Or, the (not so) itsy bitsy spider.
That’s my premiere image capture of 2025. By a longshot.
Every picture tells a story, they say.
As with most populist aphorisms that’s @ best only sort of true. You know, depending.
So here’s the rest of the story, for the record…
Relatively late one mid-September afternoon a big-assed orb weaver spider appeared in the air over our yard as if from nowhere.
Of course that simply can’t be true, no matter what our eyes tell us.
As I’d spent the better part of this truly splendid day embracing an aged oak forest, probably I inadvertently abducted the critter from there.
Little doubt such arbitrary relocation terrified the poor spider, but what's done is done and that's that.
Over each of the next four nights it crafted a massive new web in a different place, altering a far foreign landscape it never choose, perhaps to survive.
How they anchor that complex project between two unconnected spots with
a full three meters open space between, I can’t guess. Far as we know orb weaver spiders
don’t fly, under cover of darkness or any other time for that matter.
Though it’d be mighty cool if they did.
Morning after the fifth night, we awoke to find the spider’s
latest effort strung low across our sidewalk and blocking our accustomed path, while the critter itself crouched a mere arm’s length or so above eye level.
We quick scooted around the obstruction to stand before our wayward
guest.
Three times over the years, we’ve hosted nesting bumblebees.
Having chosen us, bumblers are among our special friends.
So you’ll understand we were aghast when a small one found
itself trapped by the spider's more or less invisible snare.
The creature descended.
I kept right on shooting. Furiously even. In a way I
never could, with film.
The hungry predator stared its helpless prey apparently down to the death.
And were that picture all you ever knew, you’d be forgiven for
believing the lead image up top accurately reflects the story's end.
Except a moment later, the bumblebee executed a hard turn.
Then in the blink of an eye, shook itself loose and flew scot-free away.
Leaving only a sore displaced and undoubtedly irate orb
weaving spider behind, cursing arbitrary fate.
The next night, our unexpected guest spun a semi-permanent
home beneath the neighbor’s eave, well out of everyone’s way.
I don’t suppose that proved optimal, but there the thing
remained until the morning it simply wasn’t anymore, the high maintenance web
already frayed.
Meanwhile, autumnal life carried on.
Soon enough, this year the wayward orb weaver of
this story will show back up, or not.
Such is life in spring.
To think that way back in the beginning, I contemplated
being a wildlife photographer.
Right until my excellent but slow film paired with cheap crappy lenses and lack of ready opportunity quick disabused me of any such notion.
Yet here I am today, macro shooting spiders and other such on the fly. Courtesy my Nikon magic wand, long may it productively wave.
Now that’s a whole story.
Copiously illustrated, no less.
