In most cases when you hear garden advice, it’s just that — advice.
However, let me state this advice loudly and clearly so there is no room for ambiguity:
Do not let ivy devour your yard.
I made this mistake. I’m regretting it. I’m at the age where I actually have learned a thing or two. You can be wise if you listen now rather than learn the hard way.
As usual, most of this is my fault. I should have tackled the ivy as soon as I moved into the house. As the new resident, I inherited a ratty fence, which is literally galvanized mesh (chicken wire) affixed from one metal stake to another. Believe me, this rag-tag perimeter looks much better when it is draped in greenery.
Ivy was growing along this humble boundary line, and I let it grow. I helped. I wove the green strands between metal squares, coaxing the vines to stretch as far as the grasping tentacles could reach. Thank goodness I did not add fertilizer because the plant might have climbed the utility poles and snuffed out my internet.
Meanwhile, another plant is growing nearby. This one has the pleasant nickname of “cat’s claw,” and is also known as yellow trumpet vine. Cat’s claw is also evil and invasive, yet it produces lovely yellow flowers in the spring. By the time this beauty is ready to devour the house, I’m hoping I am living somewhere else.
Earlier this summer I decided the days of the invading ivy were over. I thought I would simply trim it back to the nub with pruning shears. That first day I filled an industrial-sized black garbage bag with vines, and barely made a dent. As I worked, I discovered a bag of mulch that had been covered in vines for the past year.
Did I mention that this summer has been very, very hot?
Another ambitious day I grabbed handfuls of greenery, filling another two giant bags. This time I snipped main arteries when they came into view. I thought I would let the detached vines die, and return when my body had recouped.
Another week I untangled dry vines, only to find more heaps of firmly-attached ivy vines. After much sweating, snipping and hauling I hit the mother of all ivy stems — a stout, spiked main stem larger than the trunk of a young tree. I’d estimate the circumference at about two inches, although I may very well be exaggerating, my mind poisoned from heat and my eyes bleary from drips of sweat.
I reached the point of being hot and bothered, and eventually became obsessed. I found the handsaw used to cut down Christmas trees in the forest.
Sawing in the heat, at an odd angle, shoulder and hips in a pile of spider-filled ivy … I had reached that magical point of determination. For entertainment, I ran a narrative through my head about battles with ivy through the ages. I have concluded that the chainsaw was invented about two days after humans first battled ivy with a handsaw.
When I went inside to gulp water, I realized only 32 minutes had gone by. I thought it had been hours and hours. Time goes by slowly when you’re lying on the ground at an odd angle, performing a repetitive motion that could inspire technological advances.
Yet, I didn’t trust that I had won the battle.
Plants are amazing. If you cut two separate grapevines and graft them together, they will become one. My damage to the main mother ivy could conceivably grow back together — the two parts fused into one, and ready for revenge.
Under the influence of heat stroke, I spent another half an hour huffing and puffing to cut an additional inch from the main vine, creating a big gap that could regrow only if this particular ivy was a new form of alien super-plant.
I’m not certain, but I would wager a guess that plants like this are also the reason stump removal machines were invented.
Five huge black plastic bags of ivy trimmings have been hauled away. There was so much detritus, I called my friend Ladonna and asked if I could fill up her green waste can. And yet, the job is not done.
The University of California Integrated Pest Management website states that brute force alone is rarely enough. What I should have done was apply chemicals to the open wound of the plant before I went inside to take a shower.
My guess is that I will be wrangling ivy for years to come. By then, the trumpet vine and the yellow flowers may have taken over. Likely the ivy will return, inching its way back to its home on the ratty metal fence. I’ll be years older by then, and I doubt I’ll go to the trouble of laying on the ground with a chainsaw.
