Fools Gold

Nobody's Fool
by Kurt Zuelsdorf
 
I took another step and felt cobwebs on my face. The eerie sensation of spider webs on skin—in the dark—can drop a grown man to his knees!
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The kayak slid ashore with a hissing whisper onto an island a few miles east of Brooksville. I was on my first self-guided wild boar excursion, and there was no better place to start than a speck on the map called Hog Island! A pungent belch of sulfur fouled the 35-degree air as my foot sank out of sight into the rich earth. I threw a light line around a tree and tied it off to avoid being stranded, left to swim the cold, spooky, tannin-infused waters of the Withlacoochee River.I grabbed a flashlight from my hunt belt, where my Smith & Wesson snake pistol hung reassuringly from a camouflage hip pack. The pack also carried a whistle, matches, ammo, a small tripod and camera, and a useless snakebite kit I had no intention of using after a doctor advised it might cause more harm than good. I carried it only as a reminder of the dangers lurking in Florida swamps.The flashlight beam played tricks with the rising fog. Anything beyond ten feet glimmered with bluish-yellow streaks fanning out in all directions. The distorted light stretched the cone-shaped cypress knees to immense proportions. They bobbed and weaved like dancing wizards in the moonlight until I shut the light off.I sat for an eternity, waiting for my eyes to adjust. My ears strained to hear something—anything. City life had dulled my senses; my vision was weak, and my ears squealed with phantom sirens and noise. I shook my head like an old hound dog with ticks, trying to knock loose the noise pollution, then stood still.The flowing water broke the silence first. The river popped and gurgled over fallen cypress and around the bend, where it churned like boiling black soup. Then an orchestra of swamp life chimed in. Between the bullfrog belches and the crickets’ cracking, alligators growled their mating moans. Distant owls called, “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?” Ahhh… music that salves the soul!I consulted my compass for a northeast heading. I developed the habit of using a compass on a canoe trip with my father when I was eight. We were preparing for a portage through loosely scattered hardwoods when I learned—the hard way! I eagerly grabbed the bow, and Dad hefted the stern. He urged me to check the compass. I laughed, as we had done the same portage earlier that day; I thought I knew where we were. Yeah, right!The first twenty yards slid by quickly. Soon, my narrow shoulders and spindly neck erupted in fatigue. “Time out!” I huffed.“What’s the matter… lost?” Dad chuckled.“No… my shoulders hurt,” I defended.His laughter grew, as did my fatigue with every step. Suddenly, I saw water where I didn’t remember seeing it earlier. My gut told me we’d discovered a secluded pond, a chance to observe wood ducks. When my father dropped his end of the canoe, the aluminum “pung” of the hull echoed through the woods. I snapped my head around, frowning, wondering why he’d blow such an opportunity to watch the colorful woodies.Seconds later, between a laughing jag and a gasp for air, he broke the news: “You’ve walked in a circle, Kurt. This is exactly where we landed twenty minutes ago!” During my dad’s gut-busting, wide-open belly laugh, I realized the importance of a compass. He knew I was circling all along but wanted to drive the point home—as only a dad can. His laughter still rings in my head before I take the first step into the unknown: “Always check your compass!”My plan was to stalk the length of Hog Island, hoping to see feral hogs for the first time. My boots sucked and slurped free from the tar-like mud. Another stinky pocket of swamp gas wafted upward before I reached hard ground. I slipped quietly up a steep bank to a few old oaks, their branches dripping with Spanish moss. The mystical fog added a dimension that defined my dreams of southern swamps—cold, dark, damp, and dangerous to newcomers.I eased through the darkness toward the island’s center, searching for promising signs. Scattered silhouettes of palmetto palms teased my attention with their raspy rustling. I overfilled my lungs with heavy swamp air until I felt light-headed. My senses tingled from the sweet air that healed my “city” body. I stopped again to check my direction. Earlier, unaware, I had stopped just short of a gigantic spider web. As dawn broke, I hadn’t seen it. It stretched an impressive fifteen feet across, elegantly knitted from a small oak to a palmetto and up to a tall cabbage palm.After a compass check and correction, a strong intuition urged me to scrap the original plan and change course. “Nothing doing… you’ll be okay,” said the voice behind my right eyeball. In the predawn darkness, I took one giant step and experienced an “arachniphylactic fit.” Cobwebs hit my face, and my head spun in a spastic twist, knocking my hat off. The semi-thick silk stretched tightly across my body. I spun in circles, arms flailing, trying to free myself until I tripped over a log and fell to my knees. I hunched over, covering my face, hoping I wouldn’t feel eight hairy legs advancing on my body. Sorrowfully, I was wrong.At the base of my exposed neck, something swept back and forth like a low-hanging pine bough brushed by the wind. I slapped my neck, squishing a greasy arachnid into my palm while sweeping another from my hair. A legion of goosebumps swept through me, tingling my spine. I spun like a pup chasing its tail, trying to see myself all at once, then tripped on a family of cypress knees and slid across a muddy slick of grass before regaining composure.I was too busy to notice the pale sun’s morning ascent into the foggy air or the cobalt-blue streak tickling the treetops. When I looked back at the disturbed spider web, the first spear of light shone through the canopy of oaks and palms, catching the web just right. Thick morning dew exposed the hidden gold. The breeze massaged it gently, and light shimmered down the spider’s silk strands. I saw the hole I’d carved and a few smaller spiders in the web. Gruesome displays of bug and beetle carcasses scattered throughout told the tale of an accomplished marksman—a brilliant engineer with a high kill rate and a fancy for gold. Judging by the web’s size, she was much bigger than the ones I’d already met.There, by the web, lay my hat in the dirt. I was about to grab it when I discovered her. She had eluded my frantic body search and taken a stand on my forehead. As big as a man’s hand, her right front leg tested my crinkled forehead. My gasp startled her, and she moved—one leg caught my nose, another hooked my mouth. When she jumped off my cheek, a thick yellow strand of gold silk spewed out, sticking to the side of my head. I swiped and dodged like a madman, in disbelief that she’d been on me so long. I grabbed my hat and tried to shrug it off. For the rest of the day, I could feel her hairy legs on my face.I researched these webslingers when I returned to the world of information (also called the web, haha). What I discovered was fascinating. Sometimes called banana spiders, the yellow orb spider has a remarkable defense mechanism. When confronted, she gathers body hairs with her forelegs—tiny black harpoons with sharp, serrated points. When a predator enters her lair, she flicks the hairs into its eyes. These mini-harpoons burrow into the eyeball, irritating it until they work through to the back, where they dissolve!After reading this, I developed an irritating twitch in my left eye. I try to forget the invasion, but I’m confident the yellow orb spider, protecting her gold with daggers of fear, will always be there… spinning her tricks in the depths of the Florida swamps.