Lord Honey Bear had a favorite saying:
People plan, God laughs.
It took a field of very hungry deer to show me exactly what he meant.
There was a time, many years ago, when growing marijuana wasn’t just frowned upon—it was illegal.
Naturally, Lord Honey Bear, Lord Greenjeans, and I decided it sounded like a perfectly reasonable adventure.
One warm autumn evening, the three of us sat on the back patio, sipping wine, watching the sun disappear behind the mesas, swapping stories the way old friends do. Somewhere between the second glass and another tale from days gone by, we conceived what we were absolutely certain was a foolproof plan.
Lord Honey Bear and Lord Greenjeans would spend the winter nurturing tiny seedlings until they were ready to be planted.
Then came the scouting expedition.
Just beyond our property lay BLM land. Tucked beneath a stand of juniper trees, just below the Overland Ditch, we found what seemed like the perfect hiding place. Better yet, the irrigation canal flowed just above it, making it easy to siphon water whenever the plants grew thirsty.
It was brilliant.
At least we thought so.
There was only one potential problem: the Ditch Rider.
We never knew his name.
His job was to patrol the canal each morning, making sure the water was flowing properly and that no one was helping themselves to water they didn’t have rights to.
Water was precious in western Colorado. Fortunately, we owned shares in the ditch, so taking water wasn’t the problem.
The marijuana, however…
That part might have raised a few eyebrows.
So when spring arrived, our operation began.
Before sunrise we’d gather over coffee, watching the first light touch the valley. Then Lord Greenjeans and I would pull on camouflage, shoulder our backpacks—filled with seedlings, a shovel, and a hose—and quietly disappear across the field.
Lord Honey Bear remained atop Lost Mesa with binoculars and a walkie-talkie, keeping watch over the valley below.
This was long before cell phones, and our walkie-talkies weren’t exactly private. Anyone listening could hear every word, so naturally we created our own secret code.
“The horse is out of the barn.”
Translation:
The Ditch Rider is coming.
For weeks our little operation went exactly according to plan.
The plants flourished.
Before long they were heavy with gorgeous green-and-purple buds, and after inspecting our prize harvest, the three of us unanimously agreed:
Tomorrow was the day.
The next morning, after coffee and camouflage, Lord Greenjeans and I practically skipped across the valley.
We were about to collect the rewards of months of planning.
Instead…
There was nothing to harvest.
If thieves had found the plants, they would have pulled them out by the roots.
If law enforcement had found them, the result would have been much the same.
Instead, every plant stood exactly where we’d left it.
Only the buds were gone.
Every.
Single.
One.
The stalks remained, stripped clean except for tiny nubs where beautiful purple flowers had once been.
Somewhere during the night, a herd of deer had enjoyed the finest gourmet dinner western Colorado had to offer.
They harvested the crop before we did.
Lord Honey Bear was right.
People plan.
Nature giggles.
