- Baynard Woods
- This strain’s all but odorless unburnt, and may leave you feeling quite reflective.
I was not particularly psyched to try this strain, fearing the type of sloppy, maximalist kind of high that the name implies. Instead, it’s a shining example of the pleasures of a complex combination of surprising qualities into a coherent and even beautiful experience.
I actually bought it and stuffed it in my pocket one day and I thought I lost it and I wasn’t that bummed about it. Then the other night, I found it. Normally, there’s nothing better than finding lost weed. Once back in prohibition days, the town was dry and we were all jonesing and there was just nothing around and it was summer and we were young and with no weed and were drinking too much and one day I went to go sit on the porch with a book and I pulled Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass off the shelf and an eighth slipped out onto the floor. Old uncle Walt! It was a true glory, a gift from the world. Or from a drunk or stoned past self who thought the “grass” in the title would be an obvious treasure map (in those years, I hid all my money in Marx’s Capital.)
Now, of course, I wasn’t nearly as desperate, but I barely registered joy when I rediscovered this weed in my pocket. I didn’t even take it out of the raincoat pocket where it’d been lost. But it was still raining the next day and I discovered that a friend’s bar was closing down and it was still in my pocket when I went to see him, so we banged out a bowl and it was a beautiful strain to share with a friend as you’re thinking about change and time and taking chances. It was light and reflective, like water in a brook that looks like the sky as it reflects it back to itself rippled with the warps of its constant motion. Like alcohol, it limbered the tongue — rather than either making it too rapid and staccato or reluctant and tentative, both of which weed can sometimes do. It’s the kind of weed conducive to the scene in movies where siblings back home for Thanksgiving or a funeral smoke a late-night spliff and reflect on their shared pasts.
The best thing about weed, but often the most unpleasant, is the way it can cause you to scour your own actions and fixate on the failings. But this is the most booze-like strain I’ve ever had, and it left my conscience to its own devices. After smoking a bowl out in the sun while I washed my dog, I walked back inside feeling a summer version of the winter feeling of a warm crackling fire and a growing whiskey glow.
These ugly little white buds clock in at about 20 percent THC, but their terps do the trick I think, at more than 3 percent. And they are all but odorless unburnt, giving off a vague pine odor if you really try. Good weed to hide in Walt Whitman as a gift to my future self and an attempt at continuity.