The outback is out to get me: part 2

There's something very disturbing about an eight-legged creature that wraps up its prey alive in a web. When I was small, I was terribly afraid of spiders, so much so that when I heard that people swallow on average eight spiders while sleeping within their lifetime, I didn't ever want to go to bed again. (I have only very recently learned that this rumor is a complete myth, started by someone who wanted to prove how gullible people are.)

My arachnophobia has long since disappeared, but a faint sense of dread still manages to creep up on me sometimes whenever I lay eyes on a particularly large spider that isn't behind a pane of glass. The definition of a phobia requires that the fear be irrational, but I feel that being afraid of spiders is a very rational thing.

Especially here. You've got the funnel web spider, a massive critter that will go aggro all over you should you have the misfortune of coming within fifteen feet of its cyclone-shaped web. And then you have the infamous orb weavers that can spin webs spanning ten meters that you won't even see until it’s up in your grill and you're screaming.

Determined not to fall under the same wretched fate as the most carefree and unsuspecting tourists, I assumed a state of constant vigilance.

At first, we didn't really see any spiders; the hilly, semi-arid deserts of Owiendana, Mount Goddard, and Hellard's Well were sparse of the trees and large bushes necessary for webs, considering the high winds. But Warraweena--oh my god, Warraweena was like an old growth arboreal forest in comparison.

The place was prime grounds for the orb weavers. That they were everywhere is an understatement. As we drove through the dense woodlands, I could see them waiting to ambush us from above, dangling from webs that stretched across the canopy of the dirt road from tall evergreen to evergreen. From my window I could see that between every passing tree trunk was a web, either abandoned or occupied with a spider the size of my palm. And I mean it when I say every passing tree trunk.

The only safe haven was the creek bed, where the branches of the ancient gum trees lining the banks were so high that I could not discern whether or not they harbored more of the horrible creatures--for my sanity's sake, I didn't look too carefully.

It was in light of this situation of being completely besieged by orb weavers that I decided to adopt my first rule for survival in the outback: always let the grad student walk in front.

The morning of our first foray into the thicket, I confided in Jon my worst fear: a tornado that swept up the entire local population of orb weavers into a spinning vortex, only to dissipate above our heads and barrage us with a cannonade of webs and eight-legged death.

His response was a spider-themed rendition of "It's Rainin' Men, Hallejuiah!" (I'm sure you can guess the lyrics.)

And all throughout the traverse that morning, as I grimaced with every step through the seemingly impenetrable forest, his harrowing voice was singing that song, intermixed with the occasional "Spiderman, Spiderman" jingle. 

The days passed like so, with Jon walking face first into a spider-filled web once in a while with me watching safely from behind.  I too had a few close run-ins myself when I took slight deviations from his path (never, never again).  Like jewel thieves breaking into a vault of laser-protected gemstones, we maneuvered ourselves between the treacherous threads surely woven to stop us from conducting science. Once we figured out where we wanted to sample, we took the spiderless path of the meandering creek to our desired location, even though this way took much longer to walk.

We had only been in the forest during daylight, when we could at least passingly see the webs and their occupants glistening under the sunlight. But one day, we worked really late into the afternoon, and it was nearly dusk by the time we had collected our last carbonate sample.  Camp was over four kilometers away, as the crow flies, thus surely further way by creek. As we hurried back, darkness fell and it was time to take out the headlamps. The GPS said we were only 800 meters away now... 700... 650... 700... 800?

We were clearly lost. Probably went up a branch of a tributary that we weren't supposed to take--the rocks beneath our heavy feet and the shadows of nearby trees were unfamiliar to us. We had no choice but to go into the forest.

And it was at this point, as our headlamps were dimming from long use, when my imagination got the best of me.  In my head, a thousand spiders were descending upon me, their webs blocking out the sun, the cause of the blackness around me. Every brush of a branch across my skin was a spider, and every rustle of leaves beside us was some variation of Shelob or Aragog. We continued to crouch and maneuver ourselves to avoid webs, but now it felt as if we were political prisoners escaping the borders of an authoritarian state.

But eventually, the dirty white facade of the Beast came into view. Like a beacon, it gleamed under the light of our headlamps as we approached. As soon as we reached camp, we dropped our packs and Tim-Tamed it up. Chocolate does you wonders when you've just come face to face with your fears (Dementors, anyone?).

Note: Funnel web spiders are no where near Southern Australia, so we're pretty safe--have no fear!