The dog and I were out for a walk. After following the narrow pathway up a steep hill, we paused for a brief rest and a drink. A convenient log provided a handy seat.
I dug out a bottle of water from the canvas rucksack, poured half its contents into Daisy’s collapsable bowl, and took my own refreshing sip.
It was still fairly early in the morning. I couldn’t see the sun directly through the thick, green-leaf canopy, but it still had a ways to climb before reaching high noon.
The summer woods were peaceful and still, unstirred by any hint of breeze. They seemed to glow softly in the diffused light. Only a few muted bird twitters and the distant sharp rat-a-tat tapping of a breakfasting woodpecker disturbed the sylvan quiet.
I leaned back, closed my eyes… and was maybe two minutes into a tranquil reverie when something crawled across my face—prompting an instantaneous wide-eyed fit of sputtering and face-slapping!
My sudden frenzied reaction startled Daisy who, unnerved, made a split-second decision to save herself from the invisible attacking entity by bolting headlong down the hill!
However, I’d secured the handle end of her retractable leash around a springy limb when we stopped for our rest, so she only made 25 feet before coming to an abruptly cushioned halt—rather like a large runaway trout on the end of a limber fly rod.
I quit slapping and sputtering the moment I realized my face-scuttling assailant was an innocuous granddaddy longlegs. Luckily, no one was injured during our impromptu backlash.
I was fine, though a bit breathless thanks to the adrenaline rush; Daisy was okay after I untangled her from the honeysuckle tangle she’d dashed into when attempting her escape; even the granddaddy, having landed on the ground, appeared none the worse for wear in spite of my best efforts to smack it into pulpy oblivion.
At the time, none of this farcical scenario seemed particularly amusing. Perspective is everything, and objectivity is tough when you’re one of the parties involved. But that a harmless granddaddy could cause such a ruckus does seem ludicrous.
Whether you call them granddaddy longlegs or harvestman, you’ll likely notice these long-legged spider-like creatures more as the season progresses. Clinging to walls, tree trunks, porch posts and fence rails, the lid of the barbecue—or just wandering around the yard…they’re everywhere. And ready to plop onto your face when you pause beside a woodland trail.
Late summer is when our granddaddy population matures. Since a full-grown granddaddy can measure more than six inches across his long, spindly legs, they’re certainly noticeable and thus more likely to catch our eye.
While I’m an admitted card-carrying arachnophobe, I find granddaddies benignly interesting rather than instantly terror-inducing. Whatever triggers my eight-legged irrational spider fear reaction doesn’t occur with a granddaddy.
Granddaddy longlegs do belong to the same class as spiders, Arachnida, but are of a different order, Opiliones, and therefore more closely related to ticks and mites. But when you really examine one, you’re apt to conclude the creature might just as easily have sprung from the imagination of H.G. Wells.
A granddaddy’s body is small and oval—head, thorax, and abdomen fused into one. Look closely and you’ll note a sort of topside turret with a single pair of tiny eyes.
Their most obvious feature, of course, is their namesake’s long and delicate legs. Each leg sports seven segments and curves out at the “foot” tip. If our legs were proportionally as long, they’d measure upwards of fifty feet!
Should a leg get detached, it can continue twitching on its own for some time. Some think this is a defense for distracting a possible predator. Furthermore, that lost leg can be regrown—generally at the time of molting.
Granddaddies molt about every week and a half until they’re mature. The torso skin splits, the upsized new body emerges, and long legs are pulled free one at a time, like shucking out of a pants leg. The whole process takes perhaps 20 minutes.
A granddaddy uses his legs not only for mobility—including walking on water—but also as shock absorbers. Watch close—even when hustling along, a granddaddy’s body stays on a level keel.
The second pair of legs, the longest, are employed as “feelers,” or antennae, sensing devices that constantly check things ahead, touching, examining, alerting to food, or warning of danger.
Regarding food, the harvestman is an omnivore and eats a wide variety of plant matter, fungi, and organic material from other creatures—living and dead—plus any small insects, including spiders, they catch. After a meal, the granddaddy will carefully clean its legs by drawing them, one at a time, through its mandibles.
During the summer mating season, female harvestmen (nope, they’re not properly called “harvestwomen”) deposit fertilized eggs into crevices and cracks, tree holes, and the underside of buildings. Come winter, all the adults die.
Incidentally, you might occasionally hear talk of how granddaddy longlegs are extremely poisonous, and the only thing saving us from being fatally bitten is the fangs are too short to penetrate our skin.
This is a myth. An old wives’ tale equally repeated by old husbands, and not infrequently by educators and outdoor folks who should know better.
In truth, harvestmen have no poison glands and produce no venom. They can’t bite—and except for emitting a whiff of smelly scent should you hold one too tight, they’re perfectly harmless. Along those same lines, in case you’re still thinking “spider,” granddaddies possess no silk glands and can’t build webs.
Should a granddaddy find its way into your house, folklore warns it’s bad luck to kill the leggy wanderer. I carefully catch any offender and relocate them to a more appropriate setting outdoors.
Why risk ignoring tradition?
Reach Jim McGuire at [email protected].
