The legend goes something like this: In 1966, a reclusive monastic order fell in love with the breathtakingly beautiful coastline and rugged Santa Lucia Mountains of Big Sur and established a hermitage there. It was in this windswept craggy wilderness that Perry, their head botanist, first planted the mythic Big Sur Holy Weed seeds.

Perry, who had ingeniously crossed the rare Mexican Zacatecas Purple sativa with a Mazar-i-Sharif indica, believed he had bred the perfect strain: feral, dreamily uplifting, and bursting with communal spirituality. According to locals, the monks tasked Perry with creating a strain that would enhance their meditation practices and deepen their metaphysical connections.

Big Sur Holy Weed became a star during the “Summer of Love” (1967). It was the go-to flower for functional daytime smoking, going to rock festivals, or attending the legendary “holy harvest parties” on the jagged bluffs overlooking the Pacific. (According to myth, the largest “red-haired Holy Giant” plant was sacrificed—thrown into a bonfire—in a Burning-Man-esque cannabis bacchanalia that culminated at dawn.)

PURPLE REIGN

The raspberry and purple-hued strain is a meticulously balanced hybrid—the best of both indica and sativa. The aroma is a delight of berry, spice, candy, skunk, licorice, and moss. During the summer of 1967, the phrase “got any Holy Weed?” was uttered up and down the coast by writers, artists, musicians, free-spirited hitchhikers, and tie-dyed hippies. And monks.

“Big Sur Holy Weed was a magical strain, brought here to the coast, and it thrived beautifully in the mountains,” said Chris Buonocore, an OG grower who frequented the harvest parties. “It was healing for the body and soul.”

Then it vanished. As did its cryptic progenitors. Gone. Poof.

BREAK ON THROUGH (TO BIG SUR)

When I heard that Belushi’s Farm (owned by Jim Belushi, the late John Belushi’s brother) had gotten its hands on some of the original genetics and was breeding it (Big Sur Holy Weed 2.0), I had an idea: A 48-hour road trip partaking 2.0 in the mystical forests, secret coves, and untamed mountains of its conception.

Thirteen miles south of Carmel stands one of the highest single-span concrete arch bridges in the world, the Bixby Bridge. It is the portal to the misty kingdom of El Sur Grande. While it is more an experience rather than an actual destination, Big Sur’s unofficial perimeters include the 90 miles of coastline stretching from the Carmel River south to 20 miles inland at the Santa Lucia Mountains. For centuries, Big Sur was a kind of metaphysical jewel inside a seemingly impregnable natural fortress.

However, the seekers began to arrive during the 1940s. To escape WW2, the famous writer Henry Miller relocated here from Paris. In the early 60s, novelist Jack Kerouac rented a small cabin from his longtime friend Lawrence Ferlinghetti in Bixby Canyon. This experience would serve as the foundation for his best-selling novel Big Sur. Inspired by Miller and Kerouac’s tales of its ethereal, handsome grandeur, an up-and-coming writer, Hunter S. Thompson, took a job as a security guard and caretaker at Big Sur Hot Springs resort. During his time there, he penned his debut feature article for Rogue magazine, capturing the essence of Big Sur’s artisan and bohemian culture. He wrote:

“The highway alone is enough to give man a pause. It climbs and twists along the cliffs like a huge asphalt roller coaster; in some spots you can look 800 feet straight down to the booming surf. The green slopes of the mountains plunging down to the sea is nothing short of awesome… and almost every person you meet looks like a rancher or woodsy poet.”

In the 60s, The Doors’ singer Jim Morrison liked to swill beers and scribble poetry on the patio at Nepenthe. Jimi Hendrix had a small crash pad in the hills. In the 80s, Flea of the Red Hot Chili Peppers would read poetry in the garden of the Henry Miller Library, sometimes joined by Jack Johnson, Bob Dylan, Henry Rollins, and Perry Farrell. Then gaggles of Dot-Com billionaires built big houses dangling on the cliffs.

THE SECOND COMING : HOLY WEED 2.0

Highway 1 winds like a viper through the shifting coast of California: flower plantations abruptly turn to cow pastures, which give way to wide open beaches that merge with skyrocketing cliffs and, finally, the enchanting forests of Big Sur. It arrives abruptly, a sudden rush of soaring mist-whipped redwood and pine trees dramatically spilling to the sea bluffs.

My first stop: Big Sur Canna Botanicals. The dispensary is a perfect microcosm of the town: rugged and earthy with an artsy modernism. Polished concrete floors, wood-planked walls and brown leather couches abound, framed by three huge bay windows that gaze out at the redwoods and sea.

The budtender knows everything about Big Sur Holy Weed 2.0—the second coming.

Apparently, Jim Belushi first learned about the strain during his worldwide exploration of cannabis’s cultural significance. He was drawn to its story—a tale of passion, resilience, and the joyful artistry of cultivation. For Belushi, Big Sur Holy Weed represented more than a plant; it was a connection to the past and a chance to preserve something truly special. But the question was: Where were the genetics?

Among the variations of the Holy Weed strain, only one survived: Sage, aka Sativa Afghani Genetic Equilibrium. The sativa-dominant hybrid has a reputation for a breezy, balanced high of clarity and relaxation. To secure authentic genetics, Belushi embarked on a search that took him from OG growers in California to breeders in Amsterdam and shamans in Mexico. This wasn’t just about finding seeds, it was deeply personal. “Cannabis is medicine,” Belushi says—but he doesn’t just mean for physical ailments. He believes the plant can bring emotional and spiritual healing.

I ask the budtender about Sage. His eyes light up. “Sage is revered for its ability to provide a clear-headed high that fosters introspection and creativity, making it an ideal choice for those seeking a spiritual or artistic boost,” he says.

He recommends that I smoke and start my adventure in the dense redwoods to the east. Obediently, upon my first puff, a wave of calm washes over me, beginning from the crown of my head and slowly engulfing my entire body. Then a subtle, teenage-crush-like euphoria, warm and tingly, takes over.

WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE

When I enter the woods, it feels like I’ve stepped into a children’s book: A fairytale of cacti snuggling with pine trees; baseball-sized monarch butterflies cluster in euca- lyptus trees, an orgy of flitting black-and-orange wings; big, hairy wolf spiders cross the path like toy tanks; thou- sands of skittish salamanders lunch on wild orchids before _they_become breakfast for dive-bombing condors; and, if you believe the novelist John Steinbeck’s mother, “little people” and benevolent “white-haired fairies” rollick in the mist of waterfalls.

There are tales of Sassie, the amphibious tree monster. With a head resembling a bullfrog, deep black eyes as large as grapefruits, and a mouthful of sharp teeth, Sassie was dubbed the “forest dragon.” Longtime residents speak of winged angels (“devas”) hovering in the trees, choirs of heavenly voices singing in multiple languages. As far back as the 1800s, the indigenous Esselen people spoke of “howling fog spirits.”

I never saw any fairies or frog-headed dragons but no matter how many times you enter Big Sur, it is a folkloric, transformative experience.

THE PARTAKING YOGIS OF ESALEN

Anchored in the center of Big Sur is the Esalen Institute, a vortex for cutting-edge healers. It played a role in the Holy Weed saga. According to locals, wild-eyed yogis partook under full moons while indulging in New Age modalities. Holy Weed’s calming effects helped diminish barriers to self-awareness and fostered a greater connection to the communal and natural world around them.

Today, it’s the curative spring waters that the seekers come for. After a puff, I ease into the tepid waters that have been used as a panacea for centuries. The baths seem to just melt into the terrain, becoming, if you are in the right mood (I am!), gurgling prehistoric embryonic nests floating above the ferocious waves.

Hey, is that a Brontosaurus grazing in kelp beds? Look, right there!

After my soak, I am happily hungry—and ready for a nightcap.

POST HOLY-ISM

If Esalen is Big Sur’s cradle of healing, the Post Ranch Inn is its belly of bucolic opulence. Every eco-modern luxe whim has been accounted for. Guests are chauffeured in Lexus hybrids; the landscape is fecund with indigenous plants; the cleaning system is biodegradable; and the grounds provide a habitat sanctuary for the endangered Smith’s blue butterfly, California red-legged frog, and the western pond turtle.

The general manager, an amiable hippie-chic cowboy with big brown eyes, describes the inn as “the greatest meeting of land and a luxurious Shangri-La directly above the waves.” We chat about Holy Weed. He gives a thumbs up when I ask if I can partake on the patio and then disappears. I take in the view, lost in the miraculous beauty laid out before me. He returns with a smattering of locally sourced appetizers and a tumbler of their legendary Smoked Old Fashioned cocktail. Imbibing and chatting with the cowboy GM, I feel uplifted, full of curiosity, joyful, and fully in the moment. A deep sense of serenity is punctuated by fun bar banter.

The GM smiles.

“It’s a subtle-yet-evocative riff on an American classic,” he says of the cocktail. “It helps our guests decompress and settle into the Big Sur way of life. We’ve embellished a gorgeous craft cocktail with smoke. It represents the fog that climbs our coastline and shrouds our mountains.”

I decide there will be no sleep—this will be a star-gazing Big Sur Holy Weed 2.0 all-nighter.

OYSTER GARDENS, CINNAMON TWISTS & GHOST SHIPS

s dawn breaks, the smell of freshly baked treats from the local bakery perfumes the woodland— savory zephyrs of cinnamon twists, vanilla cream Danishes, blueberry scones, coffee cakes, and crème quiches. After a puff and a coconut iced mocha, I make my way to the Julia Pfeiffer Burns Underwater Oasis. Burns, a tough, pioneering rancher, was one of Big Sur’s most respected residents until her death in 1928. Its beautifully violent coves are watery graveyards for three sunken trading ships, a WW2 Japanese submarine, and countless fishing vessels. Gray whales, abalone hunters, and seals play among the ruins.

And depending on who you talk to, “Caddy,” a 25-foot sea serpent with a horse’s head, three humps, flippers, and a powerful fan-like tail, likes to dine on the oyster gardens at dusk. Described as a “sea-going dinosaur,” Caddy was videotaped as recently as 2009 by a fisherman. (Over the years, some three hundred people have witnessed Caddy.) A deeply tanned OG abalone hunter brushes off such nonsense. “If you swim out there, the only thing you will find is death,” he mumbled. “You won’t come back.”

HOLY MERMAIDS!

Next stop: Jade Cove. According to local lore, mermaids bejeweled in jade have beckoned beachgoers out to their marshy roosts for centuries. Quiet and secluded, the beguiling greenish-blue-lilac waters are some of the most photographed in the world. Cove days are spent sun bathing, swimming, hunting for jade, flirting with mermaids, having a puff, and taking a nap on the purplish sand.

Jade Cove is definitely the kind of place you could meet a mermaid. The cover of a local magazine screamed: ARE THE LEGENDARY JADE COVE MERMAIDS STEALING ALL THE JADE?

LAVENDER MARGARITAS & HOBBIT LAND

A few miles away is the fashionable Alila Ventana Inn & Spa. Perched 1,200 feet above the roaring sea and fanning out over 243 acres of pristine wooded hillside, the inn is hushed, secluded, and eco-dreamy. The spa is world-class, embracing the curative essence of the area. (I opt for the Organic Seaweed Wrap and Ocean Salt Jade Exfoliation.) The budtender says one of the best places to partake is in the infinity hot tub above the redwood grove at the edge of the property. I do just that. Like a happy seal, I bob and splash the afternoon away, alone, staring out at what could only be called “Hobbit Land.”

And if you like flowers—who doesn’t?—there’s the nearby ocean of wild mountain lavender, appearing to be painted by Van Gogh himself, a spectacular rumpus of purples, greens, blues, and yellows. The budtender suggests that I should partake here. “First, grab a Lavender Margarita to-go at the Fernwood Resort,” he tells me.

I puff and sip sitting on the trail. I close my eyes and am transported to Provence, France, the seductive lavender capital of the world. When I open my eyes I see meadows of swaying purple flowers stretching to infinity. The air is sweet and floral with gentle gusts of lemon and bergamot. I feel frozen in time, as if I have stepped inside an impressionistic aromatherapy painting.

POETS, PLAYBOYS & BLOODY MARYS

Nepenthe (“isle of no care” in Greek) restaurant is the Epicurean soul of Big Sur. Created in 1949, by the mid-60s Nepenthe was the center of Big Sur socialites, luring writers, playboys, poets, muses, hill-dwellers, and musicians to its end-of-the-world views and tasty menu. I order the Ambrosiaburger, a ground steak sandwich served on a French roll with their famous Ambrosia Sauce, washed down by an extra spicy Habanero Bloody Mary and a Mexican Coke.

I have one last stop.

THE WATCHERS

Why did the monks choose the Santa Lucia Mountains as the birthplace for their enigmatic strain? At first blush, the terrain is a run-of-the-mill, sparsely-populated coastal range, cut with rugged and unrelentingly steep crevices. Sure, the climate is good for growing. Like other Pacific Coast Ranges, the mountains’ close proximity to the Pacific Ocean causes moisture to be deposited on the west-facing slopes, creating an ideal environment for growing cannabis.

But it wasn’t this that attracted the monks; it was The Watchers. Described as benevolent shadowy figures, they watch over the valley from atop the mountain ridges.

The Chumash people believed The Watchers presided over massive gold deposits and kept an eye out for the flora, fauna, and animals. In 1980, an American black bear mysteriously appeared after being gone for over a century. In 2006, for the first time in 100 years, a pair of California condors was observed nesting. Many locals believe The Watchers played a part in both miracles.

When the Spanish arrived in the 1700s, they dubbed the towering figures Vigilantes Oscuros. The oral traditions speak about an “otherworldly presence that watches and protects the mountains from harm.” They are typically seen at twilight, are between seven and ten feet, and human-shaped. Some reports have them wearing long black cloaks, broad-brimmed hats, and carrying wooden staffs.

“The old-timers of Big Sur swear by them,” says artist Benjamin Brode, who created a series of paintings for the 2013 book, In Search of the Dark Watchers.

Word is they love receiving gifts of fruits, flowers, and cannabis. It’s clear what the monks saw—their very own spiritual army guarding their precious weed garden. I gaze up at the fog-snaggled mountain peaks, take a puff, and imagine the monks planting their mystical seeds 58 years ago. This was the same view that in 1937 Robinson Jeffers, a local poet, drew inspiration for his poetry collection Such Counsels You Gave To Me and Other Poems. He wrote:

“He thought it might be one of the Watchers, who are often seen in this length of coast-range, forms that look human to human eyes, but certainly are not human. They come from behind ridges to watch…. He was not surprised when the figure turning toward him in the quiet twilight showed his own face. Then it melted and merged into the shadows beyond it.”

The sun begins its descent into the ocean. As it grows dark, I squint, scanning for silhouetted robed creatures. I hope they might get a whiff and come down for a toke. For old times’ sake.