Welcome to Weed Camp

^{Filed Under: Fictionalized Reality}

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_{(Editor’s Note: HAPPY FATHER’s Day!! What better way to honor your old man than with a story about questionable life choices in a field full of baked strangers?)}

DAY ONE – ARRIVAL
They told us not to bring our phones. That should’ve been the first red flag. The second was the waiver—it was handwritten, photocopied, and misspelled the word “liability.” The third was the guy in the tie-dye lab coat who picked us up in a nondescript white van and refused to answer questions unless they were phrased as “intentions.”

There were twelve of us. Strangers, mostly. We met at a gas station thirty miles outside Boulder. No name tags yet. Just nervous nods and that shared glint of curiosity you only see at airport smoking areas and cult recruitment meetings.

We were told the ride would be “part of the experience.” That meant blindfolds, ambient music, and a playlist that looped Terence McKenna quotes over a didgeridoo. After three hours of winding roads, weird silence, and a distinct smell of patchouli and cured weed, we arrived.

Camp Wakanna. A place you won’t find on a map and wouldn’t believe if you did. The entrance was marked by a carved wooden sign that read:
WELCOME TO WEED CAMP – FIND YOUR HIGHER SELF OR AT LEAST A CLEAN BATHROOM

A man in a caftan and Crocs greeted us. “I’m Counselor Sage,” he said, “and I will be holding your snacks in trust.”

We gave up our bags. Our snacks. Our sense of time. One guy tried to sneak in a Lunchable. They made him do “gratitude push-ups.”

I kept my mouth shut and followed the others down a dirt path lit with tiki torches and hanging glow sticks. We passed signs that said things like “Surrender to the Schedule” and “No Judgement, Just Joints.”

I wasn’t sure if we were here to relax or be reprogrammed.

DAY TWO – IMMERSION
The morning started with drum circles and THC mimosas. Wake n’ Bake Yoga wasn’t optional. You either showed up or got visited by Counselor Toke, a 6’4” ex-Marine who now teaches Reiki with a weed-leaf tattoo over his sternum. He barked in Sanskrit and handed out vape pens like they were medals.

After yoga came Dank Arts & Crafts. I tried to keep it simple—some glitter, some stickers, maybe a pipe made out of reclaimed bark. The woman next to me was painting Tommy Chong‘s face onto a Frisbee with insane accuracy.

“I once hotboxed a sauna with him in Baja,” she whispered. “He cried.”

I didn’t ask for proof. No one here did.

We moved in groups. Campers were split into pods with names like “Team Terpene,” “Blunt Force,” and “Indica Rising.” My pod leader was Counselor Bliss, a former tax attorney who now spoke only in affirmations and wore a sash that read “Vibes Are Valid.”

We were told we’d be on a “dosage ramp,” carefully calibrated for introspection, laughter, and “micro-traumas.” I didn’t know what that meant until lunch, which was a single flax cracker infused with 25mg of full-spectrum distillate and a smoothie made with something called “moon chlorophyll.”

By 3 PM, I couldn’t remember my last name.

By 6 PM, I was talking to a stick about how hard it is to show up for people.

The Silence Tent opened at dusk. A geodesic dome lined with shag rugs and salt lamps. We entered barefoot, stoned, and instructed not to speak or make eye contact. In the center sat Counselor Amethyst, humming at 432 Hz and holding what she called the “truth crystal.”

Someone farted. No one laughed. I felt the walls breathe.

DAY THREE – THE SHIFT
Something changed. The air got weirder. People weren’t just high, they were cracked open.

There were rumors. One guy swore he saw a camper escorted into the woods and never return. Another claimed to have unlocked a “secret strain” by winning at Cannabis Kombat—a capture-the-flag event involving Nerf guns, hotboxing stations, and interpretive dance challenges.

I lost badly. My penalty was “therapeutic journaling under the moon.”

By the afternoon, everyone had a title. Some were “Ascenders.” Some were “Sativa Scholars.” Mine was “Dose Deferred.”

A guy named Ranger Doug gave a talk on “How to Build a Business That Doesn’t Exist” and handed out blank business cards. Another counselor ran a workshop called The Sacred Geometry of Your Grinder.

I skipped both and went to “High Horse Therapy,” a horse-led reflection circle where we sat in silence while a pony named Franklin judged us with his eyes.

That night, someone stood up at dinner and confessed they came here to forget their divorce. Another said they hadn’t been sober since 2019 and didn’t plan to start. Someone else screamed, “THE GOVERNMENT OWNS YOUR AURA” and ran into the lake.

No one followed.
No one reported it.
We just ate our THC chili and stared at the stars.

DAY FOUR – THE ASCENT
We were told to dress in white. Everyone did. Or tried. Some wore robes. Some wore togas. One guy wore a bath mat. Counselor Sage said this day was about “release, rebirth, and responsible feedback loops.”

We gathered in the meadow, where a 10-foot pipe made of bamboo, quartz, and old skateboard decks had been constructed like a pagan altar. They called it the Wakanna Wand.

One by one, we took hits while a string trio played acoustic covers of stoner classics. When they launched into “Breathe (2AM)” by Anna Nalick, I felt a surge of emotion I couldn’t explain.

People were crying. Laughing. Coughing until they threw up.

Someone collapsed and whispered, “I’ve finally seen myself.”
Someone else shouted, “We’re the brand now!”
I clutched my fanny pack like it was a parachute.

The ritual ended with a group cough-in, followed by a joint passed to each camper with the words:
“When you’re ready to leave, exhale.”

DAY FIVE – THE EXIT
We weren’t told we were leaving. The van just showed up. A fresh driver. New blindfolds. One by one, we filed in without speaking. The ride back was silent. No music. Just a weed hangover and unspoken questions.

We got dropped at a Circle K. No signs. No goodbye. My phone was in a lockbox on the passenger seat. It had four missed calls and one photo of me asleep on a hammock with a joint taped to my forehead.

I had a name badge in my pocket that said:
“Camp Survivor 0420 – Integration in Progress”

And for a second, I missed it.

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