Tarantula
Photo by Unsplash
Liz chose the larger bedroom. The spacious walk-in closet and a window view of the lake—visible only on tiptoes—made her pre-teen decision easy. She covered her walls with boy band posters and filled her shelves with knick-knacks from her fleeting childhood.
Inside her walk-in closet was a rickety plywood attic door. It opened into a large, unfinished space above the first story, crammed with rafters, air conditioning ducts, insulation, and a discarded 1970s roof-mount antenna. As Liz would soon discover, the attic would become the perfect hideaway for teenage contraband and a cozy home for bats.
One summer evening, while Liz was in her bedroom organizing, her favorite band played on the stereo. She straightened her dresser and reattached posters with thumbtacks, completely relaxed. As she reached for clothes to hang in the closet, she turned and froze—a tarantula was crawling up her bedroom wall.
Liz hates spiders. She always has, always will. When we lived in the city, she feared the harmless, tiny spiders—the jumping ones, and the daddy-long-legs, and she relied on David to squash them for her. Liz jumped onto her bed and screamed, “Oh my God! Get it out! Get it out!” Everyone rushed to Liz’s room. A gigantic black tarantula, the size of a hand, clung to a musician’s face on a boy band poster. Even though we knew it wasn’t nice to laugh at her in a tizzy, we couldn’t help ourselves. It is curious how fear can unravel people so quickly, or why humor is often found in someone else's panic.
Because tarantulas are too big to squash, and since we now considered ourselves country folk, I watched as David grabbed a paper bag to catch and release the spider. Startled, the tarantula sprinted up the poster, escalating the chaos. When it stopped, David climbed onto a chair, opened the bag, and, using a pencil, flicked it inside. That spider landed with an audible thump. Holding the bag at arm’s length, with a procession behind him, David carried the tarantula downstairs, out the front door, and into the yard.
The evening was windy, with gusts reaching 25 mph. At the release, we expected the tarantula to scurry to safety, up a tree or into a crevice. We’d then praise ourselves as responsible caretakers of nature. But things didn’t go as planned. When David opened the bag, the wind tore it from his hands. Swept up, the bag and spider rocketed over the neighbor’s house and vanished. We looked at each other and shrugged, disinterested to save it.
Tarantulas are common at Cook Peak. At first, their presence can startle, but once the initial shock passes, they’re no more frightening than a butterfly. It’s striking how swiftly the extraordinary becomes ordinary, and even our deepest fears dull with familiarity.
Most tarantulas at Cook Peak are males searching for mates, especially during their fall migration. Still, sometimes—like during a summer downpour—seeing them climb the stucco on our house for safety bothers me. Few squeeze through holes under the eaves into the attic.
After that day, Liz made sure the attic door was tightly shut.
