When I was a kid exploring the big hardwood jungles of upstate
New York I was prey to the plague of poison ivy, which was
ubiquitous. I got it every summer.
These were vicious cases. When you are highly allergic to
the sinister leaf you become something of a human scab for a few
days. At the height of the attack I usually ended up in a
doctor’s office for a shot of cortisone to open my swollen-shut
eyes, the first sign of recovery. I never saw the point of
Calamine lotion, except as a sticky, topical placebo. The eastern
summers are hot and humid, and this only added to the misery.
Swollen hands, suppurating patches on the torso and elsewhere,
itchy-twitchy legs, blistered-burning feet. Sleep was impossible.
The worst case I ever had was when I helped my late father burn
some backyard brush. The old man thought nothing of the task. He
never in his life got poison ivy that I can remember.
Living in the Rockies for the past twenty years has removed
this scourge from my life. Poison ivy doesn’t exist in Wyoming —
at least in the part of the Cowboy State that I lived in — or
other high elevation states. But it is found along the rivers in
the Southwest, such as the Colorado, and I’ve lately discovered
that it’s present below 3,000 feet here in Idaho.
I recently took an eight-mile hike with a half dozen
friends. We first drove sixty miles down the Salmon River to the
end of the road at the border of the Frank Church-River of No
Return Wilderness, then took the Salmon River Trail from Corn
Creek to Horse Creek. Here on the river a thousand feet lower
than Salmon, it’s warmer, greener, and thick with ticks,
rattlesnakes, and poison ivy. After a friend pointed out the
patches of triangular, purple-shiny leaves (Toxicodendron
radicans is purple in spring, green in summer, and red in
the fall) periodically appearing along the trail, I forgot about
the ticks and rattlesnakes. Despite wearing jeans and hiking
boots, I still stayed on the trail to better avoid those purple
leaves oozing what the flora pointyheads call “urushiol,” the
natural chemical that causes “contact dermatitis,” a benign
sounding phrase considering its hideous consequences.
My incessant scanning of the ground in front of me
detracted a bit from the enjoyment of my surroundings. In this
part of the Salmon River Canyon the mountains are mostly old
forest fire burns carpeted with grass and sagebrush, and in the
spring what seems like millions of arrowleaf balsamroots, vast
expanses of yellow shading the green. There are shelves of
riverside sandy beaches that appear or disappear depending on the
extent of the spring flood, and are popular with summertime
rafters. The river was a heavy snowmelt roar in our ears.
There were two dogs owned by friends along on the hike.
Brown and white Wirehaired Pointing Griffons running up and down
the trail and charging off the beaches into the river. Dogs are
common on our hikes. One woman volunteers for the local Humane
Society and she habitually springs a couple from their kennels
for a day in the woods. They brush against you on the trail, or
you reach to pet them as they fly by, and they’re generally fun
to have around. Though not in the land of poison ivy. On this
particular hike I refrained from petting dogs, and even cringed
if they brushed against me. A dog’s coat is another typical means
of transmission for “contact dermatitis.”
We hiked as far as Horse Creek and there stopped for lunch.
Horse Creek is big, maybe twenty feet wide and almost a small
river in itself, and is spanned by a wooden bridge before it
blasts into the river. Its water was clear and deep, and the
depth was hard to gauge, as big rocks on the bottom appeared
vividly lucid to the eye. Three feet? Five? Six? It added that
extra hydraulic symphonic soundtrack to lunch. I liked that slice
of grass and pine at the junction of river and creek because I
didn’t see any poison ivy.
On the four miles back I found that I had somehow
subconsciously memorized all the places where I had noticed
poison ivy on the way in. Every little shaded ground patch, or
the single plants protruding from waist-high rocky banks next to
the trail. In the latter type spot you would think I would be
more vigilant of rattlesnakes. Never thought of them.
On the way home we all commented that the landscape and the
river on a fine spring day made for one of our memorable hikes.
So memorable for me, in fact, that when I got home I immediately
took a shower, and threw all the clothes I’d worn into the
washing machine.
But I seem to have dodged the bullet. It’s been a few days
now and I’ve yet to see irritated red skin, or feel that
unmistakable, telltale itch.
