I’m on a crusade. Nothing but death will stop me. I don’t expect to live long enough to claim victory. But I’ll die trying.

This is a holy crusade. Evil stalks my land.

For three decades an insidious plant rooted itself stealthily and prolifically throughout my wooded five acres.

At first it looked comely and harmless.

(Looks can be deceiving.)

The plant is an intruder. A trespasser. A nuisance.

This despicable plant is MULTIFLORA ROSE.

And it must be eradicated. And it shall be, if it’s the last thing I do.

(Considering my age there’s a good chance this actually will be the last thing I do.)

Don’t let the word “rose” fool you. This plant is vicious, pernicious, sinister. Nothing rosy about it. It would strangle you to death if it could or ensnare you in its spiky tentacles and bleed you to death.

I swear it can sneak up on you. 

My grandsons went scurrying into the woods once, only to be ensnared. They screamed bloody murder. It’s like flypaper with barbs. Heaven help you if you fall face forward into a thicket of the stuff. I did. Once. Getting out felt like getting out of quicksand.

I hate multiflora rose.

Multiflora rose is native to eastern Asia. It was introduced to the United States in the 1860s, initially as rootstock for ornamental roses. Later, it was widely promoted for soil erosion control, as well as “living fences” for livestock, and to provide wildlife habitat.

Nothing wrong with that. But then it got out of hand and went crazy.

You can’t burn it. That would leave roots to resprout. You can’t spray it. That would contaminate other plants and poison the wildlife.

It has no natural predators, other than goats.

And now, me!

I envelope myself with super thick leather gloves, two long-sleeved shirts, denims, and boots. I arm myself with pruners, pick, and axe.

The mission looks overwhelming (as did eradicating smallpox at one time.)

Multiflora rose must be uprooted by hand—inch by square inch, foot by square foot, yard by square yard.

Now and then I dig up a large gnarly rootball, and as I tug it out of the ground, ninety percent of the foliage in a nearby tree comes cascading down.

Sweet!

(I’d jump with sadistic delight if my back and knees weren’t killing me.)

That’s my story.

It could be a parable.