Nepali Pink is gratitude grass
By David Reagan
The other day I sampled something from my I-don’t-know-what-it-is-but-I-like-it jar. It didn’t seem dusty enough to be my old Stella Blue but the earthy scent and the balanced high were pretty reminiscent.
I had been given a few Stella Berry starts and, in a nod to Jerry and the boys, crossed it with Blue Dream and a bit of Blueberry Kush. It still took a couple of seasons and several more crosses to finally achieve a plant that was more than just a name, but the end result had good structure, vitality and aroma, and thrived in my little north-facing valley.
That experience gave me a deep appreciation for the art of gardening, the necessity of care and attention, and the slow accretion of knowledge that comes only from time and attunement to seasonal variations, the wants of bugs and the vagaries of wind, water and sun entirely unique to each and every backyard. I learned not just how to grow cannabis, but how to grow microbes, how to grow worms and how to grow the earth.
I consider that when I try something new, like when I came upon a farm I hadn’t heard of and a varietal just as unknown, one I have come to think of as “Gratitude Grass.”
Every now and then I have an experience that reminds me of what I most love about weed.
Four in the afternoon and I wanted a little lift, so I leashed up Bernadette and strolled into one of our local dispensaries, she being a good candidate for the “cute dog discount.” Sure enough, we got a buck off a pre-roll of Nepali Pink, stuffed the dollar back in the tip jar and headed on out.
The strain is new to me as is the farm that grew it — ABOVE Cannabis, situated in southeastern Humboldt. It has the unique quality of sitting high on a 4,700-foot mountaintop, the lofty perch providing inspiration for their tagline, “High Elevation Cultivation.” It also offers the ideal climate for this strain that has its origins in the mountains of Hawaii, a sativa dominant cross of Powerline, Hindu Sun and Afghani Pink OG.
Weed can make you chatty, anxious or sleepy, or sometimes spark grandiose visions of perhaps building a landlocked barge big enough to contain a shop in which one might drink wine and sample cheese while imagining floating down a river in France — an idea whose brilliance might best be recognized if pondered while smoking some Jack Herrer on a front porch at sunset.
And then there is weed that simply makes you grateful. And for me, that is Nepali Pink.
I sampled some at the end of the day and as I began to make some dinner for Bernadette and me. I found myself remembering how much I appreciated my coffee pot, my spoon, my bowl and my frying pan. I love my frying pan. I turned on my speakers, gave each a little loving pat and soon found myself doing an “I love Humboldt” dance in my kitchen, appreciating my floor, my feet and especially my wool socks for their thickness and deep green vibrancy. I made notes to send overdue letters, gave Bernadette a bone for her contribution and capped the night with a cold Steelhead, pausing to appreciate the 20 years of good times we have had together.
And then, best of all, grateful the next morning when I awoke nine hours later to the sun out my window, having slept the whole night through.
I’ve tried many varietals recently and generally liked them all. Durban Poison, from UpNorth, pretty much knocked out my communication center for a bit but then made for a really nice walk on the beach. And Key Lime Pie, a Durban/OG cross with a little Cherry Pie thrown in (because who doesn’t like cherry pie?) had a similar effect, though I do remember having had what seemed to be a few clever exchanges with strangers on the street.
And because one can’t have pie without trying the cake, I had some Ice Cream Cake before the long trip home that came on like a slow train rolling, gathering steam up U.S. Highway 101, the northbound headlights illuminating the falling rain until finally back home, my driver easing us into the station and later into bed for a good night’s sleep.
All of these were really good but will surely soon get mixed up and so refresh my I-don’t-what-it-is-but-I-like-it jar. But not Nepali Pink. I keep it in its cleverly designed triangular box, zipped up in the designated weed pocket of my old backpack, now torn and stitched and laced and for which I continue to have all the gratitude in the world. I don’t know where I will travel to next but meanwhile I appreciate just being home, my neighbors and their barking dogs, the ocean wind whistling through my windows. And so for all of that, I give thanks to Above and below, from the mountain to the sea, good old Humboldt grown.
Dave Reagan lives in Manila with his dog Bernadette. There is no weed in his backyard these days, just several apple trees in a nod to his ancestor John Chapman, aka Johnny Appleseed.