Why Tarantulas Make The Best Stuffed Animals - Karl:Mission 89-5
Buzzard hawks are circling overhead and I’m hoping it’s not an ominous sign. Beau is clearly in “The Zone” that seems universal for people that compete at the top of any profession.
I tighten my seatbelt and decide the best thing to do is to try to enjoy this rollercoaster ride over the west Texas hill country. Looking behind us I see a cloud of dust that a tornado would envy.
We cross a shallow ravine with a trickle of water and a generous helping of mud and for a brief second you can smell the moisture in the air. We bounce out the far side of the ravine and all four tires leave the ground for a brief moment before digging back into Texas soil to push us relentlessly forward.
Beau shouts over the wind and motor noise, “You have to move fast or you get lost in your own dust.”
I can see the logic of this but I can also tell that Beau is having way too much fun for it to be the complete explanation.
Suddenly he makes a sharp turn to the left, drives about 15 feet and stops. It was a pro maneuver. The dust cloud that was following us drifts by missing us entirely. A couple of minutes later and we’re enjoying uninterrupted sun and heat. The air is shimmering as if it wants to shed heat too.
“We walk from here.” Beau says.
I grab my stuffocator bag and jump out.
“We have rattlers around here so watch your step. Normally you just have to be noisy and they move out of your way. Today we need to be quiet so we can get close to the tarantulas.” Beau explains in a hushed voice as he heads off through the brush.
I follow stepping as closely as possible in his tracks.
We move silently for the next ten minutes. Sweat pours from every part of our bodies. The dust we kick up mixes with the sweat and cakes to the moisture.
Beau holds up his hand and we stop.
He crouches down and I follow suit.
Whispering in my ear he says, “Just over this hill is a little hole near the base of a Juniper. That’s the last place anyone saw a brown tipped tarantula. If we’re lucky we’ll see one today. Are you ready?”
I nod yes, pull the stuffocator from its bag, and put my hands in the grips. I feel the stuffocator coming to life.
Beau looks at the stuffocator with clear surprise. “He never believed my story but you could see the incredulity in his eyes when he saw the stuffocator. He slowly re-engages with the task at hand and lifts up on one arm to peer over the crest of the dust hill.
I mimic his actions and try to follow his gaze. Across a stretch of about 20 yards is a small depression with a juniper tree on the other side. Carefully I trace the trunk to its base but I don’t see a hole.
“Darn!” I hear Beau say as he stands upright. “Looks like they moved out.”
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