![]() I picked one up, first with sticks and then with my fingers. It's like stepping on bubble gum, only the consistency is more that of mucous.īut as I watched my son's valiant attempts, I became more than a locator. What bothers me about slugs is their slime, their affinity for garden plants, and their slime, which can get on your bare foot or between your toes and simply won't be washed off. On a trip to Hawaii, I spent a sleepless night because roaches had been found in the kitchen. However, there are a few creatures four, actually that I've never liked and will squash if they're bothering me: mosquitoes, ticks, cockroaches, and slugs. He doesn't step on ants, pull the wings off flies, or mistreat anything. I've tried to teach my son to treat every living thing with respect. If I find one in the house, I'll let it be or move it to a better location. Now, I'm not the kind of person who is usually squeamish about wild things. I participated in locating them, but not in handling them, and so another game ensued: Wipe slug slime on Mom. ![]() James had to move every slug we found off the trail, so many slugs that he quickly abandoned the sticks for fingers. He found a couple of sticks, picked it up, and put it in the woods.Īnd so began the Banana Slug Rescue Project. ![]() "Well, I don't want anyone else to step on it, Mom. "Be careful not to step on them they're slimy." "Oh, yes, they're called banana slugs, and they're everywhere," I said. The race was on, and we found a string of them quickly. ![]() So I made a game of it: Whoever spotted the next totem first got a point. At the first totem, though, he was less than impressed and began complaining about being tired. As we walked on, he pointed out every possible home of a kushtaka. We came upon the gnarled bases of the great trees, and while I told him about kushtakas, he climbed through the arches, into the caves, and onto the horizontal limbs. As always, once he was away from the TV and into the woods, he forgot all about cable. Despite his piteous protests, I dragged James out of our hotel room, where he had become transfixed by cable, stunned into watching a myriad of programs he doesn't get at home. Now I was here once more with my 9-year-old son, who had joined me in Sitka the day before. On my solitary walks, I had looked at the totems and trees, read the interpretive signs, and walked the trails. In the tradition of the Tlingits, the region's native American culture, such magical beings are called kushtakas. Many trees have giant sculpted bases with the kinds of curves, caves, and arches that, as a child, I labeled the homes of wood elves. Wide trails wend among huge temperate rainforest trees: Sitka spruce, western hemlock, Alaska yellow cedar. Totem Park, it's called locally, this small peninsula of forest. They're beautiful woods, made more beautiful by the tall, powerfully carved totem poles that line their paths. I had already escaped to these woods three times, trying to clear my head. I had been in Sitka, Alaska, for a week, participating in a symposium on a weighty theme, As engaging as it was, the mix of presentations, discussions, and readings involved long sessions of sitting, talking, and thinking. ![]()
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