The Spider and the (Open) Fly

I like to think of myself as being sufficiently manly.

Me fishing the Wildcat Creek in central Indiana

I say "sufficiently" because I tend to eschew the trappings of machismo that come with the whole "manly-man" thing. I figure that while I do indeed have the requisite equipment, I needn't wag it in anyone's face, you know? And while I am no daredevil, I am no shrinking violet either. I enjoy pushing myself physically and mentally, and am purely frightened by relatively few things.

I draw the line, however, at spiders. 
In fact, when I asked for Charlotte's hand in marriage, I told her that I would defend her from any foe - foreign or domestic - save for spiders. Insofar as spiders are concerned, it's everyone for him/herself at our house. Case in point: I once considered burning down my house and moving when I failed to kill a rather nasty-looking spider that I found squatting in my bathroom.
 

About 10 years ago,  while wading a remote stretch of the Wildcat Creek near the bustling metropolis of Sedalia, IN, I had an epic encounter with a man-eating spider. Anyone who's ever waded an Indiana creek or river knows that it's not for the faint of heart. Just getting down to the water can be a challenge - and downright dangerous (I have a hip surgery to prove that).

The water can range from just a few inches deep to well over your head and goes from swift to slack, rocky to muddy and everything in between. It's tiring and you are subject to interacting with all sorts of wildlife, including dogs, coyotes, snakes, rabid farmers and all matter of insects. You're also alone in the middle of nowhere and if you get hurt, well, you're going to be there alone in the middle of nowhere for a long time.

None of those things bother me in the slightest. In fact, I dare say the adventure of it all is a huge draw. There's something strangely alluring about being out in the wild away from *any* sign of modern day man (save for yourself). When on these long trips, my fishing vest is loaded with the necessary tackle, along with a variety of survival related gear (flashlight, matches, first aid kit, knife and a variety of other things).

I also learned one day when I ran into a very angry Rottweiler that carrying a sidearm wasn't a half-bad idea. Because I was able to talk fast, the pooch and I both lived to tell the tale, but from that day forward, I started carrying a small, Walther PPK .380-caliber handgun tucked away in my vest where I could get to it easily.

In addition to the aforementioned equipment, my wading vest also has a camelback water bladder in it so that I can carry a couple liters of water with me on longer trips. While keeping you hydrated on hot summer days, it also means you have to answer the call of nature from time to time.

On this particular day when nature rang my bell, I was in a stretch of creek where the banks are both steep and very muddy - and I was about a mile from where I had parked at an old, one-lane bridge. The only way you can even get to where I was at that moment was to have climbed into the creek at a bridge. Otherwise, the bank is so steep, muddy and thick with vegetation, you'd have little or no chance of climbing down it without ending up in a free-fall. The overhang of the trees pretty much blocks out most of the sun and creates a tunnel-like effect that is both cool and just ever-so-slightly creepy.

So, when you're in a spot like this and nature calls, getting into a position in which you can answer that call is tricky. It usually involves wading as close to the creek's edge as you can - though with low, overhanging branches, it's often not as close as you'd like. Hopefully, once you are as close to the water's edge as possible, the necessary parts of your anatomy are no longer below the waterline.

Once you've achieved this precarious position, you then have to hold your fishing rod in your teeth, wriggle out of your fishing vest and hang onto it - remember, there's nowhere to put anything down - get the shoulder straps from your waders down off your shoulders and then push the chest section of your waders down below, well, you know, without letting them fall into the water either.

Now, you're almost home. You just have to unbutton and unzip your pants, and free the beast (sorry, had to).

Once nature has been properly satiated, you reverse the process and hope that you're able to restore everything to it's squared away position.

Well, on this particular day, I had managed to extricate, well, you know, and was in the middle of relieving myself when I felt something crawling down the back of my neck. And I don't mean something small, like a house fly. I mean, large, like a squirrel.

Instinctively, I swatted at the back of my head with my "free" hand, though my "free" hand was holding my vest, which weighs a great deal, the waistband of my pants and the top of my waders. I was also holding my fishing rod between my teeth. As you might imagine, a number of things happened at that very moment:

1. When I swung my left hand at my head, I clocked myself upside my head with my heavy fishing vest. Of course, the part of the vest that made contact with my head was the inner left breast pocket where I had my handgun. I can tell you first hand that being pistol whipped hurts every bit as much as it appears to in the movies.
2. After striking my head with my vest and seeing stars, I dropped said vest into the creek, soaking everything in it that wasn't in a zipper bag.
3. Remember, I was holding the waistband of my jeans, underwear and waders - all of which were just pushed down to mid-thigh. So, when one makes a sudden sweeping move like I did, it sweeps a guy right off his feet. Somehow, I landed on my knees instead of my back or side. Regardless of how I landed, it was still deep enough to allow a lot of water to flow immediately into my waders.
4. When I swung at my head with my left hand, which was holding my vest, my pants and my waders, I first connected with my fishing rod that I was holding precariously in my teeth against the advice of my dentist. That made the fishing rod boomerang out of my mouth and nearly do a 360-degree arc around my head before landing in the water several feet away.
5. Because I was mid-stream, if you know what I mean, when I fell to my knees,  I also ended up with some "nature" flowing into the inside of my waders.
6. I succeeded in violently ejecting the intruder on my head - right down the front of my button-up fishing shirt.

I find it funny that human nature - at least this human - is to place more importance upon the critter that has fallen down his shirt than he places on the throbbing head wound he's just suffered, the complete soaking of his fishing gear and sidearm, the possible loss of his fishing rod and reel, and the very real likelihood that he just finished relieving himself inside his waders.

But, that's exactly what I did.

Frantically, I began tearing at my shirt, trying to free whatever it was that was crawling down my chest. I swear it was large enough that I could hear it crawling it on me. When I eventually located it, I discovered that it was the largest, hairiest spider I had ever seen in the wild. And it was pissed. (At least I ascribed that emotion to it after it bit me with some gusto near my left nipple.)

Of course, you know what comes next, right? Yes, I started smacking the daylights out of my chest and midsection with my right hand, trying to squash the hairy intruder. I even thought about trying to fish my pistol out of my waders so as to have an upper hand, but I figured the chances of it firing after being submerged in the creek were slim.

After landing multiple blows and getting bitten twice more, I succeeded in squishing my arachnid foe just before he managed to get south of the border where this story really could've gotten ugly.

Upon confirming that the spider was indeed dead, I immediately looked around wildly to make sure that no one had just witnessed all of this. I find it funny that after all of that, my first concern was to determine if anyone had caught this on camera. Thankfully, it appears that I was blessedly alone.

I managed to find my beloved fishing rod and reel, undamaged save for a few nicks. I managed to secure my trousers, climb up high enough onto the steep bank where I could get my waders off and empty them (and yes, I rinsed them well).

I used a small towel that I keep in a zipper bag to dry off the things that were most likely to be damaged, disassembled and dried my gun, smoked a dozen or so cigarettes (this was back before I gave them up - and they were in a zipper bag along with my lighter) and then did what any self-respecting angler would do - went right back to fishing.

And as not concerned as I typically am with my masculinity, I have to tell you that this is the first time I've shared this entire story. Thankfully, when it happened, I was still a single man so no one else but me saw the welts from the spider bites, the knot on the side of my head or my wounded pride.

And while you might think I went to bed with my head hung low, I actually went to bed with the barbaric yawp of victory echoing in my head after having vanquished my most feared foe.

My waders smelled a little funky for awhile, but that's an entirely different story...