Garden weeding is, philosophically, a dishonorable pursuit. First, I disturb soil. Then I impose plant selection and landscape design. And then I, the Settler, spend inordinate amounts of retirement time killing plants my own ancestors brought from the Old Country.

So be it. I am putting all that esoterica aside, and I am cheating. In my native plant garden. And my target this year is Cheat; better known as Cheatgrass, or Bromus tectorum, which is hell-bent on a complete takeover. My weapon is a long-handled edge clipper with right-angled blades. The clipper lets me to wreak Cheat mayhem from a noble, upright stance. No humble bending over, or servile working on hands and knees. 

I have read up on my nemesis. Cheat was first identified in North America in 1790, and in British Columbia by John Macoun in 1889. It has a staggeringly wide distribution. Originating in Eurasia, it is found everywhere in North America except in the Arctic, and thrives in South Africa, Argentina, China and Australia. Cheat is an annual, germinating in early spring, before other plants are active. By late May here, the floral stems are heavy with maturing seeds. But just to ensure complete takeover, Cheat can also germinate in the fall, overwinter as a seedling, and then casually outperform all its botanical neighbors come the next spring. 

In my wintertime botanical readings I discovered that Cheatgrass seeds are short-lived; unlike most seeds, they only persist in the soil for one year, possibly two. That fact led me to devise a springtime campaign, which I was sorely tempted to label the Final Solution. My campaign plan: make frequent trips to my garden and clip every new Cheatgrass stem, thus eliminating next year’s seed bank, forever ending the Bromus reign of terror. So I started that. Soon I discovered that I could clip for a full hour, eliminating every single Cheat floral stem, and a couple of days later, it was like I had never clipped at all. So I ramped up the schedule to every other day. As the spring season progressed, I noticed how the new post-clip floral stems became thinner, shorter, and carried fewer seeds. Even later on they became virtually invisible, a single seed on a tiny hairlike stem a few centimeters tall. I did discover an unexpected campaign colleague: the wind. I don’t know if this is an adaptation or not, but when the wind blows, Cheatgrass floral stems have a distinctive—and very noticeable—shimmering wobble. Or wobbling shimmer. So I began to rely on afternoon breezes as I hunted for the clandestine Cheaters. In military fashion, I developed an attack regimen. Find a Cheat stem. Stop, clip. Back up one step. Find its cronies that you missed. Clip them. Step forward, looking closely. Find a stem. Clip. Repeat.

Now finally, in late July, I am in my native plant garden, clipperless and not patrolling, but enjoying. Consorting with Bluebunch Wheatgrass, Antelopebrush, Oregon Grape, and Ponderosa Pine. Next spring will determine the outcome of my Cheat campaign. Victory, truce or defeat.