“It’s just not worth it for me,” Argos said as he ground the pungent coffee beans.

“I put in around about a grand or so, per plant, not counting labor and love. Breaks my heart to have to let it go for anything less than $1,500 individually. Especially because I know the kids across the valley are picking up my medicine and bringing it to L.A., getting two grand and half for an elbow. Calling it whatever those Hollywood types are smoking these days.”

 

I sat at his table listening the rain hammering his mountain cabin while Argos hand-cranked the beans into one of those old-fashioned meat grinders.

“It’s getting bad and crazy at the same time,” he told me. “Folks I’ve known who’ve grown for years, through the droughts and the DEAs, are pulling up stakes and leaving.”