banana slug

Where did that banana slug go? It was just here, in the middle of the campground, but now it’s nowhere. I am scanning the perimeter, checking the trees, looking under my seat, under my feet. It’s just gone. It was making a slow meandering arc near the middle of my camp site. I must have gotten distracted long enough while making some notes for it to get away. I was about to name it Jerry.

There have been quite a lot of the bright yellow slugs this weekend. On the trail, in the trees, trying to get into the food, sliming across the notebooks and plein air artworks, that same slug trying to get in the food again. I’ve been quite surprised at the uncountable¹ number of them, and I only saw the ones that I almost stepped on or passed through camp. That’s an infinitesimal fraction of the number that must be present and endemic in these woods.

Do the slugs survive forest fires? Or do they recolonize the burned zones, diffusing inward from the perimeter after the winter rains return and quench the smoldering ashes? I had visions of Jerry and its clan making deep penetrating expeditions into the scar’s interior, far from the green and unburned edges, to establish little slug dynasties. But I’ve never seen a platoon of slugs. They seem to be solitary, or maybe a pair in the midst of a passing embrace. Solo slugs are all I’ve ever seen. Organizing such slug expeditions is a secret affair, behind closed doors, if it’s happening at all.

Still, Jerry does have some defenses, an anesthetic or analgesic in the mucus along the top of its backs. It’s something, but is that the only reason there isn’t a predator that feeds on this silent sliding abundance? I haven’t seen much other animal life, a curious crow, briefly another camper, and have heard a few other birds. The Santa Cruz mountains can be strangely soundless; my other visits have been similarly silent. Most woods are quiet, but these ones, with their tall redwoods and plentiful banana slugs, they seem especially so. Come to think of it, the silence is strange, eerie even. Maybe I should be concerned, I think as I slowly glance over both my shoulders at the log I’m leaning against. No Jerry there either. I confidently thought I was the apex predator in these woods, but what if it’s Jerry?

jg