The Chef, the Camp, and the Cannabis: My Wild Ride from Summer Camp to Humboldt County

There was a time I was chasing the road like it owed me something. It was after my stint in Hawaii and working as a chef at a summer camp outside Seattle—a story in itself that smells like pine needles, late-night campfires, and local music festivals.. But after that, something shifted. I fell in love. Not just with a person, but with the idea of partnership, of wandering as two.

We ping-ponged across the country like barefoot poets—campfire dreams, staying with friends and family, and road trip snacks. There was even a fully comped trip back to Hawaii for a chef interview at a high-end retreat. But the universe had other plans. We ended up in Vermont, hunkered down at a family summer home, unsure of our next chapter.

That’s when I remembered hearing whispers of the "the west coast trim scene" from friends I met in Hawaii—stories of rough bunk beds, sticky fingers, and endless piles of buds. Honestly, trimming didn’t call to me. But I thought, there’s gotta be a cannabis farm out there that needs a chef.

Enter: Humboldt County.

Someone had pinned a handwritten note on a community board at Breitenbush Hot Springs. A dear friend saw it, and knew I was looking and I would perfect for it. It didn’t say “weed farm,” but it didn’t have to. It was all in the subtext. “Chef needed. Remote farm. Off-grid. Humbodlt County. Meals for crew. Organic.” I sent an email. They responded but wouldn’t hire me without a face-to-face. So we packed up and headed west—again.

By then, I knew my way around a kitchen. Worked at various Retreat Centers and lived off the grid. I could throw down at a moment's notice, and stood behind by word and my impeccable timing as a chef. Their last chef? Meals always late. Not hearty enough. Couldn’t keep up. I took that as a challenge.

Ten Days On, Two Off (If You’re Lucky)

I threw down three meals a day, from scratch, for dozens of hungry growers and trimmers. The shopping run was five hours round-trip. If you forgot the garlic, you were SOL. We were feeding teams of 30–40 at peak harvest. Trimmers from Spain, Fance, Canada, Florida. People with dreadlocks, neck tattoos, PhDs. You learn a lot when you’re elbow-deep in a soup pot under a redwood canopy.

The first year, I stuck to the kitchen. The second year, I got my hands in the dirt. Thousands of clones. Light dep cycles. Tarps in the snow. Generator failures at 3 a.m. I learned how to grow cannabis organically on a commercial scale—how to read the plants, coax them, protect them, love them.

Life Was Raw and Beautiful

I showered outside under the stars. I lived in a tent or a trailer, depending on the season. Some days I cooked for 40. Others, I hand-watered rows of green medicine with nothing but a hose and a sunrise.

It was grueling. I once worked 30 straight days. Sixteen-hour shifts. Rain or shine. From snowmelt to the next snowfall. But I wouldn’t trade it. That experience taught me more about food, farming, and human resilience than any fine dining job ever could.

We weren’t just feeding bodies—we were fueling a movement. A gray-area operation in the final hours before cannabis went legal in California. We were off-grid, off-map, but fully in tune with something sacred. The plant. The process. The people.

Why It Matters Now

Today, I run IntentionalCannabis.com and Love & Vegetables. I talk about regenerative farming, cooking as ceremony, and connecting deeply with what you grow. But that all traces back to Humboldt—where I learned how to be of service, in the truest sense of the word.

This isn’t just a story about weed and wandering. It’s about finding purpose in wild places, pushing your limits, and discovering community in the middle of nowhere.

And yeah—those were some of the best years of my life.