As I drive into the redwoods, my Mini Cooper feels even tinier than usual, like a go-kart weaving between earthly giants. I remove my sunglasses — as the light only permeates the canopy in speckled puddles — and fight the urge to spark a joint. My destination, Huckleberry Hill cannabis farm, is only just down the road.
I’ve made this drive from Southern California a lot over the years, and I know I’m getting to where I need to be as soon as I hit the redwoods. The excitement that comes from greeting an old friend grips my body, holding and calming me, almost like a blanket. Though familiar, this corner of California feels like a precious secret that not everyone is in on.