The Tarantulas of Pie Town
I
was eighteen the summer I worked on a ranch in southern
New Mexico. My rancher-father asked the owner of the place
to take me on, wanting me to have exposure to ranch life
away from home.
I was low in the pecking order because I was a girl and because the more experienced cowhands considered me “green.” I had grown up on a ranch and knew quite a bit about handling a horse, but letting this be known outright would have been seen as bad manners.
I was assigned a place to sleep, a bunk to myself in a tiny utility room off the back of the main house. I had my own horse and saddle, a blanket, a bridle, and saddlebags.
The
boss handed me chaps, leather coverings tied around the
legs while working with cattle. He gave me a stiff new rope
and a spot for my gear in the tack room.
My duties were not glamorous. I helped the cook, washed
up after meals, and kept the branding fires going. I was
ranch seamstress, although my sewing was nothing to brag
about. I sewed buttons on the men’s shirts, and mended
ropes and straps using a three-inch needle and heavy waxed
thread.
The day came when the chief wrangler told me to saddle up and help cut calves from the herd for branding. I was excited at the prospect of getting back on a horse, certain I could work the cows and calves as well as any cowhand.
My horse was a trained cutting horse. She knew how to separate, or cut, individual calves away from bunches of nervous young animals milling in the corrals. Each time a calf was drawn apart from the others, its ankles were briefly bound, a brand was placed on its left hip, and the bawling baby was released into the herd.
My horse and I won grudging respect for the way we handled ourselves. At supper the men were more open and accepting, even talkative.
I told them I wanted to be a writer and illustrator, that I loved natural history. I said I’d always been fascinated by spiders, especially the big hairy tarantulas you see in the deserts of southern New Mexico.
“Those spiders sure do seem to favor this soil,” one cowboy said. “Sandy and dry.”
All
of the cowboys feared tarantulas. They refused to agree
when I said tarantula venom is like a bee sting to a grown
human, no problem unless you’re allergic.
We got along better after my “breakthrough”
day cutting calves. I almost felt like one of the boys.
I was still the brunt of practical jokes, which are a favorite
activity of cowboys anywhere you meet them.
I relaxed and let my guard down when the ranch crew took a holiday trip to Pie Town.
It was Saturday. We drove to Pie Town in the pickup. It was hot, dusty, and hard to breathe riding in the bed of the truck.
“A swim would feel good,” I ventured.
“There’s
a pool in Pie Town,” one cowboy said. “You can
swim there.”
In town we parked in front of a café-grocery-gas-station
combination.
“Pool’s
out back,” the chief wrangler said.
“I
can swim in my shorts and T-shirt?”
“Sure thing,” one of the men said. “You’ll
dry off in no time.”
Then came the tip-off.
“There’s one rule, though,” a cowboy said.
“What’s that?” I asked, suspicious at once.
“Newcomers
here have to wear a bandanna across the eyes first time
in the pool.”
I knew something was up, but how bad could it be? I considered
what to do. I agreed to the blind-fold because I wanted
badly to be accepted as part of the group. I couldn’t
face backing out at this point.
Eyes
covered, feeling foolish but game, I was led to what turned
out to be a child’s wading pool. I stepped in and
felt a quivery movement in the water. Something was already
swimming there.
I ripped off the blindfold and stared into the tiny blue pool. Six huge tarantulas were swimming about in slow motion. Their legs brushed against my calves as they cruised in lazy circles.
“Whoa!” I yelled, leaping out.
“Thought you said you didn’t fear these critters?” one of the men said. He was nearly doubled over, laughing.
“Don’t take it personal,” one cowboy said. “We do this to green-horns every summer.”
I was more shocked than afraid. I stuck around awhile and watched the spiders. Like me, they were hotter than was comfortable and trying to cool off.
I noticed the wading pool was old, with patches and sagging sides.
“The café owner knows about the spiders,” a cowboy said. “They come for a swim on hot days. The owner, he keeps clear of the spiders, but he runs water into the pool for their sakes.”
It struck me as just what a cowboy-out-west person would do: fear something and be kind to it at the same time.
After this trip to Pie Town I was treated no differently from any other cowhand on the ranch. I’d won my spurs.
