Slug Mug

The Southwest has scorpions.

New England has blackflies.


The South has monstrous, crunchy palmetto bugs.

The Pacific Northwest has slugs. Big ones.

We captured this fellow's portrait on a trail in the Hoh Rain Forest in Washington's Olympic National Park several weeks ago.

You really have to watch for them while you're hiking, or, well...squish. They're everywhere. There are black slugs, green slugs, and slugs bearing a kind of camouflage pattern. There is even a yellow slug, revoltingly dubbed the Banana Slug.

I'll pause for a moment while you contemplate that.

Slugs even serve as something of an unofficial mascot on the Olympic Peninsula. The Hard Rain Cafe, a funky little deli and convenience store outside the entrance to the forest, sells a wood facsimile of the slug as a refrigerator magnet, complete with cute little antennae and the obligatory "Olympic National Park" emblazoned on its rump.

I rather like living in a place whose most noteworthy regional pest is a creature as innocuous and unhurried as the lowly slug. When I lived in an ancient apartment building in Florida, it was part of my morning ritual to remove the ever-present cockroach from my shower. But the slug, though slimy, is simply not threatening enough or repulsive enough to get worked up over.

In a way, the unassuming slug reflects the prevailing atmosphere of the Pacific Northwest. This area is populated with the friendliest people in the country, and the mood is almost universally easygoing. (Except, of course, for the occasional methamphetamine addict, which every state has.)

So all things considered, I greatly prefer the local slugs over the skittering, creeping vermin I've encountered in the other places I've lived. Here, my shower is always empty when I step into it, and my most taxing morning ritual is preparing my coffee.