Out here, this green earth will swallow anything whole. Consider a felled coastal redwood, one of the largest and heartiest living organisms on earth, breaking down into the dank forest duff and disappearing into the understory. The desert tells time in dust, water through shape. The forest expresses itself in rot. On my way to Willow Creek, a marijuana nirvana in the mountains above Arcata, I drive past forgotten properties tucked into the darkness of trees. They’re littered with broken-down cars and RVs, abandoned doublewides and graffitied trailers — the collective detritus of old pot farms slowly sinking into the earth. Discarded fuel cans, box fans, grow lights, the skeletal remains of retired PVC greenhouses and five-gallon buckets. Dappled sunlight interrogates the roadside debris. And these old farms are just the ones I can see from the road. But don’t worry, the rest are being viewed from above, by the ever-present law-enforcement helicopters and drones. They used to pepper …