I’ll be gradually contributing in vignette form two years’ worth of shenanigans from the general-public edible/medicinal plant walks I conducted from 2022 to 2023. New rascality from current events will also be posted in time.

You’ll notice a deliberate obscuring of involved departments (and individuals) in the following accounts. I may at some point identify all parties (if it’s true, it’s not libel). I need to consult with a legal expert or two before doing so. Regardless, I’ll most likely retain a lawyer before the hard-hitting stories come out.

I’m using park-police, nature-police, plant-police, ranger, junior-ranger, patrol, officer, and so forth interchangeably and loosely. Unless mentioned otherwise, my usage of these terms does not refer to a specific type of agent or agency.

So, what exactly am I doing to so excite snitches and The Man? A 3-hour for-profit (often break-even) nature (plant) walk where I discuss with on average 10 people, the edible, medicinal, and poisonous local flora. That’s it.

Help me to fill in the blanks. I’m sure I’m only aware of the tip-of-the-iceberg. Or maybe there is a mea culpa to be offered? It’s never too late. I can be reached here: hotline@medivetus.com.

Helicoptering

It all started in California.

I advertised the plant walks very specifically, with the meet-up and on-foot debarking place as one and the same. The two events were to take place in the San Diego area, a Saturday and Sunday, separate locals, but regionally similar. Leading up to the weekend, enrollment was strong with no apparent issues.

Enroute from Tucson to San Diego, I contemplate stopping for one of Dateland’s famous date shakes, but push the thought aside knowing the sugar-rush will soon turn to sugar-crash. The sun is setting, and the Crucifixion thorn dotted desert scape and rows of relic Jojoba plantings are already having a lulling effect. I need to stay awake without having to slap myself.

Around Yuma, I noticed an official email pop-up on the phone. It says something to the effect of – Mr. Kane, you will be in violation of many, many codes if you choose to proceed with your plant walks without the necessary paperwork. Plant collection is illegal. Cease and desist, or else. So on and so forth.

“Well, that’s not preferable,” I think to myself.

A choice is to be made. Do I turn tail and cancel? Do I try to find alternative locales with this short of a notice? It’s Friday night and the first plant walk is tomorrow morning. Or do I sally forth and figure it out as I go along? There was really no internal debate. Onward and upward! Excelsior!

As I try to check into the Motel 6 in El Cajon, culture shock ensues. Obeyance agitprop surrounds me. Signage. Distancing. One person at a time in the small lobby, or rather plexiglass payment booth.

“Sir, unless you’re wearing a mask, I can’t check you in,” the black-lady clerk says with not-too-well suppressed annoyance.

“Do you have a mask I can use? I’m from Arizona. Things are a little different over there. I’m a dope and forgot to bring one with me.” I say self-deprecatingly, not wanting this to devolve into a mask debate.

“I don’t have any masks here,” without a pause. “If you don’t have a mask, you need to step outside.”

I pull up my shirt over my nose and mouth and light-heartedly say, “Alright, I’m all masked-up! If you just check me in, I’ll be out of your hair in a jiffy.” With that, I did get a chuckle from her assistant.

It was no good. I couldn’t break through.

“Sir, you need to step outside,” she presses.

“Well, alright.” I say, feeling defeated.

As I open the door to step out, I look over to her Latina assistant. “Do you think you might have a mask in the back I can wear?”

“When I get a moment, I’ll look for you.” she says.

“Thanks…”

I pass the security guard a few steps from the lobby. I pause and turn. “Could I borrow your mask for a minute so I can get checked in.”

“Naw bro,” shaking his head, his wild eyes telling me I was insane to ask such a thing.

Just then my mask fairy comes to the rescue. “I found one for you!”, she says as she opens the door.

“Thank you very much! I really appreciate this.” I say, gratefully.

Testing the strength of the keyboard, the mask enforcer enters my information.

Imagining various plant walk scenarios, my sleep is fitful.

I arrive at the park about an hour early. The entrance and parking lot are not too far in and parallel to the main road, so it’s easy to see who’s stationed where. I slowly pass the entrance and self-serve kiosk. There sits the park police. Mind you, this is a hiking/horse riding/biking $3 per day self-serve park. Once an old ranch/homestead, at some point in time it passed into the agency’s possession. In other words, not a particularly pristine, virgin-esque area. Put your several bucks in an envelope, then into the receptacle, and be done with it. Porta-potties and over-flowing trash cans are the only facilities.

“Shoot!” I mutter to myself. I didn’t expect boots-on-the-ground.

Aside from the park-police email, there were a few early warning signs that I had been ratted-out – mainly Facebook trolling/stalking from San Deigo area accounts, which I largely ignored. I learned long ago, if you’re doing something significant, there will always be people getting in the way. They can’t help themselves. It’s a dark facet of human nature.

I have a plan. I drive a few hundred yards past the park entrance and turn into the adjacent city park, where there is a baseball diamond, dog area, and walking/running circuit. I park and thread my way over a little walking bridge, finally arriving at the far end where the two parks connect. After a 5-minute walk to the original park, in view of my laying-in-wait patrol, I watch for my people.

I spot a couple who fit the plant walk profile: non-plasticoid people. “Hi, I’m Charles. I can’t explain right now, but see those shrubs over there?”

“What?” the man says nonplussed.

“Those bushes, see those bushes?” as I point.

“Yes…” the man hesitantly offers.

“I’ll meet you there shortly,” I say.

“Oh… okay…” he says, questioningly walking away.

“Great. ‘I’ll meet you in the bushes’ as my plant walk intro. Get it together Kane, you can’t say shit like that,” I think to myself.

More people pass the gatekeeper and exit their cars. As they get situated with notebooks and water bottles, I figure they’re with me and direct them to the spot.

Forgetting my self-admonishment, I did have fun with a few. “Run for the bushes! Run for the bushes!” I said to a group of three with helicoptering arm gestures.

“Why are we running to the bushes!”, a girl asks laughingly.

“I don’t know!” I reply trotting along like a comical maniac.

I finally collect everyone, about a group of ten, out of view from my waiting ranger. I fill them in.

One man asked, “how do you know he was parked waiting for you?”

“Oh, let’s just say I was informed directly that I was a worthy allocation of the taxpayer’s dollar.” I mention in turn.

In that shared moment we had a choice to laugh or cry. We all laughed.

A Mole-Karen

I knew Sunday would be more difficult to rearrange on the fly than Saturday. However, I was prepared to run the class as initially stated, and if chased off by the nature police, could always drive to an alternative place. What I wasn’t prepared for was a mole embed, whose sole mission was to thwart the plant walk.

The dirt lot is packed with cars as I slowly inch my way through looking for a place to park. With no luck at finding a spot (and half) for the Town Car, I instead station a couple hundred feet away on the roadside. Walking back to the lot, I post up near the signage (trail map, don’t feed the animals, etc.).

As people filter in, I greet the ones who appear wandering or lost. “Plant walk? So what’s new? And tell me about San Diego.”

As small talk ensues, I notice a petite mask-wearing older woman standing ten feet away conversing on her phone. I can’t help to overhear that she’s talking about the plant walk and something to the effect of “yes, he’s here.”

I edge over. “Are you here for the plant walk?” warmly asking, thinking she may be too shy to approach the group.

“Yes”, she curtly says, momentarily breaking away from the phone conversation.

“Well, come on over and visit.” I say, welcomingly.

She makes a few small steps in our direction, but then stops as if an unseen tractor beam has her in its grasp.

As I curiously give her a second look to better understand her reluctance, a white ranger truck enters the parking lot. It slowly makes its way over and stops about twenty feet away from myself and the group.

I mutter to myself, “here we go.”

The doors open and two of the most mismatched junior rangers step out. The driver is all of 5’ tall with long but pulled-back black hair and neat beard. Physically fit and olive-skinned, his body language communicates he’s in charge. His compadre is tall but extremely skinny, scraggly blond-bearded, and spectacled. He sports the I-can-see-you but you-can’t-see-me mirrored aviators, once popular in the 80s and 90s, but now only worn by retro cop-wanna-be’s.

I quickly decide to initiate the interaction. The last thing I want is the situation to descend into a power-struggle because of an audience of eight people.

I tell the group, “These guys are here for me. I’ll explain later. I’ll be right back…I hope.”

As I stride over, I notice that my little lady has put her phone down, but also a group of onlookers has formed closer to the other end of the parking lot. They’re mostly male, well-groomed, mustachioed, and colorfully-dressed.

“How’s it going, fellas?” I ask, coming up to the duo. Before they can answer, I follow up with, “I’m Charles Kane. I have a group that I’d like to show the parks’ plants to…talk about their edible and medicinal qualities.”

“Did you receive the email our department sent you on Friday”? asks junior ranger 1.

“I did”, I say. Full stop.

He continues, “We got word you would be digging up plants in the park.”

Surprised, I hesitantly offer, “No, I’m not sure what that’s about. This is a strictly verbal, point and pontificate event.”

“Oh”, says ranger 1, disappointed. Trying again, “We received word that you and your people would be removing plant life.”

With the picture becoming clear I say, “I don’t know what that’s about. It sounds like you’ve received some false information.”

As the junior rangers scrutinize the group, it becomes apparent that no one is laden with shovels, sacks, and camo, although, with me in my dress shirt, belt, and khakis, it’s easy to see how mistakes are made.

“Alright”, says ranger 1. “Do you have paperwork for your event?”

“I do not.” Taking a breath, “Look, I’m just trying to provide them with what they signed up and paid for. If I can’t do it here, I’ll go elsewhere.”

I add, “Say, I’ve written a few books on the subject. Do you want a signed copy?” Adding some sugar does sometimes help in these situations.

Junior ranger 2 chimes in, “We don’t want your books. We have better books available for our area.”

The heart of his intonation is ‘stinkin’ books’. Think the Mexican Federales’ line ‘stinkin’ badges’ in Bogie’s, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

This is the moment when I fully take in ranger 2s’ mirrored sunglasses. By his quick batting-away retort, I realize he’s shaped me into the person he wants me to be.

“Well, that’s too bad”, I respond.

Sensing a chill in the air, I offer, “Look, I’m beginning to understand that stopping this 3 hour plant walk is of maximum importance, so I’m going to take the group to another spot.”

“So where are you planning to take them?”, houndingly asks ranger 1.

Taken by surprise, not expecting a follow up question of our future whereabouts, I stumble, “Well, uh, it’s a few miles away. I believe it’s city property. Uh, yeah, look, I’ll take my group elsewhere…”

In an ideal world, one of prefect timing and retorts, I said, “none of your f—ing business”. But alas, that didn’t happen. More concerned about providing the group with what they paid for, rather than a derailing ego battle, I tactically retreat and take my leave of the gruesome-twosome. Reaching the group, I tell them we need to go to the backup spot, and I’ll fill them in on the insanity when we arrive.

With everyone loaded up, including the little phone lady, we set off, with me in the lead. Our new spot is a few miles away.

Wouldn’t you know it, I make a wrong turn about halfway there! After executing a “graceful” 3-point land-yacht turn-around, I wave, make circle signals, or mouth ‘sorry’ as I pass everyone knowing they’ll soon be bunched up with the same maneuver.

Pausing to wait at the end of the road, I think to myself, “this is good, this is fine, all part of the plan…”

A few minutes later we arrive intact and exit the vehicles. It’s an open rolling foothills area. Much less populated than the first spot, we’re nearly the only people. As we form up, I fill the group in on the drama – the email on Friday, run for the bushes yesterday, and junior rangers today. Like Saturday’s group, they’re stunned, not quite knowing what to say.

One young woman offers, “you could always meet the group in a Walmart parking lot and then caravan over to the trail.”

“Yeah, after this escapade, I see the need to make some changes.” I say almost to myself.

Taking a head-count, I notice we’re one person shy. “Who are we missing?”, I ask, more as a rhetorical question.

A man provides, “There was a car in front of me that suddenly made a u-turn and drove off.” Continuing, “where is the angry lady who was standing apart from the group?”

It dawned on us all at once. She was the agency’s informant. My wrong turn saved us. She lost her nerve and drove off.

The young man continues, “you ran into a Karen.”

I slowly nod in awaking agreement, “a mole-Karen.”

Not totally disappointed to have the weekend behind me, the trip back to Tucson is uneventful. With plenty of driving time to think – why such extreme thwarting behavior?

Three decades into this amazing field, the dynamic is all new. Was this a one-off? A run-in with an unstable woman who was able to activate eager and obliging agents of the administrative state? Is this a symptom of the brave new world in which we are sliding into?

Unpacking at home later that night, I noticed an email from PayPal. My little lady wants a refund.

Monday morning I’m back and forth with PayPal. It took a few emails and a phone call to fill them in on some of the poignant details, which were essentially, she signed up with the intention of sabotaging the plant walks.

Huzzah! PayPal rules in my favor. Just because a person has an agenda and fails, does not mean they are entitled to a refund. I get to keep $60 that I would have rather not received in the first place.

More shenanigans coming soon…