The Good, the Bad, and the Twisted
Cannabis, Legalization, and New Hampshire, Part 4
May 28, 2019
5:58 PM High in the hill country of New Hampshire
So far, we’ve explored the New Hampshire Therapeutic Cannabis Program in my series (Cannabis, Legalization, and New Hampshire: an exposé from a patient’s point of view). I’ve been on the outside, on the inside, and again on the outside — with deep reservations about the character of the program and those who oversee it.
The house here in the hills is quieting down at this hour, aside from the sounds of the Tedeschi/Trucks Band. Such a pleasure to enjoy such talented performers, especially those who take the conscious effort to craft songs and performances specifically to uplift others. That’s not unique to music, it is everywhere if you look right.
And that is what this segment of the larger story is about: lifting people up, helping people — in an odd and twisted way.
It was early on a foggy summer morning, the windows were down, and the traffic was light as I cruised down route 89 southbound towards Concord, NH. This ride had become quite familiar to me over the previous year spent journeying to the medical marijuana dispensary north of Concord. On this journey however, I would not be turning north up the valley of the Merrimack and Pemigewasset rivers upon reaching our capital city. No, today I would be veering south down that same valley heading to the coastal plain, and meeting a green warrior: a bootlegger named Dr. Ron Berner.
I first met the doctor at a crazy summer party at a very private golf facility a local friend built somewhere in the hills of New Hampshire. I was there to play a round of hillbilly golf and have a few beers and laughs; the doctor was there to provide the madness — and the cannabis. Ron is probably about 6 foot 4, and he is a lean 200 pounds. He’s got an odd gait about him that I later learned was from a botched experiment a doctor did on his knee as a child. He’s got a shock of thick grey hair, eternally messed up and falling around his eyes and face.
By the 7th hole I had left any reservations behind about Ron: the good doctor was clearly a kindred maniac. We continued our assault on the course, much to the chagrin of our opponents. Ron and I ended up crushing the field. Won by a solid ten strokes.
Along the way we talked about medical cannabis, and how he has been helping people. He asked if I needed help. I tell him I’m in the medical program. He just looked at me and asked “And how’s that working out for you?”
“Well ok, I mean it’s expensive,” I replied.
He smiled that big toothy smile at me. “You got that right.”
I scowled. “Well what can you do for me, doctor?”
Ipulled into the state rest stop along route 93 southbound looking for the car he had told me to find, a convertible ’66 Mercury Comet, mirror black.
I saw him across the lot fueling the car. I couldn’t believe it; It was a gorgeous classic. I had to admit, the idea of climbing into this machine with this man made me a bit uneasy. I’m always better off in fast cars when I’m driving. I generally presume most people can’t drive their way out of a traffic circle, nor handle themselves when the going gets weird, let alone life threatening.
Ron had invited me on this bootlegging run to Maine. He had a group of guys helping him out up there, growing and/or sourcing medical grade cannabis for him. He said I should see this, live it with him. I’ve always chased adventure, so this was really no different.
We closed the doors of the Mercury, the large V8 fired up to a nasty, nasty roar, and he just put his foot to the floor, right out of the rest stop. The speedometer was up to 90 before we had left the on-ramp.
“So I’m presuming that once we’re loaded up you settle down a bit?” I asked.
He turned to me, fumbling with a joint. “I think you need to settle down kid, enjoy the ride. In an hour we’ll be eating duck fat fried potatoes with jerk chicken while we wait for my guy.”
I conceded and settled in.
The stretch down 101 between Manchvegas and Portsmouth went by in a blur. The music was good, conversation good, sweet summer air rushed into the windows of the speeding car. We crossed the state line over the Piscataqua River Bridge, and boom, we were in Maine. We arrived shortly at our destination, a small lunch counter with amazing food. I took Ron at his word and ordered the jerk chicken, duck fat potatoes, and beer. As we were finishing, his liaison to the growers came in and sat down. We exchanged pleasantries, then got down to business. Ron told him how he’s got another patient, and his guy told him not to worry, he’ll source free product to make free extract for those truly in need. I’m floored by what I hear.
As we walked out into the lot I asked Ron, “Was he serious, free product?”
Ron stopped and said, “Look, a lot of folks extract cannabis, but for the wrong . . . no, not wrong, just other . . . other reasons. This stuff is serious medicine. I make it for that purpose. My crew knows this and they take care of me.” He paused. “ You know, it’s a lot about intent with cannabis. Most players intend on making beaucoup dinero, but me, my intent is to help people. Money is just imaginary, and transient anyway, kid.” He paused once more. “Money is corruption.”
We walked across the lot to a quiet place where his guy had parked next to us. As casually as possible, trunks were opened, the exchange was made. Ron had his load: several pounds of whole flower, several pounds of trimmings for extract, and a whole assortment of cartridges and other cannabis products.
“All this is free? I’m confused,” I ask.
“Oh fuck no!” he laughed., “Only the stuff I make cannabis oil from for those severely in need is free, the rest is real money. But half the price of that dispensary stuff.”
The Comet roared as we crossed the bridge back into New Hampshire at 85 miles per hour. “Ron, you always travel at speed like this with a load?” I ask.
He leaned over, smiling that broad, toothy smile. “ The trick when you’re running this stuff is to look so crazy you couldn’t possibly have anything to hide — I’ve been from one side of this country to the other, kid; in hippie vans loaded with ditch weed, in fast cars hurtling up and down the Pacific Coast highway at 100 mph on psychedelics — and that’s the trick. It’s like chaff, you know, kid? That aluminum crap they spit out of military aircraft to confuse the enemy radar?”
I did know. Used that sort of chaff several times, I believe. But this, this was different. Yes it was. Fucking Dr. Ron Berner.
A rebel with a cause. Bless his twisted soul.
4:50 AM May 29, 2019
La Brasserie
Sitting in my office here in the hill country, thinking back on my first “happening” with the doctor I feel a great sense of fortune our paths crossed. He is living what many in the cannabis industry should aspire to: Helping as many people as possible acquire affordable, high quality medical cannabis. And, unlike the New Hampshire Therapeutic Cannabis Program here in New Hampshire, he does not discriminate, nor require annual paperwork, nor annual recertification and an annual kickback to the system. No, Ron helps everyone. Since I’ve known Ron I have seen him get people free from opiates, and benzos, get relief from chronic pain, anxiety, and insomnia; ultimately I’ve seen him administer cannabis oil to a friend with terminal stage 4 lung cancer — only to confound the cancer doctors at Dartmouth when my friend’s CT scans showed the cancer gone.
For me, Ron has changed my life. I was at a point of desperation going to the dispensary for my medicine, going broke, losing days travelling to and fro. He provided something I wasn’t getting from the state program: fair access. Fair access means getting the quality and quantity you need, at a compassionate price. Simply put, Ron did what the dispensary couldn’t.
Again, looking back over all I’ve personally been through battling Lyme Disease; all the useless treatments of antibiotics, antimicrobials, immune boosters, anti-anxiety meds — that did next to nothing for me. I realize that cannabis has given me my life back several times, first with CBD, then with cannabis oil. Now free from any symptoms, I am free to live again.
Freedom. It comes with caveats. And, it sure ain’t free. But, people should be free from worry and fear, free from oppression, and free to choose safe alternative treatments to the conventional offered by big pharma, the insurance companies, and the government.
Ah, but for a perfect world.
It seems pretty perfect right now here in the hills though. The sun is setting and shining its rose colored hue high into the tall oaks and maples out my studio window. Susan Tedeschi is singing her heart out — “Bound for Glory”.
As I’ve said before, change is coming . . . hopefully we’re bound for glory.
-WJM