“Several pretty good reasons, actually. First, ginseng is pretty damned finicky. I’ve been trying to grow it for a dozen years now, with help from some pretty good botanists, and I’m just starting to get the hang of it. Second, it’s not like marijuana, which can give you a huge profit in just one growing season. You have to leave ginseng in the ground for four years, minimum, before you can harvest it, and during that time, it’s not generating a dime of income. The main reason, though, is the price differential.”
O’Conner reached into a deep side pocket of his gray cargo pants and pulled out a root, which he handed me. “Ginseng, I presume?” He nodded. The root had four branches, which corresponded remarkably well to the placement and proportions of the arms and legs of the human form. It looked, quite literally, like a stick figure.
“You can see why the Chinese and the Indians both named it ‘man-herb,’ can’t you?”
“I can. Only thing missing is the head.”
“Look at the texture.” I studied the root; it was smooth and fleshy, rather like a carrot or sweet potato. “That’s from Wisconsin, which produces most of the cultivated ginseng exported to China.”
“Wisconsin? The ‘Eat cheese or die’ state?”
He laughed. “That Wisconsin root there weighs about a quarter-pound; it’s worth about five bucks.” He fished around in another pocket, and handed me another root. This one was slimmer, darker, and nubbier, with rings or constrictions encircling it from its neck down to the tips of its four branches.
“That’s wild black sang. Waylon dug that; we probably don’t want to know where.”
I hefted it; it weighed about the same as the other, maybe a hair less.
“That one’ll fetch two hundred dollars,” he said. I looked from one to the other, trying to see how one could be worth forty times more than the other. O’Conner took them from me. “The wild’s more potent, or at least it’s perceived to be by the people who buy it.”
“Ah, the magic of the free market,” I said.
He nodded. “Doesn’t take an MBA to figure out that poaching this root in the wild gives a damn good return on an investment of zero. Of course, the poachers aren’t counting the environmental costs, or the occasional fine or murder.”
I pointed to the cultivated root. “But you’ve figured out a way to get rich on these at five bucks apiece?”
O’Conner bent down and plucked up one of his own plants. He brushed off the dirt, which seemed an odd mixture of black loam, white Styrofoam granules, and mucilaginous goo—“hydrophilic gel,” he said as he wiped the root and his hands on the leg of his pants. “Slimy as snot, but it cuts my irrigation costs thirty percent.” He handed the plant to me. It was nubby with constrictions. I blinked in confusion. “What—you’re transplanting wild seedlings?” He laughed and shook his head. “I don’t understand,” I said. “You grew this here?”
He nodded. “But it looks just like the wild one.”
“Bingo. I’m not cultivating twenty-dollar-a-pound ginseng here, Doc; I’m growing thousand-dollar-a-pound wild sang. If it looks like wild sang and quacks like wild sang, it’ll sell like wild sang.”
If his entire ten acres looked this authentic, the audacity and the brilliance of his plan were breathtaking. “How come you can grow roots like this, but the cheeseheads up in Wisconsin can’t?”
“I’ll tell you, Doc, but then I’ll have to kill you.” Seeing my expression, he snorted and gave me a reassuring pat on the back. “Like I said, I’ve had some help from some good botanists. We found a way to shock the plants, chemically and thermally, at regular intervals during the growing season—not enough to really hurt ’em, just enough to make ’em pucker up in those constriction bands. Sort of like subjecting new wood to bleach and buckshot for that weathered, wormy look. Adds a year to the time required to get a mature, man-shaped root, but that extra year will pay for itself ten times over when we harvest.”
“You tested this on buyers yet?”
He grinned. “That’s where I was part of last week. Product testing. Not just buyers, but chemists, too. The chemists say it’s every bit the equal of wild black ginseng. The exporters say they’ll take all I can bring ’em.”
Suddenly all the secrecy made sense. “So the kudzu camouflage and the hidden road—you’re keeping the operation hidden so nobody knows it’s cultivated?”
He nodded. “Plus the kudzu creates the shade the ginseng needs. I figure my cover’s gonna get blown within a few years, but by then, I’ll be millions of dollars ahead. Besides, even if I have to come down some on the price eventually, I’ll still be way ahead of the cheeseheads. I mean, look at what they’re producing.” He pointed scornfully at the smooth root in my hand. “It’s like a supermarket tomato—the right size and color, but a sorry substitute for the vine-ripened real deal. Eventually, Cooke County Black Ginseng—I’ve trademarked the name already—will become the Vidalia onion of ginseng. People will always pay a premium for it, because it’ll be the best there is. If the marketing and business plan work like they’re supposed to, we’ll create a hundred jobs within two years. Maybe help reduce the poaching in the Smokies, too, which would be something to feel proud of.”