The Blue Devil in Orange Wings
Every summer, the Comstock produces a fresh crop of reminders that the Almighty possesses a curious sense of humor. The sagebrush bakes, the jackrabbits conduct their affairs before breakfast, and the tarantula hawk takes to the air dressed as though it had borrowed its wardrobe from royalty and its disposition from the bounty hunter.
It is one of the most beautiful insects ever fashioned, which naturally makes a sensible man suspicious. I have spent many pleasant hours photographing these winged aristocrats.
They glide through the desert with such elegance that a fellow is tempted to believe they are harmless creatures devoted entirely to beauty and good manners. That illusion survives only until one remembers their name.
Any insect that introduces itself with the word "tarantula" is already hinting that pleasant surprises are not part of its character. To the insect's credit, it seldom troubles human beings.
It has larger business to attend to and seems to regard mankind with the same indifferent courtesy that wealthy bankers reserve for poor relatives. If left alone, it usually returns the favor, allowing civilization to continue with only occasional interruptions.
Still, the tarantula hawk carries a reputation that has spread farther than Nevada's dust. Those unfortunate enough to have sampled its sting report that the experience bears a striking resemblance to being struck by lightning while simultaneously regretting every poor decision ever made.
The pain, they assure us, lasts only a few minutes, which is comforting in much the same way as hearing that your house fire should burn itself out before supper. Naturalists, being practical people with an admirable gift for understatement, have devised a splendid plan for anyone who receives such a sting.
They recommend that the victim immediately lie down and begin screaming. The advice strikes me as refreshingly honest.
Most scientific literature promises dignity and composure in adversity. Here, however, the experts have wisely concluded that dignity has already packed its bags and left the premises.
The screaming, they explain, distracts the mind from the pain. As for lying down, it prevents the afflicted soul from bolting across the desert, where he might improve his condition by colliding with a barbed-wire fence or stepping neatly into a badger hole.
There is something profoundly comforting in knowing that even while nature is electrocuting you, science remains committed to reducing secondary injuries. So I shall continue wandering the Nevada desert with my camera, admiring these magnificent little terrors from a respectful distance.
They are exquisite creatures, painted in brilliant colors, graceful in flight, and possessed of manners that remain impeccable so long as one declines to shake hands with them. It is another of nature's delightful ironies that some of her finest artwork comes equipped with a warning label best read from several yards away.
