Is it a Banana Slug, or Is it Poop?
The slimy, chonky wonders of the Pacific Northwest's favorite gastropod
Can we talk about Pacific banana slugs?
These are the big-ass mollusks whose street name comes from the fruit they resemble. On our morning hikes, my husband and I frequently stop on a forested trail and squint down at the duff in front of our feet and ask each other, “Is it a slug, or is it poop?”
Depending on the size of the dog, the two can look remarkably similar. Here’s how to tell the difference:
Banana slugs actually eat poop, as well as leaves and moss and mushroom fragments on the forest floor. They have a tongue-like organ called a radula covered with tiny teeth that scrape at food and move it toward their stomach . . . which is also their foot. They move courtesy of slime—much like human snot—all over their body. It’s toxic as hell, numbing the tongues of raccoons and anyone else dumb enough to lick them. More on that, later.
The Pacific banana slug is a chonk; it grows to nine inches long. It’s the second-largest terrestrial slug species in the world, just behind the U.K.’s Ash-black slug which can grow to almost a foot. I’m ever surprised, whenever I gently remove Pacific banana slugs from the trail and place them up on hillsides safe from careless hiking boots, that they weigh no more than a deck of cards.
They have four head tentacles; the “eyes” on the upper tentacles sense movement and light, while the lower stalks feel and smell. A breathing hole in the side of its head leads to its single lung. Banana slugs, with both male and female sex organs, can mate with themselves. Huzzah.
Once upon a time as a high school senior, I chose to attend U.C. Santa Cruz for its glorious setting among redwoods and for its mascot—the banana slug. Upperclassman took freshmen into the forest and dared them to lick a slug for the slime’s numbing properties (tame, compared to some of the other substances my classmates were consuming).
Because I know you’re wondering, yes. As a wide-eyed freshman, I dutifully located a slug under a redwood in front of the enviably-cool sophomores who shared my dorm and touched my tongue to the poor creature’s back. My tongue did indeed go numb. Serves me right. I actually performed this stunt once more for my nature-writing students at the University of Oregon because suddenly, college freshmen struck me as enviably cool while I’d just become a mother with a stroller and a diaper bag.
A community north of my university used to be known for the Russian River Slug Fest, which included—among other events—a table-top slug race and a cooking contest. According to this New York Times article about the event, “[Banana slugs] were part of the diet of the Yurok Indians of the North Coast and in the late 19th and early 20th centuries of German immigrants, who gutted them like fish and fried them in batter.” Still, as the Times journalist points out, you’d have to be awfully brave to serve as a Slug Fest culinary judge.
Myself, I prefer my slugs live and sliming across forested trails where it’s great fun to compare their shapes and sizes to other, more familiar objects.
One final fun fact: Once, right before my nature-themed kids’ novel Avenging the Owl was published, I got the idea to make an experimental book trailer that had nothing to do with owls and everything to do with banana slugs. Perhaps you’d like to view it and tell me what on earth I was thinking? The Wonders of Banana Slugs: A Comedy from Author Melissa Hart - YouTube
Let me know about your own banana slug encounters. Have you licked one and lived to tell the tale? Has a slug licked you?
See you on the trail . . .
Melissa
Additional Resources
Banana Slug - Muir Woods National Monument (U.S. National Park Service) (nps.gov)
Banana slug, facts and photos (nationalgeographic.com)
Banana Slugs: Secret of the Slime | KQED
This little guy has more teeth than your entire family | Banana Slugs (youtube.com)
I joined your Substack's, Melissa, just so I could read stuff like this. Thanks.