Category Archives: Animals

Summer’s Secret Stories

As I mentioned last time, it’s been a hard season for forest babies: no eaglet, no owlet, no bushtit-lets. After realizing this wouldn’t be the year for any of them, it took a while to recalibrate my attention toward the less conspicuous developments of spring nesting, those subtle clues to smaller dramas. On closer inspection, the Black-capped Chickadee hopping through the hawthornes turned out to be gleaning nutritious protein for its children, hidden somewhere in nearby shrubbery but peeping insistently for their forthcoming meal.

Black-capped Chickadee with grub

Black-capped Chickadee with grub

Continue reading

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The Fragile Season

Midspring was a time of astonishing busyness in the forest, with May Day full of singing and sprouting, building nests and tending the eggs of this year’s hope.

Female Bushtit parent flying from her nest to collect food

Female Bushtit parent flying from her nest to collect food

Then things got tough. Continue reading

Field Notes: Mid-spring on May Day

It’s May, it’s May, the lusty month of May!

Female American Robin with nest material Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Female American Robin
with nest material
Lincoln Park, West Seattle

This time of year, the park is alive with song, sun, and scavenging for just the right nesting setup. It’s often a team effort; as the robin above collected dry grass, her mate was on a nearby branch, seeeep-ing softly.

Male American Robin Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Male American Robin
Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Robins’ approach to nest construction is within the broad category of assembling: taking biological or non-biological materials and putting them together in various ways to form a sturdy nest. More specifically, robins use an interlocking technique, piling sticks together, then weaving grass to make a soft bed for their eggs and later young.

But the real expert weavers in our woods are the Bushtits, Continue reading

Hooting, drumming, flights so fine…will you be my Valentine?

Love is in the air! It swoops in graceful dark-winged arcs across the drooping tips of Western Hemlocks, rings through the forest in resonant baritone duets. Love hammers its name on strong bare tree limbs. And just before 5AM in yesterday’s misty gray morning, love hooted lustily in the cedar outside my bedroom window.

How do I love thee? the birds ask. Let us count the ways. Continue reading

Speed and stillness: A contemplation

Yesterday the fastest creature on Earth stopped by for a visit. Ever the news-bringers, our park’s crows alerted us to a predator’s presence, and I was astonished to see a rare Peregrine Falcon up there on a high branch, lit beautifully by the winter sun as the crows called, annoyed or just gossiping.

Peregrine Falcon with crows. Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Peregrine Falcon with crows.
Lincoln Park, West Seattle

My first Pacific Northwest peregrine encounter, 27 years ago, had involved only sound. I had just sweated my way to the top of Little Si (at 1500′, higher than almost all of the eastern state I’d just moved from).

Snoqualmie Valley, WA

Snoqualmie Valley, WA

I was sitting there on the rocks, munching granola and admiring the vast glaciated valleys and the two forks of the Snoqualmie River merging below me, when suddenly the air vibrated with a sound I couldn’t place; I caught a blur of movement out of the corner of my eye. Continue reading

Passings: The Ghosts of Pleasure Beach

Volcanic mountains rise in rough white-capped waves below as the jet stream carries me eastward in my metal cocoon. We pass the sharp drop of the Colorado Front Range, and I reread its geology with the familiar pleasure of an old book: a massive fault system along which twisted ancient rocks have been thrust by circumstance into aerial performance. Still further east, a formless blanket of cloud extends from horizon to horizon, obscuring rocks, rivers, towns, burying geologic and human history alike.

* * * * *

It was December 19, and I was flying from Seattle to New Jersey to help my family celebrate the life and acknowledge the passing of my uncle Ernest a few days earlier. He wasn’t a believer in God or a churchgoer, but growing up in the core of Manhattan, he and his siblings were nature lovers. Central Park was steps from their front door and, with their father and sister, the boys who were later to become my uncle and my father examined glacial scars on rocks, unearthed salamanders, watched leaves sprout in spring, glow with autumn, wither with winter. Until shortly before his death at 92, my uncle loved to walk through the arboretum in the town where he lived all of his adult life. He adopted a trail near his home and helped clear it of invasive plants, learned the birds, monitored its health.

* * * * *

In these dark circum-solstice days, I haven’t been monitoring the news. I already know that things are terrible and getting worse in Syria; that the Sudan is in crisis; that Egypt is undergoing new violence; that a year later, we’re still not sure why twenty first-graders were murdered in their Connecticut classrooms. The world’s agony leaves me gasping for breath and grasping for hope in the face of evil’s vast scale and scope.

My uncle Ernest, with more courage than I, faced human suffering and death straight on. He worked for decades as the county medical examiner, helping to solve murder mysteries. (At his memorial, a younger neighbor who’d gone into the family business of wildlife rehabilitation noted that my uncle’s dinner table was the only one he knew of where the conversation was even more graphic than at home.) Ernest loved his work, his scientist’s mind fascinated as he mulled evidence and assessed explanations for each life’s end.

* * * * *

My flight’s 3-hour delay at the Seattle airport had given me time to recover from my 4:30 am wakeup and to witness dawn from a new perspective.

Predawn fog with eagles End of Concourse B, SeaTac Airport

Predawn fog with eagles
Taken from end of Concourse B, SeaTac Airport

The delay also allowed me to read a New York Times article reminding me that eBird reportings were tracking Snowy Owls in their Northeast irruption. Snowys aren’t usually found this far south, but something—perhaps a bumper crop of baby owls last year, possibly a rodent shortage—has caused them to expand from their Arctic home. Rechecking eBird the next morning at my father’s Connecticut home, I found that Snowys had been sighted along a nearby stretch of Long Island Sound, and I was hungry for a dose of nature, so my father and brother joined me in a late-afternoon search party.

Our destination was Pleasure Beach, a sandy spit south of Bridgeport. An overconfident navigator (me) erroneously sent us first to an industrial dock where doves perched cooingly, silhouetted against cathedral-sized tanks of petroleum by-products destined to be transformed into new roads through the Hudson Valley, additional parking lots for New England malls.  Remains of past organisms, exhumed from their stone crypts, wait here to be called to eliminate more trees, seal more soils, so that we might move and park a few more cars.

Doves, Peckham Asphalt facility Bridgeport, CT

Doves, Peckham Asphalt facility
Bridgeport, CT

The spit’s tip seemed near through the dock structures, but we couldn’t see how to get to it from where we were, so we gave up and returned to our trusty GPS, which we could almost hear whispering “I told you so.” Finally arriving with its help at the beach parking area, I was thrilled to see a good clue to unusual-bird presence: a guy with a big spotting scope. (Size matters in the world of birding.) He pointed us down the beach, and other birders returning from their afternoon owl-watching confirmed that a Snowy had spent the afternoon snoozing on the spit.

Wetland, Lewis Gut, Bridgeport, CT

Salt marsh, north side of Pleasure Beach, Bridgeport, CT

We finally saw a second guy with a big lens and made a beeline for him—only to watch him fold it up just as we approached, saying the owl had just flown off “that way somewhere.” I gave up any real hope of finding it, but at least we’d had a good nature walk with a lovely sunset impending. Enjoying the search for its own sake, we ventured a little further, scanning the wetlands and grass for a Hedwig-shaped white blob just in case. We passed some old benches, stone jetties, rusted bits of archeology from some deceased culture.

* * * * *

More people let go of their lives in winter than any other time of year. (In my own small world, I know of at least five other deaths in the past ten days—no, now six, with a new death since I began writing.) Why? Cold makes our blood vessels constrict, meaning our hearts have to pump harder. Cold also makes us more susceptible to viruses. And if you’re elderly and perhaps already in ill health, you may be poorer and less likely to turn on the heat; you may also be more isolated and less likely to have someone notice if you’re not doing well. But I think also, the darkness must take a toll. It’s just so much to deal with, trying to keep up your spirits in the face of the weight of night.

Ernest, thankfully, was neither isolated nor poor, but he did know he didn’t have long. Adventurer to the end, though, he’d recently been trying to convince my father to come along on a February riverboat trip down the Amazon.

* * * * *

If I’d been paying better attention during our walk to what was actually around me rather than looking only for the owl, it might have occurred to me to wonder about the spit’s flattened top and the random sticks and metal poles emerging from the russet grass and shelly sand. I’d missed the clues that we were walking through what had once been Connecticut’s largest ghost town. For over fifty years, a carousel, theater, bumper cars had thrilled children and their grownups; our desolate, darkening spit had once been a vacation destination.

https://i1.wp.com/ww4.hdnux.com/photos/20/23/42/4274339/3/628x471.jpg

Pleasure Beach, about 1955.
(Click for link to source.)

Like so many other manufactured human pleasures, the thrills faded after a while, and finally a burned bridge near the dock we’d seen earlier ended Pleasure Beach’s amusement-park heyday. Children’s cheers have been replaced by gulls’ screeches. Federal regulations and a system of wildlife refuges have given threatened piping plovers and least terns a fighting chance through human detritus, and the birds are beginning to recover.

* * * * *

Ernest and I both turned toward the small places of nature after careers of scientific investigation of suffering and death. Like him, I’ve loved my work, but engaging with tragedy for a living—in my case, environmental disasters of climate change, biodiversity loss, pollution—takes a deep toll.

* * * * *

Suddenly I saw the Snowy Owl. It was scanning the beach from the top of a nearby snag, preening and scratching as it prepared for a long hunt during tonight’s extended midwinter darkness.

Snowy Owl on snag Industrial Bridgeport in background

Snowy Owl on snag (upper right),
industrial Bridgeport in background

Snowy Owl at sunset Lewis Gut, Bridgeport, CT

Snowy Owl at sunset
Pleasure Beach, Bridgeport, CT

As the sunset’s glow faded and true solstice night descended, we watched the owl until the darkness rendered it a gray smudge against the dark-blue sky, city lights in the background. We started the long walk back along the chilly beach. As we crossed the last jetty, we caught a ghostly movement: the owl had been accompanying us unseen.

Snowy Owl Bridgeport city lights across salt marsh

Snowy Owl
(Bridgeport city lights across salt marsh)

It finally flew on beyond our vision, a living light adventuring into the
longest night.

Last sight of Snowy Owl

Last sight of Snowy Owl

.

In Memoriam: Ernest E. Tucker (1921-2013)

EET, always young at heart

EET, always young at heart


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Dinosaur-Shaped Eyes

An animal’s eyes have the capacity of a great language.

Martin Buber, I and Thou  [1]

Barred Owl Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Barred Owl
Lincoln Park, West Seattle

These owl eyes speak the language of the night, where owls live and move and have their being. In the morning, under this owl’s winter perch, I find the small gray pellets that are the story of the previous night’s successful hunt: tiny jaw fragments interlaced with fur, a femur, a scapula. Silently sailing through the dark forest, scanning for signs of prey, owls read a visual language lost to us in our diurnal speech.

Can imaginative presence help us glimpse the owl’s language? Let’s look at a scene from the forest at night, first through our own eyes, then through the eyes of the owl. Here’s the human image.

2013-9-29_0041-v2-Mouse (b) in darkened scene, human vision-Trileigh Tucker

Forest scene to human eyes

Not a lot of information here that we can use, right? Here’s how an owl might see the scene.

Owl perception of forest night scene

Simulated owl perception of forest night scene

Like other animals that are fluent in night-language, owls have eyes that are beautifully equipped to read light and shadows. How do they do this? Eyes have two different ways of interpreting light: rods are the cells in eyes that are activated just by receiving photons, and cones are tickled by specific wavelength ranges. In owl eyes, the rods are much more densely packed than those of diurnal creatures. Since color isn’t that important at night, evolution has benefitted owls by allocating more retina real estate to those cells (rods) that give them helpful night information.

Here’s another way that owls’ eyes are adapted to help them read better at night. Look at the shape of this young Barred Owl’s cornea:

Juvenile Barred Owl showing corneal curvature

Juvenile Barred Owl showing corneal curvature

His eyes’ dramatically curved shape, in combination with the widely expandable pupils you can see in the first photo, helps him gather light from many directions. When all those photons get to the very large retinas at the back of his eyes, they provide lots of information to his brain to help him read the forest to find food.

Owl eye structures

Owl eye structures

Given how important they are, it’s not surprising that the owl’s eyes take up so much space in his head that there’s only a thin divider between them—so thin that light from one eye can filter through into the other. Jerry Waldvogel has pointed out that if our eyes were proportionally the same size as the owl’s, they’d be as big as tennis balls in our heads! [2]

Finally, our owl is unusual even among birds in that the place on his retina with the sharpest vision (the fovea) is packed with rods, not cones, giving him enhanced sight where he focuses. So when the owl’s amazing hearing helps him focus on a movement in the forest scene above, he might see something like this:

A mouse in the forest!

A mouse in the forest!

And once his attention becomes riveted:

Fleeing mouse

Tonight’s dinner?

While it is the owl’s exquisite hearing that lets him finally decide where to pounce, his remarkable night vision helps him read the forest, so that he can navigate his way through and hone in on his prey’s location.

* * * * *

We used to be creatures of the night, too. Our earliest mammal ancestors lived their lives in the Mesozoic darkness—and our eyes tell that history.

As I’ve noted previously, most humans’ eyes contain three different types of color-sensing cells. Each type is most sensitive to a particular light wavelength (medium blue, green-yellow, or orange), and our brains interpret the combination of signals sent by all types to yield our sense of color. This gives us a wonderful visual dimension beyond what many mammals can perceive; for instance, dogs and cats have just two types of color sensors.

But most birds have four-color vision, generally including a separate kind of cell that is sensitive to ultraviolet. They inherited this rich way of seeing their world from their dinosaur ancestors, who probably also could see a much more colorful world than we can. Although there’s currently no way we can truly envision or simulate how it would be to see this way, I imagine that the forest scene in daylight might look something like this to such a bird (right), compared to human vision (left):

Forest view-human (L), bird (R)

Forest view-human (L), bird (R)

These birds’ eyes speak a syntax of saturation, words of hues: the ultimate “colorful language” of which we can only dream. Why did we mammals lose some of our ability to sense colors?

Because we were scared of dinosaurs.

Back in the Mesozoic when they first appeared, little mammals would have made a nice snack for a hungry dinosaur—most of whom hunted during the day.

Uh-oh. (Simulated early mammal and dinosaur. Photo and art by Trileigh Tucker.)

Uh-oh.
(Simulated early mammal and dinosaur.
Photo and art by Trileigh Tucker.)

So our ancestors scuttled into hiding places during the day and waited until darkness to emerge (tiptoeing carefully around snoring dinos), learning to hunt by night. Because our little fuzzy forebears’ fancy color vision wasn’t much use at night, space in their retinas was much more valuable for rods that could help them see in the dark, and they eventually lost two of the four types of cones they’d started with. We began our own mammalian history with vision shaped by dinosaur appetites.

Once that handy meteor winnowed out a lot of those big pesky predators and turned the rest into birds, though, mammals could creep out of the darkness and relearn how to live in light. Genetic mutations in many primates and some marsupials recreated a third type of cone, and we humans got lucky and evolved from those lines.

But our history, our dawn in Mesozoic roots, is still told by the stories in our dinosaur-shaped eyes, eyes that once spoke the “great language” of the night. As we encounter the deep gaze of the owl, we can see traces of a shared history, echoes of an ancient intimacy—an eye-Thou relationship of epochal duration.



[1] Buber, Martin, and Walter Arnold Kaufmann. I and Thou by Martin Buber; a new translation with a prologue and notes by Walter Kaufmann. Simon & Schuster, 1970, p. 144.

[2] Waldvogel, Jerry A. “The bird’s eye view.” American Scientist 78, no. 4 (1990): 342-353.

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Traces of Hidden Presence

Yesterday, in the darkness at exactly 6:00 am, I heard a high-pitched screech outside my window, which turned into a squeal. Finally the call evolved into one I recognized: a Barred Owl, the familiar denizen of my park. After a short but fierce inner argument between the Voice That Wanted To Stay In My Warm Bed, and Naturalist Voice, the naturalist won and I dug myself out from under cats and covers, pulled on pants and a jacket, and ventured out into the dark street to try to spot the light-gray owl in the thick trees.

Unfortunately, the conifers along my street were too dense and tall for me to find the owl, who stayed quiet after that. So after my brief foray into the dark morning, I (quite happily) went back inside and crawled back under the covers to read for a while with tea and juice, knowing contentedly that the owl was somewhere nearby.

We humans, as you may have noticed, are pretty much diurnal: we’re active during the day, and if we’re out and about at night, we go where there are artificial lights. You can tell this is what we’re made for by looking at our faces. Continue reading

The Weavers’ Tale

KEEP BACK, the sign said.

2013-7-16_0032-Wasp nest warning sign

That inviting package was wrapped in bright yellow ribbons saying “CAUTION,” so of course I went right over to check it out. **

Wasp nest Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Wasp nest
Lincoln Park, West Seattle

A construction of remarkable beauty hangs from the drooping branches of a Western Redcedar in our neighborhood park. The size and shape of a football, it was finely crafted by the social wasps who built this nursery to house and raise their young. They’re called Dolichovespula arenaria, or aerial yellow jackets. Thankfully, our park’s management made the decision to let their nest stay rather than removing it.

Dolichovespula arenaria (Aerial yellow jacket) wasp nest Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Dolichovespula arenaria (Aerial yellow jacket) wasp nest
Lincoln Park, West Seattle

The outer sheath looks like a watercolor painting: fibers of different tones from a brown palette woven together into diffuse stripes. (Or perhaps like bacon, if you’re reading this in the morning before breakfast.) The meandering colors evoke a landscape of flowing rivers or rock strata warped into waves over eons.

Woven fibers of wasp nest Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Woven fibers of wasp nest
Lincoln Park, West Seattle

The nests are made, like so many homes here in the Northwest, by utilizing timber from our local forests. In the wasps’ case, unlike ours, the homebuilders don’t fell the trees; the workers harvest snags or chew wood that humans have already cut and put to use as sheds, fences or decks. In fact, if you’re sitting quietly in your backyard in spring or summer, you might hear a tiny gnawing that, with good eyes and an attentive mind, you can trace to a small yellow-and-black insect working at the nearby fence. (Click here for a video of a different kind of wasp chewing wood.)

Where do these colors come from, I wonder? Perhaps each brown or tan or buff stripe represents the type of wood gathered by one particular wasp at one particular place: your neighbor Mary’s beautifully weathered gray fence, or the dead dark-brown Douglas Fir that provided a home to last spring’s Pileated Woodpecker family. The foraging wasp has chosen a harvest site for her own reasons—maybe she thought its hue especially beautiful, or she found its taste exquisite. She flies back to the nest, chewing the fibers and mixing them with her saliva, then deposits the paste on the rim left by the last worker, creating a band whose color tells the story of her journey, her destination, her work.

Wasp at nest entrance. Note her vertical mandibles.

Dolichovespula arenaria wasp at nest entrance (note her vertical mandibles). Is she laying down a new band?
Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Look closely at the photo below, and you can find tiny slivers of wood in the saliva paste, each color band a memoir, the multi-toned sheath a tale told in layers, as all good tales must be.

Aerial yellow jacket nest closeup Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Aerial yellow jacket nest closeup
Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Within its protective cover, the nest holds the precious young, one larva in each cell. Here’s what the inside of this nest might look like:

Nest development for aerial yellow jackets. (a) Nest starts with twisted stem and initial cell. (b) Queen nest with beginning of layered envelope. (c) Mature nest with many cells, enclosed within sheath. Figure (14.62) and information from Wenzel, John W. "Evolution of nest architecture." The social biology of wasps (1991): 480-519.

Nest development for aerial yellow jackets. (a) Nest starts with twisted stem and initial cell. (b) Queen nest with beginning of layered envelope. (c) Mature nest with many cells, enclosed within sheath.
Figure (14.62) and information from Wenzel, John W. “Evolution of nest architecture.” In Ross and Matthews, The social biology of wasps (1991): 480-519.

Skilled caregivers go out and capture insects, then feed them to the growing young. After the larvae have extracted their own nutrition, the remnants then become concentrated food for the adults. Children feed their parents in diverse ways in many species, before they leave home to become part of new colonies.

A wasp nest in the forest: a finely bound book of family stories, quests and adventures, children raised and launched—all set in a particular landscape that is quite literally embedded in the woven text whose fragmented and rewoven pieces hold a community together. A good reason for an orange cone and some yellow CAUTION tape; we surely want to keep it safe in our natural library.

* * * * *

** Footnote: Please be very, very careful around wasp nests! If you disturb the nest, the wasps are likely to come out and spend their energy defending the nest instead of maintaining it and taking care of their young. They may also label you with a pheromone that, as you’re running away, will alert any other wasps along your path to come after you…not a good way to spend a sunny summer afternoon. For you or the wasps.

Arachnitecture: Season of Spiders

Oscar has once again made her summer home in a corner of my bathroom.[1]

Oscar in our bathroom. Discarded debris from his meals is below his web.

Oscar in our bathroom.
Discarded debris from her meals is below her web.

The season of spiders began here a couple of months ago, with the appearance of the first obvious webs in dark corners. Then I began having to dodge webs strung across my favorite forest paths. Now they’re all over, indoors and out, helping their owners make a living extracting bugs from their territories.

My grandmother called all spiders “Oscar” and allocated them an honored status in her home on Dauphin Island, Alabama. Oscars ate the mosquitoes and gnats that plagued us kids on our spring-break visits to her dockside ranch house. So although some of my best friends are arachnophobes, I’ve always enjoyed having spiders around.

This Oscar’s dining room is a tangle-web, an extravagantly three-dimensional array of strands that’s particularly difficult for the unfortunate prey to find its way out of. Maybe that explains why Oscar’s so healthily chubby. (My cleaning habits have nothing—nothing, I sayto do with that.)

Some of my forest spider friends, the Cross Spiders, build those familiar iridescent orb webs that catch the light so beautifully.

Cross spider's orb web Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Cross spider’s orb web
Lincoln Park, West Seattle

By autumn, they’ll drape the forest as spiders grow larger and need more prey.

Forest air filled with webs; look closely to see them at all levels

Forest air filled with webs; look closely to see them at all levels.
Click on the photo to enlarge.

Here’s the exquisite builder of those shimmering dreamcatchers:

Cross Spider Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Cross Spider
Lincoln Park, West Seattle

But my current favorite is the Sierra Dome Spider, who builds this wonderful Buckminster-Fullerish type of web, about four to seven feet off the ground, specially designed to capture bugs rising from the vegetation below: an angel’s tiara accidentally left behind in the forest.

Sierra Dome Spider's web Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Sierra Dome Spider’s web
Lincoln Park, West Seattle

Such a stunning home also draws romance.[2] Male Sierra Dome Spiders, dreaming of love, are attracted to females with their striking dome nests—and see how beautiful she is! That lovely orange thorax, those delightfully translucent blue legs!

Sierra Dome Spider

Sierra Dome Spider

But after their romantic encounter, he’ll then destroy her nest by rolling all those carefully placed threads into a ball, to keep other males from sniffing around. She has to rebuild the whole thing, strand by strand, in order to feed herself.[3]

Tangle-webs, orb webs, dome webs: three different architectures, each tailored for what its builder needs. But there are a few essential functions they all have to fulfill. They have to be able to trap prey and hold it long enough for the spider to get there. They have to hold the weight of the spider. They have to be able to stay basically intact under the influence of a struggling bug, and as the spider wraps and removes her prey. And they have to be strong enough to withstand wind and rain.

Cross Spider with wrapped prey

Cross Spider with wrapped prey

Look at her web after she’s trapped and removed prey. It’s full of gaps where strands have been broken.

Cross Spider's orb web showing prey damage

Cross Spider’s orb web showing prey damage

Yet removing one thread, or even many, doesn’t cause the whole thing to collapse.[4] Spiders have developed the ability to produce different kinds of silks to serve the various functions of different parts of their web.

For instance, consider the strands that are sticky to capture bugs. Most solid materials break more easily if there’s already a surface rupture. To keep such initial cracks from developing, spiders coat their capture threads with a watery coat that lets those strands absorb vibrations more easily, giving them more elasticity. That means they can hold the prey longer, giving the spider time to get there.

Spiders’ strands also have a strange but really useful three-part response to being tugged. The whole web of threads shimmies with the prey’s wiggling (alerting the spider to its presence), holding together, but as the bug’s struggling puts more stress on the threads near it, they suddenly get very pliant, taking the stress off of more distant threads—which can then continue to hold up the web. Finally, under lots of stress, the buggy silk once again gets stiff, meaning it will break at the stress point, leaving the rest of the web intact.

On the other hand, when wind puts equal stress on the whole web (as opposed to a bug stressing mainly one thread), the whole thing stays strong. Amazingly strong, in fact: your neighborhood spider’s web can stand up to hurricane-force winds.

These architectural marvels are everywhere during this season of spiders. Even though “you’re never more than three feet from a spider” is probably one of those spider myths, there’s probably one closer than you think.[5] Thank Oscar for his excellent work next time you see her.

Sierra Dome Spider, waiting

Sierra Dome Spider, waiting



[1] I have left in embarrassing details about the state of our bathroom to show how helpful he’s being in cleaning it up for us. [back]

[2]  Apparently it works for some humans too; a realtor friend once told me back in my single days that if I were to succeed in buying that adorable quirky little cottage tucked into a Seattle greenbelt, I wouldn’t remain single for long. Although I did not buy that particular quirky cottage, I did later buy another. I did not remain single for long. [back]

[3] My companion has not yet destroyed my home, although he is planning some extensive remodeling. [back]

[4] Unlike a major bridge in my state. [back]

[5] Sorry, arachnophobe friends. [back]