Wildlife

I just returned to southern Utah after 21 days in the Sierra.  While working there I had many wildlife encounters:  I heard the coyotes, saw two bears cross my path, and was startled repeatedly in the woods by quail.  None of this, however, was as vexing as the varmint population with which I cohabitated.  Indeed, it was much more dangerous indoors than out.  I killed one mouse inside my rental car, for example.  Another mouse I killed in the shower by whacking it with a toilet cleaning brush.  But, the mice were nothing compared to the spiders.  I had them in my bed, in my sink, in my clothes.  After the first sleepless night, this is what I wrote:

"For this tour it looks as though I'll be bunking in the barracks at the Glen Meadow Work Center.  The building assigned to me is really just a grungy double-wide set up something like a college dorm . . . only dirtier.  I moved into a room on the end of the building and evicted three or four small spiders that I found there.  I was exhausted from a 12 hour drive, so I immediately pulled out my sleeping bag and got settled.  As my eyes closed, however, I noticed a spider on the ceiling above me.  Now, I'm not one to exaggerate spider sizes like others do—well, my sister, for one—so you can believe me when I say that this thing was the size of a 50-cent piece.  For a moment, I wondered if the Sierra had tarantulas—it was that big.  Anyway, I got up and grabbed a wad of paper towel.  My plan was to make one quick grab—pin it, squish it, and remove it all at once.  I got into position and struck.  Hard.  The thing about spiders, as with other wildlife, is that you don't want them to know you're afraid, so you have to move with confidence.  My aim was perfect.  I had, however, failed to account for the flimsiness of the drop ceiling.  As my hand hit it, the ceiling tile lifted, retracting upward and blunting the force of my blow.  The movement of the tile also provided the monster with space for retreat:  It pulled back into the ceiling.  I let the tile drop and managed to pin the spider between the asbestos and the frame.  Unfortunately, every time I tried to jab at it again, I only managed to shift the tile such that the spider could pull further into the ceiling.  Finally, there were just a couple of legs showing, and, eventually, even those were gone.  I had, apparently, wounded the animal, while failing completely in my attempt to remove it.  The only thing worse than sleeping beneath a giant spider is sleeping beneath an angry giant spider.  It haunted my dreams."