Theoretically speaking…
the less explained about abstract content the better.
Object being
that viewers find what they will,
then let fly
and see for themselves.
Left pondering
way,
shape
form,
even substance,
fruitfully combined.
Then decide for themselves what the hell to think.
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.
A few days prior to meteorological winter, on cold fingers the bitter season quietly crept in.
Then quickly retreated.
Couple weeks later, a flash freeze roared down from the
northwest.
Arctic in origin, that let everyone know where we stood.
And reminded me that abject embrace of a landscape fast frozen beyond when I feel
my fingers is no mean trick indeed.
Resilience. An organic gift, critical to life itself.
The spell passed but prairie, wetlands and oak
savanna alike hunkered down for the duration.
No fools we.
Soon enough, winter’s dark days swept in for to eat.
As they will.
As they must. Time is short.
The new year came and snow it did.
Tallies fell near long-term seasonal norms. Good news, big picture.
Later, a generous February thaw fed all that moisture back to the land in a thrice.
Meteorological spring began yesterday.
Some distance west from these Great Lakes, red flag warnings are up and those folk must pay heed, as fire's all but inevitable over coming months.
Let no one claim they weren't warned. Seasons don't work that way. History neither, for that matter.
Locally we’re mighty dry, though not parched. And such is systemic drought.
Yet that brown tangle up there promises soon enough to be this, regardless:
Provided the sun also still rises and skies @ least
occasionally weep, that is.
The big lake is out there, somewhere.
Just as below, where two rafts of barely visible coots ply open
water while they still can, as winter’s 1st ice shrouds the shore.
No matter that both are difficult to see.
Used to be, by dead of winter Superior was largely icebound.
As we know, now isn’t then.
But when arctic air crosses so much open water…
…life downwind best hold on and hang tight.
This particular winter most recalls the good old days of snow blind legend
& lore.
So forgive me if/when I repeat myself. The river of memory does run on.
One autumn when still quite young, I enthusiastically extolled the
Northwood’s many manifest virtues to an aged local, born & raised.
The old man listened patiently. Eventually, I ran out of steam.
Through eyes of clouded cataract blue, Albert Sailey gazed at me.
“Yep. Pretty nice,” he drawled.
Then paused to look the enthusiastic whippersnapper
up & down.
“Winter’s kinda long, though.”
Of course, he was right.
Ah, the hard-earned voice of experience.
