Singing trees!

Ah, Alice!

"Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table: she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words `EAT ME' were beautifully marked in currants. `Well, I'll eat it,' said Alice, `and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it makes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door; so either way I'll get into the garden, and I don't care which happens!'
She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, `Which way? Which way?', holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same size: to be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way.

So she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake."

And just like Alice I was not always smart or sensible when it came to edibles.

Overindulging in cannabis was certainly a case of hard lessons learned. I am sure that it had a lot to do with being a total hard head, with having a very blind, wild heroic, Titan complex and with having a crazy desire to uphold what I considered my right to maintain a mighty high tolerance for fun. Woo boy, fun. One’s kind of fun is another’s long journey into night.

My edibles breakthrough story is really, in hindsight, a very small story, indeed. It was spring break, my last year of grad school. I had a fistful of buddies who were supposed to join me up on top of San Jacinto mountain. A weekend of wild, hairy chested male behavior. Coolers full of German and Mexican beer, a leg of goat to pit roast, bags of weed to smoke, and, as life should have it, a can of marijuana cookies to eat.

The cookies were a last minute gift from a friend who struck out securing stronger psychedelics for us to take. I had no real experience eating mota but had lots of tripping time under my belt. Why would I expect the experience to be any different?

Car packed I prepared to head out when the phone calls started coming in. So and so couldn’t make it, another said his wife had forgotten to mention a prior engagement, another said, well, maybe, possibly. I had food and libations enough for a small army and the ice was melting fast. I threw caution to the wind, gave my regards to everyone on the list, kissed my wife adios, wished for the best and headed out to the desert to begin my mountain climb.

The only thing I didn’t take into account was the weather. Springtime meant snow time up in the local mountains, regardless of proximity to the desert. My Sierra Club Mountaineer training failed me completely. Apparently I had a party in mind and party was what I was going to do. I arrived at my destination late afternoon to find the mountain top campground quiet and, due to that iffy time of year, empty and completely isolated. I found a spot with decent afternoon sun, surrounded by pine and oak trees, flat and ready for camping. After a quick unload and set up I wandered about, found the porta-potty, an armload’s worth of cast off wood and then, not wanting to wander off too far, went back and prepared to settle down for night.

As I mentioned the site was off on its own and lonely. I was carrying too much pricey gear and felt overexposed, to whom, I had no idea but there it was. I ate a bit of dinner and followed it up with a beer. Ah, German brew, one always deserves another, so in short order a six pack went away. The sun was coursing its way through the trees, the camp was comfy and so was I. It was about that time I decided to have a bit of dessert and took advantage of the special cookie treats I had brought along with me.

I cannot remember if I only ate one cookie, it could have been three. I suppose it didn’t matter either way because I had no idea how to gauge the amount of THC that was in each one of those cookies. Those were the days when cannabutter was not the well thought out product it is today. What I do remember is that the chocolate chip cookies were decidedly green, aromatic and tasted richly of bud. I know now that edibles are processed by the liver, that they can take about an hour and a half to kick in, that you shouldn’t mix alcohol with edibles and that you should try a small bite first just to see how it affects you before diving into more of the same.

Ah, yes, Alice!

Well, my liver was already compromised by all the beers I had drank, which made for a bad start, indeed. Paranoia was settling in just fine from the isolation and the high does of THC. My heart was already racing from the altitude and the mota, once it started to kick in, amped it up some more. The wildest thing I remember, though, right before I retreated to my tent to hide and crash, was hearing the trees sing. It wasn’t a breeze wicking its way through the branches, it was a full out chorus. A true tree opera. Never before had I heard such songs, never before had I been so high on marijuana!

The next morning broke foggy. A light mist settled in making the breakfast fire smoky. One of my pals came up the mountain just to tell me he was going back down. Mist turned to rain and by four in the afternoon, to snow. The camp out was a bust in many ways but it taught me a thing or two about the joys and tribulations of marijuana edibles.

So, take it from me: take it slow with those edible products till you understand not only the products themselves but your own current relationship with marijuana. If you ever find yourself overindulging remember to keep your cool, find a good quiet place to settle into and relax. Breathe, watch a movie, listen to some music and know that everything will be okay and in the end you’ll get the best night’s sleep you’ve ever had.

And by chance you should run into any singing trees, give them regards, or better, get their autograph. Mota or not the tunes they sang were mighty fine! And I hope to never hear them again!

Salud!

The painting above is titled Singing Trees, by Julie Hacker (2016)