Arnie Weissmann
Next door to the state penitentiary in Salem, Ore., just down the street from the Graveyard Bar, sits the Psilocybin Service Center, one of 24 establishments that have been licensed to offer a legal, regulated psychedelic experience in that state.
Travel Weekly first wrote about the intersection of magic mushrooms and the travel industry three years ago, and I have received a few emails since with "psychedelic tourism" in the subject line. One that I received in late March had a hook that appealed to me: My guide for a psychedelic journey would be former NFL running back Ricky Williams.
It's not that I'm a big football fanboy, but Williams had always struck me as an unusual pro. He is a Heisman Trophy winner whose career most often met expectations on the field but who had also been repeatedly suspended for failing drug tests that detected cannabis usage. He was mostly unapologetic; he advocated for what he saw as the medicinal benefits of marijuana and wondered why, for instance, trainers could pass out Valium and Ambien freely but the league wouldn't allow cannabis, which he felt relieved his aches and pains better. He retired at the age of 34 in 2012.
He has since touted not only cannabis for medicinal use but also psilocybin mushrooms, which were legalized by referendum in Oregon in 2020. (Although Oregon was the first state to legalize it, and Colorado joined shortly thereafter, its legal use had been preceded in several U.S. municipalities and Washington.)
I am among the legion who experimented with psychedelics in college, and while promotions I've seen recently talk about tripping on magic mushrooms as a spiritual journey or mental health therapy, I had never approached taking psychedelics from a New Age or self-help perspective. Trying them did, however, convince me that our brains can, to use a computer metaphor, play host to more than one operating system. Consciousness, I came to believe, was much more malleable than I had imagined, and insights I had in a psychedelics-induced consciousness seemed to hold up pretty well, post-trip.
The Psilocybin Service Center in Salem, Ore. Photo Credit: Arnie Weissmann
The night before my session with Williams, I spoke with Sammy Kahuk, Williams' close friend and owner of the Psilocybin Service Center. He asked for my birth data -- the date, time and place I was born -- for Williams to chart.
I gave it to him but hoped that Williams' approach to astrology would be more meaningful than what I'd seen in newspaper horoscopes.
The center is behind the Hall of Strains, a legal cannabis dispensary owned by Kahuk and his wife. (Among its wares are those labeled with Williams' Highsman brand, a play on the trophy Williams won in 1998.) The center itself was bigger than I had expected and included a room for groups as large as 35 participants.
The walls of the smaller room that we would be in were lined with framed op art posters and had a sofa, a recliner and a chair for Kahuk, who was certified to facilitate our session.
Prior to arrival, I had, per Oregon state requirements, received a Client Bill of Rights and had to initial a consent form 30 times, alongside sentences that all began, "I understand that ..." Before I put my pen down, I came to understand that, among other things, psilocybin has not been approved by the FDA, that some people have found it to be challenging or uncomfortable and that my facilitator may take short restroom breaks.
Upon arrival, there were 13 more forms to sign, most consenting to various disclosures but also, for instance, asking whether I consented in advance to being hugged and possibly having people place their hands on my hands, feet or shoulders.
Ricky Williams being interviewed by KATU's Christina Giardinelli before his first psychedelic session at the Psilocybin Service Center. Photo Credit: Arnie Weissmann
Williams and I met and were each given a sealed portion of one gram of granulated mushroom powder that was blended, Kahuk said, to promote creativity and euphoria. We were to open it, mix it with a single-size serving of Mott's applesauce -- I had wondered why I had been asked whether I was allergic to applesauce -- and consume it. It tasted exactly like unadulterated applesauce.
We sat on the sofa; Kahuk was in a chair on the other side of the room. He wasn't there to facilitate conversation but to be on hand to observe and act as a sober assistant, should we need something.
I began by asking Williams about his interest in astrology and what he might have learned from my chart. His explanation was detailed, involving various planets and their influences. It went well beyond a newspaper horoscope. I asked whether what he saw, in his own chart, was mostly a reflection of what he already knew about himself. He said no. "Astrology doesn't tell you who you are. It just puts the pieces on the board."
By the end of that discussion, I had gone from being a cynic to fully respecting Williams' point of view. His use of astrology was integrated into a greater worldview, which we would delve into as the session went on.
About 20 minutes in, I was beginning to have difficulty concentrating on the conversation. Hallucinations had kicked in, and everything was in motion: the walls, the rug, the ceiling and, especially, a blank black chalkboard that had taken on three dimensions.
As interesting as all this might sound, I had also become very nauseous. Overwhelmingly so. I had skipped lunch, which I began to suspect was a mistake.
Kahuk asked if I wanted to move to the recliner, which I did, but leaning back didn't help. He asked if the drop-ceiling lights were too bright. Williams and I answered yes together. He turned them off. But I found the total darkness worse. He brought in a small machine that cast moving stars and galaxies on the ceiling. It didn't help.
Why was I doing this? I asked myself. The day before, I had been in Seattle, being interviewed for an upcoming Netflix documentary on last year's implosion of the Titan submersible (I had been scheduled to dive in the sub a month before the tragedy). Since the implosion, I've wondered whether I shouldn't be so quick to say yes to activities on the fringe.
This is so unpleasant, I thought. I looked at Williams and he was sitting cross-legged on the couch, Buddha-like.
But then I started to feel better. I moved back to the couch. Williams, who had not said a word while I was feeling the nausea, said that he, too, had felt nauseous and that the first thing that happens when the mushrooms, which he called medicine, take effect is that he feels his old football injuries start to hurt.
For the next hour and 20 minutes, Williams and I had a long and wonderful discussion about ... everything. The universe. Life. Religion. Work. Teamwork. Relationships.
Williams is very calm and thoughtful and has a cohesive view of all these things. We didn't always see things the same way, but many of his observations rang not only true but profound. While he said that his personal goal with these sessions is always to get to know himself better, he is also a great guide.
And psilocybin, I concluded, is a relationship accelerant. We bonded.
Ours was the first session the center has offered and was in some ways the equivalent to a shakedown cruise for a new ship. We gave feedback to Kahuk afterwards. Williams and I agreed that the op art posters didn't do a thing for us -- they could be moved out to the hall -- but the mesmerizing blank black chalkboard definitely should stay. Lighting, we agreed, needed to be muted.
Williams will be at the Psilocybin Service Center one weekend a month as a guide for group sessions and will come more frequently if demand rises. While the experience was pitched to me as "psychedelic tourism," for now the sessions are offered as a standalone experience. Williams and Kahuk are interested in packaging it with additional experiences to make it a true tourism product.
The cost for participating in a group is $150. Private sessions range from $800 to $2,500, determined by dosage and duration (sessions can last one to six hours). Travel advisors will receive 10% commission on bookings.
Would I do it again? I would. The nausea was unpleasant, but seasickness has never deterred me from getting back on a ship. In both cases, the reward is worth the cost.