Cross Orb Weaver

Day 336: Araneus diadematus, the Cross Orb Weaver or Cross Spider was introduced from Europe and is now perhaps one of the most common spiders seen in the Pacific Northwest. I call them "big traingular garden spiders," or more precisely, "Oh, shit! It's on me! I ran full-face into it! Where is it? Get it off me!" The male (shown here) is substantially smaller than the female, but often builds his web adjacent to hers, there to hang facing downward as he awaits a disturbance in his net. I doubt he's expecting anything as large as me, and it was only by Mother Nature's good grace that I didn't set off his monitoring system as I bent over to examine something else in my garden. It generally takes a couple of mishaps each fall before I start paying better attention to where I'm going. Spiderwebs are a hazard every mushroomer knows, and while I'd prefer not to emerge from the woods covered in gossamer, the thought of having a cross-as-in-cranky Cross Orb Weaver somewhere on my person is even less appealing. What is it about spiders which raises the neck-hairs on most of us, even those who love caterpillars and other crawly things? I'll admit it freely: I'm an arachnophobe, if not to the point of panic, certainly to the outer fringe of "freaked." But a single big triangular garden-variety Orb Weaver is better than a nest of little gold baby spiderlings slung right where I'll hit them as I exit through my front door.

Cross Orbweaver, Araneus Diadematus

Day 333: I've always called these "big triangular garden spiders," frequently prefaced with a scream when I discover I've walked into one of their webs and don't immediately know whether or not it was occupied. Fortunately in this case, my subject was on the outside of the window and I was inside which, incidentally, afforded an unusual dorsal view. Araneus diadematus usually presents its ventral aspect, belly to the light. It also invariably hangs head-downward unless hunting. Madame Cross Orbweaver had already scored her dinner and was in the process of putting away the leftovers when this photo was taken. Whatever hapless insect it might have been, she drew it carefully to her mouth parts, rolling it in web fibers as she did so, perhaps mistaking me for a larger predator. You may wonder how I know to call her by a female pronoun. Look at that abdomen. She's bulging with eggs, loaded with potential little baby spiders. Unfortunately for us both, members of this species seem to delight in placing their egg cases directly above my exits. Worse than having this lovely lady crawling up your sock is walking into a curtain of thousands of tiny golden baby Orbweavers, something I manage to do at least once every autumn.

Autumn Hazards

Day 363: My readers, I ask your forgiveness. I cannot give you the Latin taxonomy for this beast, nor can I provide its common name. If I see it at a distance, I refer to it as "one of those big triangular garden spiders." If I become aware of it somewhat after the fact when it has spread its web across the width of my front door, its appellation is too profane to print in this history. I am to some small degree arachnophobic as the result of spending my early childhood in black-widow country with a mother who was terrified of even the tiniest spider, and I have worked very hard to overcome the Pavlovian responses which she inadvertently instilled in me. I can now pick a Daddy-longlegs up by one of its appendages and deliver it safely to the outdoors when I find it sharing my house, but those little sideways-walking crab spiders give me lingering heebie-jeebies even after I have mashed them flat and disposed of the remains.

In the wild, I react less violently when I take a web full in the face, perhaps because I feel I am an intruder into their territory. My home, however, is my sanctuary, and it should be spider-free. When Big Triangular Garden Spider laces my exit shut, I demount him with a stick (assuming he is detected first, of course) and remove him to some location where, I hope, it will be assured that we do not meet again. Some don't take the hint immediately, and have to be unhomed several times. But worst of all are the nests of hatchlings: thousands of tiny gold offspring strung like dewdrops in the spider-silk, nearly invisible to the eye. They are guaranteed to send me racing for the shower, clawing at my hair, my clothes, brushing myself off with the frenzy of a woman gone mad. In that circumstance, I cannot control arachnophobia. It claims me, and possesses me in the bonds of its web.