Brown Dirt's Bio

Closing the Circle

The year was 1990, and I was an aspiring film student putting myself through school when I got my first exposure to the B.C. marijuana trade. In those days, there was no hype over British Columbia's marijuana industry. In fact, the B.C. marijuana culture was only beginning to brew at that time.

Few people realize that the humble beginning of our billion-dollar pot industry and world-renowned marijuana legalization movement actually began with the outdoor farmers many decades ago — long before any of the relatively recent fanfare over the prolific indoor trade.

It all started with a cadre of marijuana connoisseurs who crossbred potent indoor strains of marijuana with hardy outdoor varieties, combining these hybrids with advanced cultivation techniques to create super outdoor plants tailored to our environment. These outdoor growers, a lot of them (ironically enough) American draft dodgers from the Vietnam era, eventually furnished the voracious American markets for marijuana with high-grade B.C. pot every season. At the height of the industry, a pound of B.C. outdoor weed would command (US) $5,000 south of the boarder.

Over the years, some of these enterprising masters franchised-out their techniques and strains to eager novices wanting to capitalize on the green gold rush.

For me, it all began one fateful day when an old friend of mine, who knew I was an aspiring filmmaker, looked me up and took me out for a beer at a local pub near my home. He apparently had an idea for a documentary that he thought I should produce. As an unaccredited artist, I was eager to listen.

After ordering two beers, this friend of mine proceeded to draw a map on a napkin. By this time, I still hadn't learned the nature of his project, so I was naturally brimming with curiosity. Finally, he drew an X on a spot on the napkin and said. "It's right here… I looked at him quizzically and shrugged my shoulders questioningly. He leaned in to me, panned the room to make sure no one was listening, and shared in a low voice "…My pot. I want you to come out and shoot it, make a documentary on growing." He then proceeded to tell me that he had hooked-up with someone who was teaching him how to make a LOT of money growing marijuana.

I must admit, I was intrigued by the prospects of what he was saying, but not necessarily to further my film career in any artistic way. For my immediate thought was who the hell would want to see a documentary on growing pot? And more to the point, who would air it? And upon crunching some numbers in my head, my next notion quickly became, hell, screw the documentary, I want to get in on the action and make some extra dough to put myself through film school!

And so began my epic journey into the marijuana trade. I struck a deal with my buddy over those two beers and we became growing partners. Of course, at the time, I had no idea of the gauntlet I would run over the coming decade and the odyssey that would ensue…

The growing partnership with by buddy lasted three years. During that time, he was christened Captain Fantastic and I the Brown Dirt Warrior by his mentor, the guy who was making all this possible. I had adopted my moniker because of my physical prowess and my no-nonsense work ethic.

My partner and I made a modest income going through our growing apprenticeship and took our hits along the way while learning the craft. We lost more than we made, but I got through film school. It all came to an abrupt and unceremonious end that same year when I was busted in the bush for marijuana cultivation for the purpose of trafficking. My growing tenure had suddenly and decisively come to a screeching halt.

After being arrested and charged, I distanced myself from growing and focused on developing myself as an artist while being a working stiff in the trades, the whole time trying to sell my film projects as I went, getting caught up in the grind. My art suffered, but I developed my craft as best I could.

At one point, I managed to get CBC Toronto interested in a movie of the week I had written, and they brought me in to discuss the project. I had hoped they would buy my work, but, ultimately, they ended-up not going with it. For a brief moment, though, I was realizing my dream, fantasizing that I was on my way to recognition for my work. The one thing I did take away from the experience was some sort of acknowledgement by my peers.

So back to the grind I went. In my peripheral vision, the growing trade really began to take flight. It seemed that everyone was now growing weed and I knew the gravy train couldn't last. The dam had to break sooner or later. There was just too much buzz surrounding the marijuana trade in B.C. And too may people were getting rich.

During this golden era of growing in B.C. and at the height of my frustration and self-doubt over ever breaking free of the vicious cycle of surviving financially while developing as an artist, I received some more welcome exposure.

Out of nowhere, I got a call from the English professor who taught me creative writing at The University of British Columbia several years earlier. He had become a well-know producer and wanted to option a feature-length movie of mine I had sent to him on a lark to be critiqued. He praised my work, but again my stuff ultimately never got made. But, once again, the experience gave me the much-needed push I needed to keep slugging away and not giving up on the arts. It was the proverbial carrot on a stick.

I was drawn back into the marijuana trade one fateful day while visiting another old working buddy of mine. I hadn't seen him since we worked the bars together as bouncers. He turned me on to some exceptionally fine herb and told me that he grew it himself and had hundreds of pounds of it for sale. He then proceeded to tell me that he had a million-dollar operation going on with a crew of 8 guys working under him, and they were producing a million bucks worth of pot each summer. My ears perked up as the numbers ran through my head. By now I was sick of the grind and was highly receptive to any prospect of making some decent, quick money so I could focus on my film career. I asked him if he needed any help and told him that I had three years experience growing myself.

Before I knew it, I was in the back of a turbo diesel F30 with a truckload of redneck growers heading deep into the Interior of the Province. I had now been thrust, quite fortuitously, back into the growing trade by a chance meeting with this old buddy who was now tapped directly into the infamous big-money growing scene. But this time around, I was in with a group that was far advanced of anything I had done in the past. These guys were running on a 250,000-dollar growing budget. They had all the hardware necessary to grow huge quantity.

For another three years, I apprenticed under these guys as a crewmember working for a percentage. We grew 1,000,000 bucks worth of marijuana our first year together and lost almost half of it to the cops. I hated the group dynamic and my position in the pecking order, but I did my time and soaked up the knowledge of the masters.

After my schooling in the finer aspects of commercial growing, I was ready to branch out on my own. I had done my time and earned my masters. I was now one of the best outdoor growers around.

During that period of my apprenticeship, I kept up my writing and had written a one-hour documentary on palaeontology for my brother in between outings to the bush. My younger brother was an aspiring filmmaker himself (who knew nothing of my dubious form of income), and got my script into the hands of a famous actor by the name of Leslie Nielsen. To my shock and surprise, Nielsen liked the script and agreed to host the program. That began a cascade of financing for the project.

With Nielsen attached to my brother's documentary, I soon found myself whisked away to do on-set rewrites on a project with and international star attached. Finally, I was a working writer! …And a thoroughly ensconced criminal, with tens-of-thousands of dollars worth of weed in the bush.

By this time, the golden era of the commercial outdoor pot farmer in B.C. was ushering to a close. Word of the massive pot plantations had finally hit the Media — because of some pissed-off American politicians angered at the flood of Canadian weed into the states — and the political war was on to eradicate the industry.

Outdoor growing in this province was now becoming increasingly difficult. Drug enforcement units scoured the province by land, sea, and air ferreting out the crops and systematically destroying them. The news of the day was replete with images of police helicopters pulling net-loads of weed out of the woods and arrests being made. In some instances, growers would be caught red-handed on their patches and arrested for cultivation. Other unlucky patrons of the practice would be nabbed in roadblocks en route to the city with their harvests. Bands of thieves gradually joined the fray as well, making careers out of finding mother-loads and adopting them as their own. Outdoor growers in B.C. were under siege.

The documentary I did with Nielsen went on to be a critical success and ran in various incarnations on PBS, Discovery, and the Learning Channel. I figured my phone would now start to ring off the wall with offers.

In the face of all the bad attention growing was now getting, I figured it was time to get out of the trade while the getting was good. With all the "heat" around the industry, it was now time to see if I could make it as a writer and filmmaker once-and-for-all and get out of the growing business. So I packed up my hoe and spade and said goodbye to the trade. I officially retired from outdoor pot farming. …Or so I had thought.

Although I was not growing weed myself anymore, I kept my ear to the ground and paid close attention to developments in the trade. It was actually hard to avoid what was going on — with all the news of raids and arrests on the six-o'clock news almost nightly. By this time, there was always someone I knew getting busted.

But there were always two versions to the story. There were the sensationalized sound bites on the news about the shakedowns and busts, and then there was the inside story of what the growers were going through under this assault. Fed up with devastating losses on various fronts, only the very tenacious and crafty growers remained commercial outdoor farmers within a relatively short span of time. But with the lax penalties for cultivation still in place, many farmers took their expertise indoors where it was somewhat safer. And the growers kept coming.

Three years had now past since my brush with greatness in the film trade, and I was now getting tired of telling people about my dated claim-to-fame with Leslie Nielsen. I was a one-hit wonder, it would seem, and again suffering the working man blues. I thought this credit would bring me work, but I had been supremely naïve. Turns out you need two hits before they sit up and take notice.

The marijuana movement marched on, however, indifferent to my plight, as my dreams of becoming a prolific filmmaker withered before my eyes. The sweet taste of success had touched my lips, and now I was disillusioned with nothing but a lingering, bitter aftertaste as I gazed upon my heaping plate of broken dreams.

Despite all the pressure on the outdoor trade, the number of indoor growers expanded — like squeezing one end of a balloon only to force the other end to bulge — and the trade once again thrived with new vigour. The craft was elevated, yet again, with strains being developed to new heights of potency for the indoor trade.

B.C. pot and its export to the United States soon became the subject of popular American new programs on networks such as CNN, ABC, and CBS. British Columbia had quickly become arguably the worldwide capital of high-potency marijuana cultivation, distribution and legal tolerance. Marijuana legalization proponents, too, suddenly came out of the woodwork and did there part to seal us as the pot Mecca of the world, decreeing that the laws should be changed, and that the government should butt out of our personal choice to smoke marijuana. And they got criminal records for their convictions. The B.C. marijuana trade was red hot … and turning white. It was suddenly all happening right here, in our own back yard. We had taken the world stage.

In the spring of 98, as I pondered my floundering film career and what I was now going to do with my life, it hit me like a bolt out of the blue. Suddenly, it all made sense. Why had I not realized this 'til now? It was so clear. I would come out of retirement and do that growing documentary that I was so fatefully approached to do more than a decade earlier when the subject was completely irrelevant! The marijuana movement in B.C was hitting a fever pitch internationally, and I had been a direct player on that grand stage for almost a decade!

My stalled filmmaking career suddenly became flushed with meaning again, and I was instantly inspired, instilled with a vision. I had come full circle and this would be my breakout piece. I would bring my hard-won skills to bear and show the world the inner workings of this hidden order, so they could better understand what prohibition had unduly imposed upon the farmers — helping usher-in a new era of legal tolerance through my groundbreaking and innovative work.

Fully inspired and armed with a decade of heartfelt experience, I dusted off my warrior gear, rented a professional camera, and set out to show the world a presentation on the fascinating plight of the outdoor grower in B.C.

And so began another chapter in my marijuana experience — the eight-year odyssey to create Prohibition. This piece encompasses that entire era and experience for me. I have come a long way from that fateful day in the pub, when Captain Fantastic asked to come out into the woods and shoot his pot. How either of us could have known, in that time of innocence, what would become of it? ?That I would create a cult film, striking a cord in the psyche of the public and attracting pot emissaries like Tommy Chong and Marc Emery.

Quite recently, after many years out of contact, I looked-up Captain Fantastic -- now an indoor organic master and much sought-after ganja guru -- and showed him my youtube channel and the documentary he had asked me to do a dozen years earlier. Staring stone-faced at the screen after he viewed it, I began to wonder if he even liked it. A broad grin then curled on his lips as he slapped his lap.
"Brown Dirt, you son-of-a-bitch."