MOSTLY TRUE

I’ve always had “bad” habits with insects and snakes. I would constantly catch them as a kid, and handle them, no matter how many times my mother told me not to. Missouri was just redneck enough that you weren’t worth your salt unless you could catch a speeding grass snake, that was a simple rite of passage for me. I’d gently say hello and set them down on their way.

So, when I moved to New Mexico in 2008, much later, I was incredibly fascinated to make a tarantula’s acquaintance. Slightly wiser (if not as quick), I knew that a spider would rarely bite you unless you accidentally, say, roll on one in your bed. The reason is that the poisons are difficult to generate biologically, so energy is best saved for hunting and mating, not just randomly biting everyone you walk past. There’s a life lesson there, for all of us, perhaps.

I wondered how much was true about them - did they have itchy hairs on their belly as a defense system with no toxins? That turned out to be true. Did they travel in packs? Massive packs of males, I learned, in the hundreds, as they looked for the burrowing females. You could sit for five minutes watching as they crossed the road in front of your car. After they pass, the tracks are quite impressive.

Did the radioactive tarantulas from missile testing spots near Alamogordo turn you into a chupacabra with superpowers? Despite my many tries, I never actually witnessed that, so let’s say I’m agnostic.

I met one the first morning I woke up in the New Mexico high desert. Excited to show a new friend, I first coaxed it onto a piece of juniper to take it over to him. This is how I learned the most fragile and sad fact about tarantulas - because of their large body mass, if they fell from more than about 30cm, they would break their back and die slowly. This one did just that. Slowly, even as I tried to twist the stick to hold her steady - she took the leap. I felt horrible as she writhed, unable to move. I put her out of her pain, as I had always been told to do when you can’t save an animal life.

I told the story to my new coworker Josh. Try to pick it up on the palm of your hand instead, he instructed. Let them decide what to do. Like myself, Josh was a big, bearded Midwestern boy, loving both animals and slightly dangerous activities. Determined to be safely successful, I set off again to work.

That day, I saw many more and learned to pick them up. In layman’s terms, each turned out to have a completely different personality. This is what I learned to do: for each critter walking down the road, I would place an open palm in front of them. If they were annoyed, they’d just walk around. If they hadn’t had their coffee yet, they would rear back with forelegs lifted high. They weren’t ready to attack, just enough to look intimidating. I left those alone.

But if you find a polite and curious friend, they would carefully touch your hand to feel it out. They would cautiously climb into your palm, looking you in the eyes. One might crawl onto your head, one might go into your sleeve, and it would just be fun and ticklish. I sat down in the sand. And let them explore until they were ready to move on. Then, I would gently offer my hand again and set them on their way.

I grew a deep love for these creatures but never dropped one again. Most people hate spiders, but I’d urge you to reconsider the wild tarantula; she’s a polite little hunter that won’t hurt you and hides from the hordes of males hoping to stay in her bed that night and leave, never to be heard from again.

I hope the one I first killed is looking down at us from spider heaven (also known as just plain heaven) as I share with you, keeping her memory, and that she has forgiven me for my moment of ignorance.