MISSOULA, MT — As the scent of cannabis wafted through downtown Missoula on April 20, a different kind of demonstration unfolded near the Clark Fork River. The Montana Meth Association (MMA), a self-described 'community advocacy group,' staged a protest against the city’s annual 4/20 celebrations, claiming the marijuana-centric holiday undermines their efforts to 'normalize alternative lifestyles.' Around 50 protesters, many carrying handmade signs with slogans like 'Meth Matters Too,' gathered outside the Hip Strip, drawing confused stares from passersby enjoying the state’s legal cannabis culture.
The MMA, founded three years ago in a Butte trailer park, argues that Montana’s growing acceptance of recreational marijuana—legalized in 2021—has unfairly marginalized other substance users. Their protest, which included a small tent city of tarps and folding chairs, featured speeches broadcast through a crackling megaphone, railing against what they call 'Big Weed’s propaganda.' Event organizers handed out flyers listing local resources, though several attendees appeared more focused on sharing lighters than reading materials.
Darryl 'Diesel' Gunderson, a 42-year-old former mechanic and MMA spokesperson, stood at the center of the protest, wearing a stained Carhartt jacket and a trucker hat emblazoned with a bald eagle. 'Look, we ain’t saying weed’s bad, but why’s it get all the glory every April?' Gunderson said, gesturing toward a nearby dispensary with a line out the door. 'Meth users been part of Montana’s fabric since the ‘80s—hell, we built half the backroads around here on nothing but crank and coffee. We’re just asking for a seat at the table, maybe a holiday of our own. You ever try plowing a field at 3 a.m. without a little bump? Didn’t think so.'
Across the street, Missoula resident and MMA treasurer Marla Jean Tuttle, 37, who described herself as a 'freelance entrepreneur,' waved a sign reading 'Tweak, Don’t Toke.' 'This 4/20 nonsense is just a bunch of hipsters pretending they’re rebels,' Tuttle scoffed, adjusting her oversized sunglasses. 'Meth ain’t glamorous, sure, but it’s honest—it keeps you working three jobs when the mines shut down. Weed just makes you sit on your couch eating Doritos. I lost 40 pounds last year staying productive, if you know what I mean, and I didn’t need no fancy edibles to do it.'
As the protest stretched into the afternoon, tensions flared briefly when a group of 4/20 celebrants wandered too close, sparking shouted exchanges about 'personal freedoms.' MMA members unfurled a banner reading 'Crank Up the Conversation,' while several began chanting slogans that seemed less about policy and more about personal grudges. Missoula Police Department officers observed from a distance, though one sergeant noted they were 'more concerned about parking violations than anything else.'
Delving deeper into the MMA’s mission revealed a darker undercurrent to their advocacy. The group’s vice president, Travis Buckman, 29, a wiry man with a patchy beard who claimed to be a 'consultant for off-grid living,' explained their broader goals while rolling a cigarette near a rusted pickup. 'We’re not just here about 4/20—we’re fighting for representation,' Buckman said, his voice low and intense. 'Folks look down on us, but meth is a community builder if you use it right. We’ve got whole families out in the Bitterroot Valley running small businesses thanks to a little extra focus. Sure, sometimes you lose a tooth or a cousin, but that’s just the cost of staying independent in a world that wants you on antidepressants or craft beer.'
Local officials seemed largely unbothered by the MMA’s presence, despite the group’s questionable rhetoric. Missoula City Council member Linda Hargrove, 54, who stopped by the protest to 'hear all perspectives,' shrugged off concerns about the group’s message. 'Montana’s a live-and-let-live kind of place,' Hargrove said, sipping a coffee from a nearby kiosk. 'I’m not here to judge anyone’s lifestyle choices, whether it’s cannabis or… whatever else. They’ve got a right to speak, and honestly, some of these folks have been through enough without me piling on. If they want to celebrate their thing, who am I to say no? I just wish they’d clean up their trash after.'
That casual acceptance took a more unsettling turn when speaking with MMA’s outreach coordinator, Vernon 'Pappy' Kline, 61, a grizzled man in a frayed flannel who boasted of 'decades in the game.' 'We’re planning bigger things than just protests,' Kline confided, leaning against a lamppost as he chewed on a toothpick. 'Got a petition going for a Meth Appreciation Day—thinking July 4, since we’re the real patriots keeping this country wired. We’ve even talked about youth programs, teaching kids the value of hard work over lazing around with vape pens. Lost my nephew to a bad batch last year, but that’s just natural selection, right? Gotta learn early what’s worth fighting for.'
By late afternoon, the protest had morphed into something closer to a grim carnival. MMA members set up a makeshift 'awareness booth' offering free energy drinks and pamphlets on 'safe tweaking,' while a few attendees openly discussed recent stints in county lockup as if swapping fishing stories. One man, who declined to give his name, proudly showed off a tattoo of a chemistry beaker on his forearm, claiming it was 'the only diploma I ever needed.'
The full scope of the MMA’s ambitions became clear when a dog-eared notebook, labeled 'Future Plans,' was spotted among their gear. Pages detailed not just holidays but proposals for 'meth-friendly zoning' in rural counties like Ravalli and Sanders, alongside sketches for a 'Montana Meth Museum' to 'preserve our heritage.' The notebook’s author, presumably a core member, had scrawled a note in the margin: 'If Bozeman can have yoga retreats for tech bros, why not us?'
As the sun dipped behind Mount Sentinel, the MMA protest wound down with a final, chilling toast—several members clinked dented soda cans filled with an unidentified liquid, chanting 'Keep Montana Wired.' Darryl Gunderson, still lingering near the riverbank, offered a parting thought that hung heavy in the air. 'Next year, we’re coming back with double the numbers,' he promised, a faint grin cracking his weathered face. 'We’re thinking of partnering with some folks out in Eastern Montana to host a cook-off—literal and otherwise. Bring the family, you know? Nothing says community like a good recipe.'