Before the Next Wonder

After a lifetime in Southern California - all of it within the Santa Ana River watershed - I have come to think of September as the landscape at its driest, especially in west Corona. But, as it happened this week, we found ourselves to be the fortunate beneficiaries of some remnant tropical weather over the Pacific and the sky gods granted us some rare summer rain - a measurable amount too - just over 0.4 inches in one day.

Also rare in the Thome household, we found ourselves at the golf course that rainy evening without our six-year-old daughter, Sloane, who was spending the night with friends, but we did have the pleasure of being accompanied by my mom, my now 10-year-old niece, Emily, and my 7-year-old nephew, Joshua. The kids were excited to play in the rain, which was more of a light sprinkle at this point, and to explore outside. But what they really wanted to see were spiders and bats (can't say I blame them - they're both super cool).

We started out on our usual route and I checked the time to make sure we would make it back in time to see the bats take flight. On a rainy day like that one, the storm clouds hung low in the sky and blotted out what little sunlight remained in the evening. I wanted to leave a little buffer of time in case the low light enticed the bats to leave early. We've been tracking their departure times every evening since mid-August, when we first recorded them leaving their roost at 7:45. During the first week of September, we observed the bats leaving between 7:25 pm and 7:30 pm. My phone screen showed 6:45 pm - we had plenty of time to visit my spider friends and introduce them to my family.

We stopped by the fallen cottonwood log to check in on the photogenic funnel weaver, but for the first time in nearly a month, she wasn't sitting in her web. My nephew bent down and stared into the empty funnel, visibly disappointed that he missed her. Honestly, so was I - she had become a constant presence at the old log. Her web was still in good shape and it was still a bit early in the evening, so we resolved to check on her on our way back.

Our little party of five humans and two fur babies made our way along the golf course fence line occasionally stopping to look at a beetle, or listen for a bird, or throw Lola's faded green frisbee, eventually arriving at the bridge parallel to the BNSF railroad. Looking down at the water beneath us, we could see that the river was higher than it had been the day before. Whether the rise came from local runoff, an upstream release, or both, I couldn't tell.

Josh and I crossed the bridge. Both of us were determined to find a spider and I knew just where to look. About 30 yards past the bridge in a watermelon-sized hole in the ground sat the circular web of the second funnel weaver. This one was a little more camera shy, but its presence was just as constant as the funnel weaver under the cottonwood log. As we approached the hole, I put my arm in front of Josh to hold him back slightly.

“Let me take a peek first. She's shy,” I said.

I knelt down and tilted my head to the side so I could see inside her funnel. Sometimes she could retreat pretty far into the tunnel, but she was usually visible. Peering inside, I saw a chaotic scene that gave me an immediate feeling of panic. Her once orderly funnel was in tatters, and the spider was nowhere to be found. I had no way of knowing whether the rain had damaged the web, whether she had abandoned it, or whether something had happened to her. But in that first moment, the scene looked violent.

A pang of grief flooded my chest. I knew only that she was gone and that her once-orderly web had been destroyed, but in that moment, it felt like evidence of something violent and possibly deadly.

“Her nest is destroyed,” I said aloud.

I didn't have long to grieve because nearby, in the same hole, a black widow had taken up residence and was weaving a web of its own. It had caught the attention of my nephew. “Don't touch that one! It could hurt you.” He inched his fingers away from the hole and stared at me considering whether his auntie was being serious or if I was kidding. I was being serious. It's rare for black widow bites to be lethal, but it certainly wouldn't be an enjoyable experience, especially for a seven-year-old. “Come on, Josh. Let's leave it alone,” I said to him imploringly.

© Lindsey Thome

He desperately wanted to poke that spider with a stick. Or something equally impulsive and ill-advised.

“Can I at least break up the rest of the web?” He was referring to the tattered remains of the funnel weaver's lair.

“No,” I said firmly in an octave higher than my usual register. A pang of sadness hit me again. He's just a kid and not a regular visitor to the golf course. How would he know that this felt like loss to me. That I've been visiting this spider for over a month, that I've been visiting this place for several years - that I had a relationship with this land and its inhabitants. He couldn't have known.

I turned to him and forced an expression of excitement. “I know you want to do something fun. I don't blame you. Let's head back and check out the bats!” His little face lit up with delight at the thought of watching bats careen down the river. “Okay!” he exclaimed.

We headed back over the bridge and caught up with the rest of our party, who were already making the return trip back toward the batty bridge at Green River. On our way back we passed the fallen cottonwood log again and I couldn't help myself. I dipped my head down and peeked into the funnel. My heart dropped. Still not there. Hopefully she retreated to stay out of the rain, I thought. I glanced down at my phone. It was 7:05 - better get a move on.

I walked over and joined my family. Steven took our two dogs and led them down to the truck. My mom was with the kids who were standing on the asphalt service road splashing in the little puddles. I looked at my niece's footwear - thong sandals with white socks, now covered with dirt and soaked with rainwater. Why? I thought. Despite the rainy weather, it was 80 degrees outside, the socks were definitely not necessary. I told her she's getting a citation from the fashion police. She giggled and smiled and said, “I like it like that.”

“Ha! You do you, Boo,” I retorted.

I've got the coolest niece and nephew.

I led them over to the bridge. It was about 7:10 and you could hear the bats squeaking and rustling around under the bridge. It was still a little early, but they sounded restless.

They weren't the only ones.

Josh was busting at the seams. He certainly didn't know what to expect, but he could sense that action was imminent. I had the kids step onto the metal beam at the bottom of the guardrail so they could see over the bridge and get a good look at the river.

“Watch out for the hawk,” I told them. “It swoops down and tries to pick the bats off in mid-air.”

“No way!” Josh exclaimed. Oh yeah, he was going to dig this spectacle. It has everything a seven-year-old boy could want - an old bridge filled with hidden secrets, an explosion of bats, and now a dangerous, killer hawk - tons of action!

The kids stared intently at the river, willing the bats to emerge, but they were nowhere to be seen. You could certainly hear them - and smell them for that matter. Thirty more seconds of waiting felt like an hour with two excited kids.

© Lindsey Thome

Finally, at 7:13, the bats made their earliest debut yet!

At first a few bats trickled out from under the bridge. I looked at the kids. They had huge smiles on their faces and were squealing with excitement. Little did they know, there was so much more to come.

Within seconds, hundreds of bats began streaming down the river forming an aerial current of flapping wings. One bat swooped up and over our heads forming a wide circle over the bridge. It turned suddenly and bolted back toward its peers. It nearly buzzed Joshua's ear as it streaked past us. Emily squealed in delight, and Joshua let out a loud “Whoa!” followed by an excited, “Did you see that? That was crazy!”

Just when I thought the action had peaked, the hawk made its move. Its first strike was a stealthy glide into the streaming flow of bats. Apparently coming up empty, it quickly regrouped and made one more targeted strike, this time following the flow of bats and eventually disappearing into the cottonwood canopy. I looked over at Josh to get his reaction. He was beside himself with joy at witnessing an aerial hunt before his very eyes.

The hawk's strikes always happen so fast and by this time in the evening, light conditions are poor, so I can never tell if the hawk is successful. But it didn't matter. Not tonight. I continued to watch my niece and nephew - their faces lit with excitement, their mouths agape with awe after witnessing the high-speed spectacle before us. I felt very grateful in that moment. I get to see this every night and I was fortunate to be able to share this amazing moment with my family. And tonight, I got to experience it through the eyes of children witnessing this kind of phenomenon for the first time. I hope this is something they never forget and that it leaves a lasting impression on them.

After the excitement had passed, it was time to head home. I held Emily's hand as we sauntered back to the truck, occasionally checking the sky to see if an errant bat was fluttering past. We followed the access road, staying close to the shoulder to avoid the late-night exodus of cars from the golf course. Before we got to the parking lot, I shot a parting glance back at the fallen cottonwood log hosting one of the funnel webs.

I still don't know what happened to the little funnel weaver, and I may never find out. I wanted to believe the rain had driven her deeper into the funnel and that I would see her again on tomorrow's walk, but I knew that was wishful thinking. That's the part of this practice no one tells you about - you don't just witness arrivals. You witness absences too, and you don't always get to grieve them properly before the next wonder shows up demanding your attention.

© Lindsey Thome