The Hays Humm - October 2021
The Hays Humm
Award Winning Online Magazine - October 2021
Tom Jones - Betsy Cross - Constance Quigley - Mimi Cavender - Steve Wilder
It’s an October Hays-y night, and the moon is full. She throws her ghostly light across the oak and juniper and rolls over these hills with a chill wind fresh out of Canada. Here in the hollow of the Devil’s Backbone, like the children we were, we imagine things mysterious, deliciously ominous, out there in the moonlight. Shhh, listen!—that faint howl! And what was that flutter? There, overhead! —You’re just imagining it.
No, I’m not. There’s spooky stuff out there. Many of our Texas ghost stories and tales of death and dread are not ours alone. They’re worldwide superstitions from simpler times, ancient lives. And there are a handful of very real native species that—deservedly or not—have always played the villain. Take a deep breath.
There are—were—wolves. No, not werewolves. In Central Texas there were wolves. Early humans domesticated wolves into dogs, but, as if written in our DNA, reflexive fear of our Best Friend’s wild ancestor lingers, haunts our literature and chills our bones. In this issue, Tom Jones retells Texas folklore, including tales of ghostly wolves. Like the real thing out there wasn’t scary enough? The big Texas Gray Wolf (Canis lupus monstrabilis) that once terrified rangeland settlers was slaughtered to extinction by the mid-20th century. If you’re interested in the confusion of local sightings and theories of interbreeding of various North American wild canid species, including various Red Wolves, Grey Wolves, and Coyotes, start exploring here. And take a look at the Wiki illustrated comparison of wolf subspecies —all those gorgeous doggies! Our extinct Texas Gray’s close relative, the Mexican Gray (Canis lupus baileyi), is now increasingly being sighted in South and West Texas, and their canid cousin Coyotes still howl and yip here in the Hays County moonlight. At their peril.
We heard a family of coyotes on a neighbor’s ungrazed ranch land until recently. Their music suddenly stopped. Our ancient human fear of all wild canids may have overcome our modern knowledge that they stay clear of humans but happily keep rabbits, mice, rats, voles, and pocket gophers under control. By the way, in early Texas, gophers killed far more people than did wolves. Can you think how? (Check at the end of this article to see if you’re right.) Coyotes keep nature’s balance, as did our native Texas gray wolves—now just ghosts.
And that flutter in the dark? Bats! They’ve been the stuff of nightmares since the European Middle Ages, while in China they’re believed to bring good fortune. Fourteen hundred species of bats make up fully 20% of Earth’s total mammal species! They’re everywhere in huge numbers and unbelievably beneficial. But we still think they’ll get stuck in our hair, go Dracula on us and suck our blood, and give us rabies—and now COVID! Explore the real info here and here. Even if we haven’t installed our backyard bat box yet, at least we know now how vital each Texas bat is for insect control, eating 70% of its body weight—that’s 1,000 grasshoppers, moths, locusts, and mosquitos per animal!— along its 100-mile roundtrip feeding flight. Nightly bat “emergences” are animal tornados that light up Doppler radar on the local evening news. The fastest fliers on the planet, they’ve reached 100 mph in level flight. Like a bat out of…
Texas is the battiest state in the country, boasting 32 of the 47 species of bats in the United States. The largest known mammal colony in the world is Bracken Cave Preserve, a maternity colony of 15-20 million Mexican Free-tailed mothers and babies, on ranchland northeast of San Antonio, owned and managed by Bat Conservation International. The largest urban bat colony is under Austin’s Congress Avenue Bridge. Annual National Bat Week in the United States is October 24-31. Visit a nearby emergence site and cheer them on. They’re friendly ghosts.
All respectable haunted places are draped in spider webs. Why is it that we buy plastic spider webs to welcome our Halloween trick-or-treaters, but we go eeyuuu! and clobber the spider? What is this irrational fear? No Texas spiders are as venomous as our Black Widow and Brown Recluse, none are fatal to a healthy human, and all spiders would much rather run than bite. But we are a little fascinated, aren’t we? As evident from the many posts on neighborhood message boards this summer, Central Texas has been crawling with “zipper spiders,” also called the Black and Yellow Garden Spider (Argiope—Greek for “bright face”). Can’t help but admire this very common Texas spider with its multiple subspecies and color variations. All spider species’ females are larger than the males; Argiope males’ bodies are only ¼ inch long, but the females’ are at least four times that and broader, like this big girl in the photos. They hang out under our house eaves with its juicy moths, on huge elegant masterpieces of animal engineering with that zig-zag zipper woven right down the middle—nobody is sure why. But there are guesses and lots more cool spider info here. Put a pack of these master weavers to work for you and you’ll never have to shop again for Halloween décor! Keep that plastic out of the landfill. You think I’m kidding.
Owls rarely figure in today’s Halloween iconography. We should bring them back. In Europe, they’ve been associated with wisdom since at least Classical Greece and Rome as the symbol (or embodiment!) of Minerva, goddess of wisdom. By the Middle Ages, things got dark for all things wise when wisdom and its owl were confused with sorcery and even black magic. Since then, owls have retained their association with mystery and magic. (Think Harry Potter. Or not.) They’re second only to black cats as witches’ familiars—their magical companions or alternate physical form. In Mexican tradition, owls mean darkness, magic, night, and death. Many North American Plains Indians believed owls to be an embodied spirit of the dead, and sighting an owl in daylight was a forewarning of death.
Back to those Romans—Caesar’s death was announced by the screeching of owls. Yikes. Do I have something to worry about? At 3:00 this morning, somewhere out in the moonlit cedars, there was for about five minutes a falling, breathy, trembling catlike meow—or the plaintive sighing of a grieving woman. You guessed it: the call of our Eastern Screech Owl (Megascops asio). Even in daylight, I’d likely never have seen him since he’s a master of camouflage. Listen to him and others on two wonderful owl websites with gorgeous photos and sound here and here. Put these recordings on a loop and you’ve got a Halloween soundtrack to play at your front door. Your neighbors and all your songbirds will move out.
What would a Hays Halloween be without a witch? Here’s the Black Witch Moth (Ascalapha odorata), clearly one of the largest moths we have in Texas. In the dark or even in moonlight, her fluttering outline and markings are bat-like; in some languages, she’s known as the Bat Moth or the Death Butterfly. Ranging from the southern United States to Brazil, the adult Black Witch moth feeds on overripe fruit, and its larvae (caterpillars) consume the leaves of plants. Its host plants are many native Texas legumes (bean-producing plants), such as our iconic Mesquite and Bluebonnets; it also likes Acacia species—around here those include Huisache, Palo Verde (Retama), and native mimosas. It attacks our figs and can be an agricultural pest.
But its folklore is even scarier. It is the largest noctuoid (night-flying moth) in the continental United States and, naturally, Texas legends abound. Our tales were long ago inherited from our southern neighbors and are often grim. From Wikipedia:
In Mexico, when there is sickness in a house and this moth enters, it is believed the sick person will die, though a variation on this theme (in the lower Rio Grande Valley, Texas) is that death only occurs if the moth flies in and visits all four corners of one's house. (Must be a lot of chasing and swatting going on!) … In some parts of Mexico, people joke that if one flies over someone's head, the person will lose his hair. In Jamaica, under the name duppy bat, the black witch is seen as the embodiment of a lost soul or a soul not at rest. In Jamaican English, the word duppy, (meaning “ghost,”) is associated with malevolent spirits returning to inflict harm upon the living, and bat refers to anything other than a bird that flies.
But there are happier local variations: in South Texas, if a Black Witch lands above your door and stays for a while, you’ll win the lottery! Stow your brooms, folks. The witch has hers—to fly back across the Halloween moon.
Oh, and did you guess how gophers killed more early Texans (and their horses!) than did wolves?
Yep, invisible in the prairie grass, it was those pesky holes. A galloping horse tripped in a burrow, broke its leg, threw its rider, who broke his neck, and somebody was always there to shoot the horse. Two more ghosts would haunt the Texas landscape.
Devil’s Backbone Illustration from Margaret Allison, Adventures in Texas History
To this day, nobody can explain why all of these strange phenomena are occurring at the Devil's Backbone.
The Devil’s Backbone is one of the most scenic drives in Comal and Hays Counties. It is a five-mile stretch along Ranch Road 32 just outside the Hays County line. The road winds along a narrow eroded ridge at an elevation of 1,225 feet and offers unparalleled views of the Texas Hill Country and Blanco River Valley. It draws visitors from all over Texas, who come to see the sweeping vistas. The Devil's Backbone includes a large rural area that seems to have more tales of ghosts and other strange spirits than any other place in Texas.
Let’s look at the natural forces that make the Backbone a backbone. Devil's Backbone was created by erosion of the Edwards Plateau as the adjacent Guadalupe and Blanco Rivers became entrenched, forming their respective watersheds. What caused this narrow strip of land to stand tall, while each side is eroded away? Typically, ridgelines are composed of rock that is harder and better cemented, allowing it to withstand the erosive forces of water and wind. Also, ridgelines may have fewer fractures that could create weakness within the rock layers. Drive out on the Backbone and park at the overlook for the best view of a big chunk of Hays County. Moonrise is glorious from up there.
But expect ghosts.
Comanche Warrior—unattributed image from The Devil’s Backbone, by Bill Wittliff in Alcalde, publ. Texas Exes, September/October, 2014
“Many of the ghostly tales from the Devil’s Backbone involve encounters with Native American spirits, likely those of the Comanche. One such tale is of a hunter who had just climbed down from his tree stand at dusk and was walking back to his hunting cabin. While walking along the darkened trail, he sensed that he was not alone, and upon looking to his side, he saw a dark-skinned shirtless man less than ten yards from him. The man was clad in buckskin breeches and wore the war-paint of a Comanche brave. The Comanche were a deeply spiritual people who had a connection to the land and the animals that shared that land with them. One of the animals that figured prominently in their beliefs was the wolf; it represented the same stoic fierceness that Comanche warriors held dear.” From Texas’ Haunted History: The Devil’s Backbone, by John Spiars, on blog Under the Lone Star, October 14, 2018
“Comanche and Kiowa used the Devil’s Backbone to spot and monitor settlers who were moving into their territory. The Indians’ ghosts are said to still roam the area, with hikers, hunters and landowners frequently reporting an unseen presence following them. Bert M. Wall, who has lived on the Devil’s Backbone for nearly 35 years, had heard stories about a wolf spirit that would possess people, but he didn’t believe them until his son went exploring with friends nearly twenty years ago. That’s when one of the boys, John Villarreal, saw a vision of a wolf that caused him to slip into a trance. ‘He was totally out of it, ranting in a language that sounded like a mix of Spanish and Apache,’ says Wall, who suspects that the Indians were seeking vengeance for having been forced off their land. He’s also seen a Spanish monk on his porch and mysterious lights when he’s been out working cattle. ‘I’m convinced that old cowboys are checking up on us to see if we’re doing things right.’” From Fear Factor, by Jordan Breal, in Texas Monthly, October, 2009
Gray Wolf (subspecies undetermined)—photo unattributed, Flickr
Another account of John Villarreal’s experience is provided by Jenny Webster. “One of the strangest experiences was that of John Villarreal. One afternoon, John was hiking with two friends in an area known as the ‘Haunted Valley.’ While walking, he saw a vision of a wolf. Suddenly, the wolf jumped at him. However, his friends did not see the wolf. When they got back into their truck, John’s friends noticed that he was very cold. When they got back to the ranch, they were certain that John was possessed. He spoke in a deep voice and talked about Indian massacres. Out of nowhere, a gust of wind came through the ranch’s kitchen and opened the back door. At that point, John seemed to return to his normal self.” From The Devil’s Backbone: The Most Haunted Stretch of Texas Highway, by Jenny Webster in Jurica, October 24, 2017
The January 12, 1996 episode of Unsolved Mysteries featured the following three Devil’s Backbone tales:
On one evening, rancher Bert Wall was writing a story when he heard his dogs barking. He looked out the window and saw a Spanish Monk. The monk was dressed in clothing from the 1700s; Bert does not believe that he was a living person, and after a few minutes, he vanished into thin air. Bert believes that it was the ghost of a Franciscan Monk named Espinoza, who lived in the area over three hundred years ago.
Isidro Félix de Espinosa (1679–1755) was a Spanish Franciscan missionary who participated in several expeditionary missions throughout the province of Tejas (modern Texas). He was the president of the missionaries from the College of Santa Cruz de Querétaro. — Wikipedia
John Miers came to Bert's land to hunt deer. One afternoon, he was in a tree stand when he heard someone walking around the tree. The person appeared to be walking in circles around him for several minutes until it stopped. When nightfall approached, he left the tree stand and found no evidence that anyone had been walking around him. As he walked away, he had a strange feeling, so he decided to look back at the tree. He then saw a Native American man standing next to the tree. As he walked back to the house, John noticed that the man was following him. When he tried to approach him, the man vanished into thin air.
Highway, by Jenny Webster, in Jurica, October 24, 2017
Lynn Gentry was a foreman at Bert's ranch. One night, he heard the sound of horses running by his cabin. When he went outside, he saw at least twenty men on horseback riding near the cabin. They appeared to be the ghosts of Confederate soldiers.
There are also tales of the ghost of a Native American named Drago who has been seen herding cattle along the Backbone, according to some ranchers. The ranchers also tell of the widow and child of a miner who was killed, who have been seen wandering the area, supposedly seeking a proper Christian burial for their husband and father. Along the aptly named Purgatory Road, an apparition is said to materialize on the hoods of cars as they drive along. Ghost hunters frequent this area and have seen shadow people there and recorded EVP (Electronic Voice Phenomena). From The Devil’s Backbone: The Most Haunted Stretch of Texas Highway, by Jenny Webster, in Jurica, October 24, 2017
ref: devilsbackbonetavern.com
The Devil's Backbone Tavern, built on the site of an ancient Indian campground, is widely believed to be haunted. An entire Civil War battle is said to have occurred on the Devil’s Backbone limestone ridge. “Oh, there are ghosts, I guaran-goddamn-tee you,” said Robert Kelly, a tavern regular, who said he sometimes sees shadowy figures on a steep nearby ridge called the Devil’s Backbone. The history of the Devil’s Backbone, like many areas of the West, has seen its share of violence for Native Americans and White settlers alike. In more recent years, the twisty stretch of highway has been the scene of numerous fatal car accidents as well. And many ghosts seem to have lingered.
Thank You Contributors
Mimi Cavender, Eva Frost, Constance Quigley, Steve Wilder
Paradise Valley and northeastern Hays County, Texas
LIFE ON THE EDGE
Mimi Cavender
If you missed reading last month’s Hays Humm, the September 2021 issue, and missed the lead article, A Hays Archipelago—Home Island Wild, please find it here. It presents a concept originating with a passionate Hays County Master Naturalist and writer for this magazine, Steve Wilder. The article champions a nature conservation idea that has been around for a while—that we each can preserve or restore a home island of local native habitat to sustain native wildlife. But Steve took the island concept one step further, arguing that if enough of us, acting individually, maintain these home islands of natural habitat, they would form vast archipelagos—groups of islands—across our neighborhood, the valley, across the state, the nation, the continent—adjacent where possible, or closely connected—more than enough to offset urban sprawl and its breaking up of wildlands, its fragmentation of natural habitat.
For example, when I replace my St. Augustine lawn with native grasses and wildflowers and when I leave my local native tree cover of oaks and juniper, I’m both restoring and preserving a natural habitat for native wildlife. The native plants and animals thrive together because they’re interdependent; they belong together. When my neighbors do the same, and you and your neighbors do the same, and folks up and down Hays County do the same, we have an archipelago where we and our great-grandchildren will always hear birdsong, see fawns, foxes, and fields of verbenas. We will be living—still comfortably-- as a proud part of the natural world, not as pathetic bystanders to its destruction.
Don’t resist it. This is what we now must do before we lose it all. Greed and global warming and our own historic indifference have tipped the balance so far that now we have little choice but to cooperate in these small private ways. While we hope and work for governments to act and roll our eyes at their impotence—and at our own—-we can do these small local things. We can make our islands and whole archipelagos like miniature national parks, protected heritage, thriving natural worlds.
The Blanco River and northeastern Hays County Photo: Mimi Cavender
Now, there is a persuasive counter-argument to the islands/archipelago idea. That counter argument involves “the edge effect,” as explained by ecologist Louis Verner, Texas Parks and Wildlife Department.
Dr. Verner obtained a Bachelor of Science degree in Wildlife Management from Michigan State University and his Ph.D. in Ecology from the University of Illinois. He taught for 13 years in the Illinois Wesleyan University Biology Department and for 6 years as the Director of Environmental Studies at the Putney School and Antioch New England Graduate School. He served as an Urban Wildlife Biologist for Texas Parks and Wildlife in Dallas County and for over 9 years with the Virginia Department of Game and Inland Fisheries before retiring in 2017.
In his “Unit 5: Ecological Concepts” of the Texas Master Naturalist Statewide Curriculum, Texas A&M University Press, 2015, Dr. Verner claims that small islands of preserved or restored native habitat are usually ineffective and in most cases counterproductive in maintaining native species’ numbers and diversity because of the “edge effect.”
Fragmentation refers to urban development’s subdividing land, reducing wildlands to a sparse patchwork of native habitat—little islands of natural environment still supporting the wildlife that belongs there. Here in Wimberley I live on one; it’s a 1-acre lot that still has most of its original live oaks and cedars, grasses and forbs. My neighbors up and down the road enjoy varying degrees of the same remnants of the Hill Country nature they say they moved here for. So we’re inadvertently doing this native island/archipelago thing right. Right?
Not if we consider the “edge effect.” Dr. Verner argues that the more fragmentation, the smaller the native islands; the smaller an island, the closer its native interior is to the non-native edges that border it, more easily subjecting the supposedly protected native species to injury, predation, pollution, disruption. I’ve maintained my lovely natural island to sustain all these birds and foxes and lizards that live in it, only to betray them, to subject them to hazards that they wouldn’t face if they were still hiding out deep in the far away “real” woods. My “inside-outside” cat stalks the birds, and the Amazon delivery truck flattens the foxes. Semi-domesticated white-tailed does dart across a lethally busy street twice a day with their fawns to get to our food pellets. But we mean well.
It’s so confusing. In a drought, shouldn’t we supplement the birds’ feed and water? And with suburbs eating their way across the Hill Country, shouldn’t we feed the displaced deer, especially in winter? Do we really just leave all this stressed wildlife to steely-eyed natural selection? Why are we guilted for trying to help on an acre when the West is burning and coastlines are flooding and our rivers are running dry?
Dr. Verner warns that our islands can be “ecological traps,” attracting species to “what appears to be suitable habitat, only to have their breeding attempts end in total failure.” And our islands, so well-intended, may be “an ecological ‘mind’ trap for us as well because we may be lulled into thinking we are preserving biodiversity by saving small habitat islands or ‘natural areas’ in the midst of our growing sea of development, when, in actuality, we may not be.”
The truth? The truth: It is habitat fragmentation by unrestricted urban development that is the primary cause of species decline, followed closely by climate change effects. Both are the result of human ignorance, indifference, and greed.
Northeastern Hays County from Paradise Hills at Wimberley
So we counter-counter argue, do we then just sit back on our acre of manicured St. Augustine turf and watch the Texas Hills pave over? Do our grandchildren never see a fox, a Monarch, a hawk, or fireflies? What happened to the “Every little bit helps” mindset? Well, how about “Everybody’s little bit helps better!”
Steve Wilder’s persistent vision: our home island in a vast archipelago of regenerating wildland. It is community-wide (Greta Thunberg would argue world-wide) native habitat stewardship—holding tight to what wild nature we still have, enjoying it with our children—until our schools and governments do better and Homo sapiens finally, finally gets wise.
The final argument is non-binary. We can walk and chew gum. We can create and enjoy our adjacent and interconnected home islands and be more environmentally proactive outside the archipelago, at local, state, and national levels. We can thrive in the natural world now and in a better future. We hope nature still has time to do the same.
Please: If you have feelings about any of these ideas, or questions, we invite you to write us an email or a whole article. If you’ve preserved or restored your home island—a back yard or many acres—tell us about it, with photos if you can. The idea is that what some of you are doing on acreage with the wildland restoration / land management programs—such as HELM—we homeowners can do on one acre or less and encourage our communities to do the same. The archipelago will be our gift of the Texas we remember to a Texas peopled by our great grandchildren. Tell us your thoughts.
Adapted from an article by Zack Sterkenberg in Ambius, October, 2018 – Photo unattributed
The story of the Jack-o’-lantern goes back hundreds of years and has its roots in Irish folklore. As the tale is told, Stingy Jack, a notorious trickster notably fond of his strong drink, staggered home one Halloween night to find the Devil waiting for him, ready to take his sorry soul. Old Jack begged the spirit to join him in one last cup at the local tavern. He ordered drinks for himself and his sinister companion, who remained strangely invisible to the other patrons. When it came time to pay, Jack asked the Devil to pick up the tab—fair, considering he’d soon be handing over his soul. Stingy Jack convinced the evil spirit to turn into a coin with which he would pay the barkeep, but Jack pocketed the coin and left, pleased with himself. A silver cross that Jack had stowed in his pocket kept the Devil in place. Never to be outsmarted, the Devil bargained his way out of Jack’s pocket, promising not to bother him again for one full year.
These things never turn out well. Exactly one year later on Halloween night, the Devil came to claim Jack’s soul. The old reprobate was doomed to walk the earth for an eternity of Halloween nights with a single coal ember to guide his ghostly way. He dug up a large turnip from a farmer’s field, carved the first Jack-o’-lantern, and placed the coal ember inside. Jack’s wandering ghost became known as Jack of the Lantern, or in Irish dialect, Jack O’Lantern.
As the tale of Jack-o’-lantern spread throughout Ireland, adults and children alike made their own versions of Jack’s lantern and carved the face of wily Jack or of the Devil himself into large turnips, beets, or later, potatoes. You might say the tradition became deeply rooted. And it spread from Ireland to England, Europe, and across the world.
Jack-o’-lantern carving was brought to colonial North America and thrived here with our pumpkins, a squash that was native to drier parts of Central and South America. With transatlantic colonial trade (the Columbian Exchange) it quickly became a food, livestock, and cover crop in North America and Europe. Pumpkins, easier to carve than turnips, eventually took over the lantern carving tradition, notably since the 1950s with the commercialization of Halloween worldwide. Ol’ Jack has walked a long, long way.
Pumpkins are members of the Curcurbita family—squash, melons, cucumbers, and gourds. Pumpkin acreage is widely dispersed throughout the United States, but in 2017 about 40% of pumpkins were grown in Illinois, Pennsylvania, Indiana, Texas, and California. Most Texas pumpkins are grown in dry, sandy South and West Texas soils. (2017 U.S. Census of Agriculture, USDA, National Agricultural Statistics Service (NASS).
Texas designated pumpkin as the official state squash in 2013. Here’s the Texas House Resolution from Texas State Library & Archives: Texas H.C.R. No. 87 Great stuff!
HOUSE CONCURRENT RESOLUTION No. 87
WHEREAS, The diversity of Texas agriculture is one of the strengths of our economy, and over the years, the pumpkin has become an important crop in the Lone Star State; and
WHEREAS, A variety of squash that is native to North America, the pumpkin can vary in size from one pound to over a thousand; while pumpkins are usually orange or yellow, they are sometimes also dark green, white, red, or gray; they are remarkable for their durability, for they can be grown quickly and then stored for as long as six months; pumpkins are capable of being cultivated on every continent on earth except Antarctica; and
WHEREAS, With its distinctive shape and lightly ribbed surface, the pumpkin is especially associated with two holidays, Halloween, when carved jack-o'-lanterns light up the front porches of houses across America, and Thanksgiving, when no family feast is complete without a slice· of pumpkin pie; each year, 80 percent of pumpkin sales occur in October; and
WHEREAS, Texans have long made great use of the pumpkin; before refrigeration, ranchers relied on the hardy pumpkin to feed their livestock during the winter months; once considered a cure for freckles and snakebite, the pumpkin is now valued by health-conscious Texans as a good source of vitamin A, potassium, and fiber; in addition, Texas has become the fourth leading state in commercial pumpkin production, growing between 15 and 20 million of them annually, mostly in West Texas; pumpkins generate approximately $10 million for the Texas economy every year; and
WHEREAS, During a time when a majority of Texans are living in cities, the pumpkin has begun to represent more than just trick-or-treat or a favorite type of pie, and such distinctive varieties of pumpkin as the Fairytale, the Caspar, and the Atlantic Giant have come to be used by families to decorate their homes, serving as welcome reminders of the Lone Star State's traditional rural heritage; now, therefore, be it
RESOLVED, That the 83rd Legislature of the State of Texas hereby designate the pumpkin as the official State Squash of Texas.
Yep, Texans love Mom, Halloween, and pumpkin pie. Happy Halloweeeeeeen.
All images in this gallery were taken by HCMNs.
Banner photo by Mimi Cavender
Space Alien or Arachnid?
Betsy Cross
Click on any image to enlarge it and scroll, if you dare!
ARACHNO-PHILIA…
…look it up and then take a close look at the photo below. A spiral extends from a tightly spun center or “hub.” It circles around and around to create a perfect tension of support. Moving in a clockwise direction, this spiny orbweaver stops every few seconds to tack silk to the spokes (or radial lines). It takes less than a minute to make one revolution in its new web hung between the eave of my house and an adjacent tree. A given weight of spider silk is five times as strong as the same weight of steel, but this new web is also fragile and exposed. It may only keep its integrity a day or two.
How do they do it? What’s in the brain of a tiny creature that tells it how to create the elaborate silk cabling (frame lines) spanning a distance of 4-6 feet in perfect triangular symmetry.
I think that’s pretty magical.
Betsy Cross
