Mountaintop Sunset: A Conversation About Moving On…

Sunsets in New Mexico aren’t just endings—they’re full-blown performances. The sky catches fire in shades of orange, pink, and violet, casting long shadows across jagged mountain ranges like the Sandias. Mountaintop is taking a similar path: a slow, intentional descent—on their own terms.

After nearly a decade in the New Mexico market, the family-owned company is downsizing. Not because they failed—but because they refused to compromise. They refused to slap “premium” on cheap distillate. Refused to cut corners on quality. Refused to slash wages or sacrifice integrity just to stay afloat in an industry that increasingly rewards whoever can shout the loudest and race to the bottom fastest.

“We chose the hill we were willing to die on,” said one of the last remaining employees. “And we can walk away knowing we did it right.”

A Legacy Built on Values

Mountaintop has always been a medical-first brand. Their full-spectrum, terpene-rich products earned loyalty from patients—not just customers. From their WonderBear salve to their flagship water-soluble powder to a line of gummies used by cancer patients and insomniacs alike, their catalog was never built for hype. It was built for helping people.

And that mattered.

“We hear stories all the time—people saying our product is the only thing that helps them sleep, or helps with chronic pain. That’s what kept us going.”

Misunderstood by Design

While those who experienced the relief got it, but not everyone did. The term “live” has become a buzzword. Something to slap on a box. A label, not a process.

“We’ve had this conversation so many times—internally, with partners, with customers—because the industry’s lost the thread. We’ve sacrificed understanding for marketing.”

After years of partnership, even the folks who sold their products still didn’t get it. One time, an internal email—sent to the wrong inbox—casually questioned whether their edibles were made with distillate. That question alone cut deep.

“That’s our whole brand,” he says, shaking his head. “We’ve said it a thousand times—full spectrum. Always has been. Never distillate. But somehow people still don’t know.”

And that’s the real problem: the market doesn’t know how to define clean anymore.

Live vs. Cured: When the Marketing Becomes the Myth

“Live” has become a gimmick. A shorthand for something consumers can’t always define, but think they want. “When people say live, what they really mean is full spectrum,” he says. “They mean they want terps—abundant, expressive terpene profiles. Not just traces.” And on the flip side? “Cured” has become synonymous with distillate—THC maxed out, everything else stripped away. Potency over profile. But that whole binary is misleading.

“What we found,” he continues, “is that terpene content had a lot more to do with the strain and the input quality than whether it was processed live or cured. At least with the way we do it.”

To prove it, they ran blind tests—sometimes double-blind, and asked staff to tell the difference. “No one could do it,” he says. “Not accurately.” In fact, the confusion worked both ways.

“I had a guy in our kitchen last week looking at jars for bulk purchase. He popped one open, smelled it, and said, ‘Oh yeah, this is definitely live.’ I told him, ‘That’s cured.’ He didn’t believe me.”

The real takeaway? The consumer experience—the taste, the smell, the effect—was indistinguishable.

But that nuance gets lost in a market obsessed with buzzwords. Brands throw around terms like live, reserve, ro*in, and full spectrum with no standard, no transparency, and often, no real process to back it up.

The Unseen Burn

But behind the success was an industry that never made it easy. Tariffs, compliance confusion, licensing saturation, and lack of payment enforcement led to an endless cycle of chasing invoices, navigating BioTrack bottlenecks, and fielding “net 30” terms from companies that demanded COD from everyone else.

At one point, they were operating with zero dollars in the bank.

“People always say ‘just get a lawyer,’” he said. “But most small producers don’t have the money to litigate. And even if you win, the cost outweighs the invoice.”

Dry Spell

“People always say, ‘Just do COD.’” He pauses. “Yeah? Tell that to the multi-store operators who know you need the sale. They come in saying, ‘We only do net 30—or nothing.’”

And what can you do? Say no and watch your product sit? Or agree, and float it?

“You say okay, and they hand you a check in theory 30 days later. But it’s not 30. It’s 45. Sometimes 60. Sometimes more.”

Meanwhile, you’re covering production costs, packaging, COAs, payroll—all upfront—and praying that check lands before your own accounts fall apart.

Mountaintop spent more time chasing invoices than crafting new batches. Because they had to.

“And people know it. They know we need the sale. So they play the game. And we just keep floating.”

It wasn’t mismanagement. It was the structure itself—set up to squeeze small producers dry while bigger players hedged risk and delayed payment.

Death Spiral

He pauses, then laughs. “You ever hear about those ants? The ones that get caught in a death spiral?”

“They follow each other based on pheromones,” he says. “And then, sometimes, they just get locked into this loop—chasing each other around and around in a perfect circle until they collapse.”

He’s not saying the industry is a death spiral. But it feels like one.

Smart people. Passionate people. Doing laps around broken systems—chasing payments, navigating compliance nightmares, trying to guess what’s next in a market where rules change overnight and enforcement is nowhere to be found. And meanwhile, everyone’s exhausted, grinding, trying to outrun collapse.

Downsizing with Purpose

Mountaintop is now run by a team of three: just family. No full-time staff. No warehouse. No glamor.

They’re simplifying their catalog to just three SKUs:

• WonderBear salve, which they’ll offer in bulk and possibly in new formats.

• Water-soluble powder, especially relevant with Ripple exiting the market.

• Select medical gummies, retained only because of patient need, despite their complexity to produce.

These aren’t the hottest sellers. They’re the ones that matter.

“If we can make the numbers work on those three products—and keep our bills paid—we’ll keep going,” they said. “If not, we’ll walk away proud.”

Still Open to Partnerships

Mountaintop isn’t done. They’re just done doing things that go against their values.

They’re open to licensing deals, bulk sales, and supporting brands that want to carry the torch forward. If someone wants to infuse their salsa with a reliable water-soluble THC powder—they’re here. If a manufacturer wants to take on the gummies or create a new form of WonderBear—they’re listening.

Because even if Mountaintop doesn’t scale again, the impact can.

The Wall of Legacy

They’re not asking for pity. They’re just asking to be remembered for what they were: honest, consistent, and committed.

No scandals. No flash. Just clean medicine, packaged with care, delivered with purpose.

Mountaintop will live on—not just in products, but in memories. In the stories of patients. In the last few jars of salve. In a well-worn hat or shirt passed down like a relic.

Because in an industry full of noise, Mountaintop was one of the few that actually meant something.

And that still matters.