A furious thirst-slaking rain shower took me by surprise last week at the ranch. I drove into it as I made my way south to San Ygnacio, expecting as is often the case, that the storm had missed us and left us the sad surprise of a little sand-pocked mata polvos.
The cloud-to-ground lightning strikes were more fierce than the thunder rumbling in the thick gray clouds, audible only when the momentum of the pounding rain slowed a bit.
The amount of water on the pavement was a good indicator of what the tormenta was unleashing on grass that had grown quickly and then dried after the good late May and early June rains.
As I drove through our gate, I saw the unordinary sight of the bunkhouse and our outdoor kitchen on an island surrounded by their small oval shaped roadway that had filled with runoff making its way to a nearby arroyo. To the east, thanks to this and earlier rains, there was the pond now many times expanded in acres — a feast to these eyes, but now a large change to the look of the land.
The afternoon storm dropped three inches in just a few hours, bringing the total rainfall over the last few weeks to about 12 inches. This lluvia was not accompanied by the destructive high winds of earlier storms that lifted and mangled metal rooftops and cleaved ancient mesquite trees in half.
When it subsided, I slogged through the mud and grasses bent over with moisture, enjoying the change in temperature and the sense that the land had been blessed with a big drink of water.
Activity on the ground quickly caught my eye, and I moved away from a few jet black tarantulas on an eight-legged march oriented with much purpose, it seemed, to the east. And then I saw the small mud-colored Texas toads everywhere, prompted from their estivation in the soil by the rain. They were eating their first meal in a while of any small insect moving low to the ground.
I love weather. I always have. I love its ability to hold me rapt to the forces of the natural world in its extremes of fury and nurturing restoration. I’ve never minded being alone, safely, in a storm that lights up the night with fierce strobes of white lightning.
Te aguantas.
I recall as though yesterday, a particularly violent storm 25 years ago. While locking the ranch gate near midnight to drive into Laredo, a gust of wind took my hat and sent it sailing down Ranch Road 3169. It bounced on the tarmac like a tumbleweed. I ran after it until I caught it, walking back to the truck against the wind, the headlights illuminating a rainfall that was now coming down in sheets.
So much depended on that hat.
(NOTE: The eminent biologist Dr. Tom Vaughan apprised me that the tarantulas were male and looking for a mate; and that the toads could retreat to their earthen slumbers once the temperatures rose again.)
Dr. Vaughan, the original “Professor Cool”…. Right on! Lately I’ve come across more than the usual number of tarantulas as I bike the private road east of Loop 20. I figure it’s that time of the year where Mamá Naturaleza gives our furry Arachnid cousins that hormonal urge to procreate. Gotta love Mamacita!
Tarantulas have always fascinated and horrified me…. as a child growing up at P10 Fort Mac near the river, my friend Billy Clifford and I used to search for the largest tarantulas we could find, hang them (live) on our shirts like a badge of honor, and march into either parent’s home and amaze and terrify anyone who noticed the hairy creature hanging from our shirts.
Today I give the tarantula a wide birth. It’s amazing how our attitude can change from age six to 71!