On a cold September morning in 2019, as the sun was rising over the South San Juan Mountains, I was sitting outside on my patio, writes Deirdre Rosenberg. I was attempting to stave off an oncoming panic attack, hoping that the crisp air and morning light would soothe the anxieties building in my brain.
The past few months, years really, had been filled with tremendous loss. I was unsure how to process my grief. Isolation and despair sat heavily on my shoulders, and panic attacks had become a regular occurence. I had done everything I could think of to quell these intrusive bouts of anxiety – reaching out to loved ones, breathing exercises, journalling – and was beginning to feel guilt that my mental state was not improving. And so the spiral of depression continued.
How my love of tarantulas started
Just as I was beginning to feel the urge to go inside and get back into bed, I noticed a slight movement on the ground a few feet in front of me. Leaning in to get a better look, I was shocked to see a very large and furry black spider - a wild tarantula! In disbelief I stared, rooted to the spot, as this velvety creature meandered over the fallen autumn leaves. In all my years living on the Colorado Plateau, I had never witnessed such a thing. I stood up slowly and went inside to grab my camera, hoping my movements wouldn’t startle the spider away.
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When I returned, the tarantula was still there, wandering about, but in no apparent rush. I began to take some photos, noticing how the flame-orange hairs on its black matched the fallen scrub oak leaves littering the ground. Through my lens I bore witness to its little eyes, tiny feet and fuzzy features.
It had a rather cute face, and I was taken aback by how much this spider looked like a stuffed animal; a child’s toy. I was entranced, and, though it took me a while to realise it, my heartbeat had slowed; my breathing had become steady. Relief came with eight legs that morning.
Looking up what I had just experienced. I quickly gleaned that I had observed the Grand Canyon black tarantula (Aphonopelma marxi), a species endemic to the higher elevation regions of the Four Corners area, where Colorado, Utah, New Mexico and Arizona converge. I also learned that the individual I had been in company with would have been a male seeking a mate. September is the kick off to the breeding season, with males roaming far and wide to find females, who wait expectantly in their burrows.
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Like most wildlife aficionados, my curiosity led me down the path of researching like a madwoman over the next few weeks, learning everything I could about the tarantulas of the southwest United States. I became tapped into their lives, excitedly looking out every day for males on the move, and even having some luck: three new sightings in as many weeks. I was well on my way to becoming a true tarantula friend, able to understand some of their more predictable behaviours and what I could expect from a typical encounter.
As any avian enthusiast will tell you, birdwatching is beneficial to mental health. Conditions such as depression, stress and anxiety can be greatly reduced by observing the lives of wild birds. And here I was, experiencing similar benefits while observing wild tarantulas. The thrill of being in their company felt refreshing.
Their slow movements allowed me to relax and notice little worlds. And their interesting behaviours and beautiful colouring left me in a constant state of wonder and awe. The more I learned, the more interested I became in observing more species in the wild. As a wildlife photographer and advocate of misunderstood creatures, tarantula watching felt like a natural fit.
Just as birdwatchers travel enthusiastically hoping to catch a glimpse of elusive and rare birds, ticking off species from their lists, so it became a favourite pastime of mine to seek out different tarantula species in the Southwest. I wanted to observe as many wild tarantulas as I possibly could. I found myself road-tripping from Colorado to New Mexico to Arizona, eventually making it all the way to Nevada and California.
How many tarantulas are there in the Southwest United States?
About 30 species of tarantula call the Southwest United States home, with new species discovered often, such as Aphonopelma johnnycashi, described by Chris Hamilton in 2016.
In fact, Hamilton and his team discovered 14 new tarantula species during a decade-long study, including miniature tarantulas. From Oklahoma to California, tarantulas have evolved and adapted to thrive in a wide array of habitats, from grasslands to mountain foothills; low desert to chaparral.
If there is a spider capital of America, it has to be Arizona - the fifth-largest and most biodiverse state in the country. Tarantulas are most commonly sighted here, and in fact, the state boasts at least 16 endemic species.
In the Tortolita Mountains north of Tucson, encounters with the Arizona Blond tarantula (Aphonopelma chalcodes) are common, while the Chiricahuan gray tarantula (Aphonopelma gabeli) is regularly sighted in the Chihuahuan Desert of southeast Arizona. Near Kingman, you might come across Aphonopelma mareki, and in the Tombstone area, Aphonopelma vorhiesi. And of course, there’s the Grand Canyon tarantula Aphonopelma marxi – my first sighting – which roams the famous landmark of northern Arizona.
Tarantula spotters
Given the sheer diversity of species and frequency of sightings in Arizona, I focused much of my tarantula time here. And it was in Arizona that I found my fellow tarantula-people. Just as birders have large networks of folks creating communities and fostering stewardship through birding, a network of arachnid-lovers is doing the same. In this community, people aim to change the narrative on spiders, and remove the fear and stigma associated with arachnids.
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As I entangled myself further in the web of tarantula watching, I met PhD candidate Jackie Billotte, who has dedicated her life to studying tarantulas. Through Jackie, I learned of the biggest tarantula meet-up in the country: La Junta, Colorado’s tarantula festival, where spider friends gather from near and far to celebrate the autumn mating season. I knew I had to attend.
And so I found myself in the Comanche National Grasslands on Colorado’s eastern plains, spending night after night waiting for the sun to set. There were a number of us, all arrived in La Junta from different parts of the country to witness Texas brown tarantula (Aphonopelma hentzi) males out in large numbers on the mission of their lives: the quest to mate.
With a subtle movement in the grasslands, the first few individuals appeared. They quickly ambled through the grasses and across the gravel roads. During this time, male tarantulas roam up to 30km in the pursuit of finding a suitable mate. En route, they may meet their demise under the tyres of vehicles, at the jaws of a very large wasp aptly named the tarantula hawk, or those of other predators such as snakes and birds. The journey is treacherous, and even if a male finds a female, the danger does not end there. If a female is receptive to mating, there is a good chance she will kill him after the deed, feasting on him to sustain herself.
Regardless of how a male tarantula meets his end, when he sets out looking for a female, it is the last journey he'll ever take. Males cease to eat and become singularly focused on their final mission in life. Whether they fulfill that mission or not, all the males who begin this journey will be dead by winter.
Standing under a pink- and orange-splashed sky in what felt like the middle of nowhere, witnessing these tiny animals looking for love, I found myself tearing up on more than one occasion. It felt as if what I was watching was the only thing that mattered in that moment. Every so often, Mother Nature gives us a healthy dose of perspective. I never thought watching a tarantula mating season would impact how I felt about the tribulations I faced in life, but that’s exactly what was happening. Returning home after the festival, I felt a renewed sense of dedication to my subjects. Tarantulas had brought me out of my burrow, so to speak, and for the first time in many years, I had found a community to which I belonged.
Over the next year I began to observe more tarantula behaviour, and my excitement at sightings began to mellow into simple admiration. Southwest tarantulas are terrestrial species and stick to the ground; creating burrows and small tunnel systems to call home. They busy themselves by excavating the soil like little bulldozers, balling it up in a net of web for easy removal with their pedipalps (front set of leg-like digits). I have seen quite a few individuals pop out of their burrows, big balls of dirt in tow to create space under ground. Tarantulas also spend a lot of time grooming, delicately cleaning their legs and abdomens in rhythmic gentle movements. They lead long, solitary lives. Females live as long as 30 years; males typically for eight years.
Tarantulas typically create one burrow to call home. As the years tick by, they may expand their home to include more intricate tunnels and additional chambers. Some tarantulas like to have a chamber just for molting, and another for eating. Some even seem to enjoy the act of redecorating, changing the angle of slopes or the shape of their entrances until they are just right. If the elements or human disturbance disrupts a tarantula's burrow, it will take that as its cue to move to a new location, where it will dig out a new abode. If all goes well, it will be able to call it home for life.
Why tarantulas shouldn't be feared
Tarantulas may be recognised as the stuff of horror films, but they are largely gentle creatures that are integral to the health of our ecosystems. Out in the field, I’ve been able to witness some of the ways in which these arachnids benefit our planet. They are excellent pest controllers, for example, hunting bugs and keeping local populations of invertebrates in check. When out hunting, they rely on a thin network of webbing, combined with the ultra-sensitive hairs that cover their body, to alert them of nearby movement. When they’re sure that their prey is near, they attack. Tarantulas preying on smaller insects and invertebrates is beneficial for maintaining native plant species, and as they seem to thrive on farm margins, they can even be considered natural pest control for agriculture, controlling numbers of problematic creatures such as aphids and locusts.
In the years since my first sighting on that cool September morning, my mental health has improved greatly, even though life is no less stressful. Time with tarantulas has simply taught me to slow down and breathe. To appreciate tiny lives and small worlds. In the company of spiders, intense peace and healing can be found, along with a great reverence for the precious life we are given.
So, next time you spot a spider eight-stepping its way across a road, or in your garden, or even in your house, pause for a moment and observe. Live and let live. You may find that moment changes your life in unforeseen, beautiful ways.
