Out here, this green earth will swallow anything whole. The desert tells time in dust, water through shape. The forest expresses itself in rot.
On my way to Willow Creek, a marijuana nirvana in the mountains above Arcata, I drive past forgotten properties tucked into the darkness of trees. They’re littered with broken-down cars and RVs, abandoned doublewides and graffitied trailers — the collective detritus of old pot farms slowly sinking into the earth.
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