across the land. Regulation changed the timber industry dramatically, as did the impacts of corporate Maxxam-type logging in the 80’s. What was once an industry that supported communities is now a shadow of its former self, as are the old growth timber stocks that it was all built upon.
I think often about timber and the timber industry as we work to navigate the realities of dealing with regulation for our cannabis operation. I think about the ways our communities have changed and evolved here on the North Coast through the various boom and bust cycles since the land was taken from Native Peoples. With every boom has come serious negative impacts for the land, and with every bust has been a series of difficulties for human occupants.
The cannabis boom brought resources to an impoverished, rural area, flowing into the community and helping to support nonprofits, work in ecology and restoration, community funded endeavors. Cannabis supported homesteaders and land stewards, infrastructure and production to feed people, to raise families. It also brought wanton spending and profligate lifestyles as the green rush came of age.
Now, in the depths of the changing market realities for cannabis, our communities are struggling to reimagine themselves. We’re seeing businesses closing and are fighting to maintain our sense of hope in the vibrancy we once experienced. In some senses, it’s a lesson in modern capitalism; communities that have enough resources thrive. For our small farm, it remains a struggle to gather up the thousands of dollars in fees that are due over the next few months, yet we remain hopeful. I’m glad to see Reggae on the River return, and that there will be festivals at Black Oak Ranch this summer; gathering in celebration reminds us of the joys of community.
We’ve been working this weekend packing our longtime seed stock Ogre Berry into Farm Cut jars. Shared values in the creation process of a brand with 4 other farms has been one of the most beautiful, yet difficult experiences of my life. We wanted to go to market the way we store herb for our own consumption; in vacuum sealed mason jars with the sugar leaf still attached, like an orange or a banana peel to protect the terpenes and trichomes.
Sharing the burdens has helped make it work, because we could never have done it on our own. The challenges are still daunting, but I feel deeply grateful for the shared sense of community and support. I’m grateful to the crew at Redwood Roots for doing the work to help the jars get to market, I think distro is the toughest space in the game and I’m glad to be able to work with a local outfit.
It feels good to work inside on a rainy day, putting the fruits of our labors into jars that we’re proud to offer to the world. We feel good about the herb; it looks great, smells dank and is properly cured, and it’s from plants that we loved and tended through a cycle of our lives. Though the winds are fierce, the candle still burns. As always, much love and great success to you on your journey!
