Why my arms itch. Oh, and I vanquished a monster ...

Amur honeysuckle: Nemesis shrub 

Today I have itchiness all along my arms, from wrists to elbows. Not rash type itches, just itches ... itches you might get from no-see-ems. Why do my arms itch? I have a theory.


For the past four days I've been clearing a dense thicket of f-ing Amur honeysuckle from the slope above the house. What could be called Satan's nightmare was allowed to frolic on the slope unmolested, unpruned, uninterrupted for ... oh, I don't know ... maybe 30 years?

What happens to free-range Amur honeysuckle in that span of time you may ask? I'll tell you. It spreads. What perhaps was a cute little pup of a plant back in 1988, when Reagan was sleepwalking through his final year as President (seems like the Age of Enlightenment nowadays, doesn't it?), has turned into a giant Cujo litter.

Amur honeysuckle does not obey the laws of accepted plant development as outlined by the United Nations International Plant Growth Guidelines (not a real organization). As the above photo shows, roots, branches, twigs, and other offshoots grow from bottom to top, top to bottom, left to right, right to left, and every direction in between. It's kind of incestuous, all those touchy-feely shoots, all that mingling of woody matter. Actually, it's a monumental pain in the posterior parts when this behavior has been going on for three decades.

But the plant itself is not the sum total of the adventure. No. There's a vine that loves to tag along on the honeysuckle joy ride. This vine is sheathed along its length with a layer of fine little prickly thingees (not an official botany term). When these thingees meet human skin, they detach from the vine to explore rich new possibilities in the epidermis. The thing is, the little prickers are invisible and, in some people (for example, me), they cause a mild allergic reaction similar to a mosquito bite.

But wait, there's more. As if the incestuous tangle of honeysuckle branches weren't impenetrable enough, the enraptured vine binds the branches together and, if the individual honeysuckle plants are close enough together, bind the branches of neighboring shrubs together as well.

When plants die, when snow falls, when gravity works ... 

Eventually, death claims every living thing, Amur honeysuckle not excepted. When the plant shuffles off, its woody parts weaken. When the snow falls, which a lot of it does up here in northern Idaho, the snow pack accumulates, gravity pulls it down and along with it the weakened stalks of the deceased honeysuckle. What's left is a flat mat of honeysuckle branches. Much of the plant, however, has only been pretending to be dead. Come spring new shoots appear, new leaves bust forth, and the cycle begins anew. Thirty years of this cycle.

My task, and why my arms itch ...

It was getting out of control. An occasional moose would stroll by and strip a branch or two of honeysuckle leaves, but you can't plan your gardening regimen around erratic moose schedules. Consequently, I was commanded by a higher power to rid the slope of all honeysuckle-brand wood, dead or alive.

Equipped with pruning shears, clippers, weed whacker, and chain saw I trudged up the slope to assess the situation. No sweat, I thought, power up the chain saw, lop the beasts off at ground level, load the branches on the truck, take them to the dump. Done. Beer by noon, easy. At that point, I thought I heard a maniacal cackle coming from the tangle.

The chain saw proved inefficient in the early stages. I had to clip the smaller branches off first, then clip the vines binding the whole thing together, get in there and drag each leafy branch and clinging vine out, before I could get at the roots of the problem. Unfortunately, although I remembered to wear work gloves, I neglected to put on a long-sleeved shirt (hey, it was hot ... cut me some slack!). While pulling out the branches and vines, the little invisible vine prickers developed a strong affinity for my arm skin.

And that's why my arms itch.