Spider Spinnerets and Webs

 This is the spinneret at the back end of a spider.

 A funnel web, with spider in wait.

A magnificent orb web.

Wonderful Web—Part 1

No, this is not a story extolling the virtues of the Internet’s Wide World Web. (Although I have often praised its prodigious offerings of information for my countless researches.) Instead, this posting is about the wonders of the webs that spiders weave. Sitting in the tub the other night, dusk coming quickly on, my eye was attracted by an active blob bouncing around in the nearby trumpet vine. The black blob was barely visible against its dusky background. Being the only thing moving over there, however, it drew my attention.

It took a few minutes for me to realize that the bobbing blob of inkiness was a spider and that it was weaving a web, before bedding down for the night. (Don’t spiders sleep when it’s dark?) I’ve watched spiders construct their amazing webs before, so I could imagine what was happening in the gloom—as it carried on in the deep shadows of the vine, even though I could not see its web at all.

A spider’s web is formed from spider silk—a proteinaceous material made of long chains of very large amino acid molecules. Pound for pound, it’s stronger and more elastic than steel. (That’s why Spider Man can accomplish so many amazing feats with his web.) The spider emits its web filaments from spinnerets on the hind end of its body. (Well, OK, pulling them right out of its ass.) A significant amount of energy is required on the spider’s part to create its silk strands, so it may later eat some of its old web, to recoup that energy, when it comes time to build a new one. Some spiders reel out up to eight different kinds of threads—according to the job each thread is intended to do.

To start its web, a spider feeds out a very fine and sticky thread, which the slightest breeze will swing to and fro, until it contacts and sticks to something solid. Next, the arachnid will delicately rappel down the fine thread, strengthening, tightening, and thickening it as it moves along; turning it into a solid anchor line that will support the remainder of the web. 

After securing a few more anchor lines, the little engineer will then begin adding several radial lines that will further support the spiral web. Most of the spiral threads are very sticky, to trap its meals, as bugs become intercepted by the web. The spider will space several sticky spiral threads with a non-sticky one, upon which to later adroitly run out, to grab its prey.

More web stuff next time…

Lion's Mane Mushroom

The top photo shows the mushroom leaning against a barbed-wire fence. The bottom photo is a closeup, that gives good evidence of the name of the mushroom. (Click to enlarge.)

Dark Universe

I have written before (“The Dark Stuff,” 10/7/08) about the fact that scientists who study our universe (cosmologists and astronomers) are sort of befuddled by the fact that only a small fraction of the composition of our cosmos is visible to us. In fact, recent results published by researchers using the European Space Agency's Planck spacecraft have nailed down the conundrum with accuracy—telling us that only 5% of the universe is visible matter. The other 95% is made up of so-called dark matter (27%) along with dark energy (68%).

It's a bummer to be part of what we consider to be advanced science, but are able to identify only one-twentieth of reality. What's the rest? Where is it? What are its properties? Why is it not visible? How do you try to describe something that you know impacts your world—and you can even quantify that impact by its effect on visible matter—but find impossible to detect directly? It's like watching your easy chair on Halloween Eve levitate on its own and having no idea what causes it. And since you're a scientist, you can't come up with supernatural forces as an explanation, so you’re stumped!

OK, so 95% of the universe is invisible and is causing serious gravitational influence on the stuff we can see. But we'd still like to think that the real interesting stuff going on is happening with the 5% we can see... the part that's us. That's where stars and planets and people do their fascinating things. All that dark stuff does seem to be out there, but it must really be rather dull; it's probably some type of formless cloud or invisible glue that holds together all the things we can see… nothing more. Our bewilderment about the dark stuff makes us want to minimize and simplify its qualities, just like the ancients thought that those points of light in the night sky were just specks of light, nothing more. We humans have a way of denigrating things that we are ignorant of.

Hold on though: recent observations by a couple of astronomical teams suggest that the dark matter may be more than just a bland soup of strange particles. It may be more than just a diffuse cloud sitting out there, with enough mass to alter our universe's movement. In fact, it just may be its own peculiar kind of matter—though invisible to us—that moves around on its own and clumps together in various ways; just like the 5% of stuff that makes up us. In fact, it just may be that the dark matter has been able to form its own universe of dark stars, dark planets, and even dark life!

These recent observations have a few astronomers buzzing about the strange possibilities. Some of them think that we may be coexisting with a dark universe that is twenty times heavier and bulkier than we are, but unable to see it—like ghosts who drift through the wall in the hallway.

One scientist—with a sense of humor about the conundrum—has made up a fanciful tale about a Professor Dark Matter, an astronomer in the Dark Universe. From his recent observations, he's formulated a theory of a missing ingredient in his universe that's much lighter than reality (it’s only 5%), and that he's dubbed “visible matter.” So far, however, his unorthodox ideas have just earned him ridicule from his colleagues.

Beauty Among the Detritus

Supple Sycamores

Gracefully arching high over my outdoor tub are two huge sycamore trees, which I often find myself gazing contentedly into during my soaks. One is a quadruple-trunked majestic tree, whose trunks spread outward from each other, creating a massive arboreal umbrella that dwarfs me. A sycamore’s thick branches arch gracefully, reaching across the sky, seeking to grab the most sunlight possible. These trees prefer wet feet, so our resident sycamores cuddle up to the creek that runs by the house. They line the banks of the nearby Shenandoah River, like giant sentinels guarding the waterway.

In mid-late summer the sycamore tree has a singular habit: shedding thin strips of bark from its higher branches. The pieces of fallen bark are several inches long and curl themselves up like delicate banana peels. They strip themselves off from the branches and trunk, falling to the ground like noisy leaves in the fall. Their departure unveils a very smooth, cream-colored bark. No other tree has the appearance of the sycamore, with its off-white arms reaching out across the yard. On full-moonlit nights the branches appear a ghostly white, causing the tree to stand out dramatically from its dark background. And as the sun sets, its final rays will light up the sycamore’s trunk and branches in a brilliant golden glow. 

My first introduction to the beauty of the sycamore tree was when I lived in Boston nearly 40 years ago. My next-door neighbor was blessed with a gigantic sycamore that sat in the center of his backyard and presided over the entirety of his spacious grounds. It was positively statuesque, and I was in awe. I once complimented him on the tree’s magnificence, to have his face turn rather sour, as he described how he disliked it because it littered his otherwise tidy backyard lawn with those damnable bark shreds. Oops! Lesson learned: the possessor of what I might regard as a thing of beauty doesn’t always appreciate the burden of stewardship.

But my appreciation for the charm of the sycamore remained undaunted. A few years later I found myself living in a sweet, small house in Arlington, Virginia. Built in the midst of the Great Depression, this house possessed an integrity and quality I’d never before experienced. It had a major drawback, however: a huge, west-facing window on the front of the house invited the hot afternoon sun to pour its radiation inside. It got very hot in the living room in July and August. I longed for a shade tree in the front yard that would cool the house. A little investigation told me that sycamores are also a fast-growing tree, so I was sold. I bought one and planted it ‘twixt the window and the setting sun. Before it had a chance to mature, however, I left Arlington and moved out here in the woods.

A few years later I drove through the old Arlington neighborhood and was struck by the gorgeous, large sycamore tree that now shaded the entire front of my former home. It was approaching the majestic stature of my Boston neighbor’s backyard sycamore. I felt an urge to knock on the door and introduce myself as the former owner who had planted that wonderful tree, and inquire about their appreciation of its cooling, shading qualities. Remembering my Boston neighbor’s aversion to his sycamore, however, I remained in the car—briefly admiring the tree, before driving on.

Butterfly on Echinacea (Cone Flower)

Immature Avian Antics

For nearly three decades we have fed and observed birds that inhabit our surroundings. Living surrounded by forest, we don’t have that many species around us, as we might have, if we lived near open fields. Numerous species migrate through in the spring or fall, but only a dozen or so are regulars. Of them, many keep to the woods, so about a half dozen are consistently at the feeder, and those are the ones we watch and get to know on a day-to-day basis. 

Over these decades, therefore, we’ve become quite familiar with the behaviors and personalities of our resident avian companions. I can watch a titmouse, for example, and almost predict what it will do next—how long it’ll sit at the feeder, how many seeds it will grab, how it will interact with another titmouse there, how and where it will fly after feeding, etc. Their behaviors will vary with the seasons, but again in a quite predictable manner. It’s similar to how we observe and interact with a beloved family member, when their habits and quirks become deeply ingrained in us.

This level of familiarity becomes such a part of our routine that we hardly notice it—like the way in which we prepare our morning cup of coffee or tea. So when something comes along out of the ordinary, it grabs our attention. When I reach for my favorite tea cup before breakfast, and it’s not where it’s “supposed to be,” I’m rattled a bit. Dammit! Where did my wife hide it? My attention is momentarily and completely drawn to this unexpected event.

Similarly, in mid-late summer our attention often gets seized by a bird that is behaving unusually, for its species. What? A chickadee doesn’t normally do that! Why is that wren acting so weird? What’s gotten into the mourning dove? Something about their demeanor is odd and we notice it. 

As our awareness is drawn toward the bird, we then might notice that its actions are not at all well-coordinated. It doesn’t seem to be adroit in its behavior. It flutters around kind of aimlessly, as if unsure what to do next. Its attention is diverted by most anything. It seems to have no specific intent in mind. It may clumsily fly to a tree branch but misjudge how to land—finding itself upside down, clinging confusedly to a twig, rocking back and forth.

At this point we realize that we’re watching a newly-fledged youngster. Its flight is erratic. It’s not sure what to consider as food, so it pecks at most anything in front of it—most of it obviously inedible. It frequently drops to the ground, unaware that it’s far more vulnerable down there. (That’s why we keep our cat in the house during the day.) Adult birds are perky and fun to watch and their behavior is deliberate. Fledglings are simply hilarious and you never know what they will do next. Our familiarity with the ways of adults does nothing to prepare us for the antics of the youngsters.

This ungainly behavior doesn’t last long. Animals in the wild must mature very quickly or they perish. They don’t have the luxury of extended parental care. A baby bird transitions from egg to fledgling in about two weeks—fully the size of its parent. In another few days it’s on its own, and we are no longer able to chuckle at its awkward bearing. They grow up fast!

Some youngsters quickly disperse and go off to lead their own lives. Unable to follow them into the forest, we’re not sure how well they fare. I don’t think we want to know. We’ve watched their parents work so hard to bear and protect them, that we hate to see their offspring die so soon. The mortality rate for songbirds is high—more than half die within the first year. 

Some youngsters take another route and hang around for a few months, helping mom and pop raise subsequent broods, before they attempt to go it on their own. Maybe that’s a surer way to get started in life. But unlike teenage kids, they won’t be goofing off, watching TV, sleeping in, or playing video games. The life of a songbird is not one of leisure, even when we provide a feeder for them. Bees might have a reputation for being busy, but birds are no slouches.

Snake with toad

I'd rather see a snake get a vole than a toad.

Brouhaha Brewing—Part 2

So what about Dr. Weinstein's major ground-breaking Geometric Unity announcement? Is he for real, or is he a back-room crackpot? At this point, no one knows... no one can tell. And that's the source of the brouhaha that's been brewing: right now, he can neither be validated nor refuted.

Science has methodically progressed over the centuries by a process wherein scientists collaborate with one another. Science has made its outstanding advances by dint of numerous individuals communicating and cooperating with each other. No scientist has ever generated any result, in any way other than by having access to the work of those who went before, as well as by keeping in touch with their peers in the field. Even Isaac Newton—regarded by many as the greatest scientific mind ever (who also mostly worked in solitude)—said that his greatest accomplishments were made by “standing on the shoulders of giants.” Even in isolation, long before email, Newton kept in contact with his cohorts.

Modern science usually advances when its practitioners publish their results in scientific journals. Submitted papers are reviewed by peers and approved of, before being published. These journals are crucial resources for all scientists—the means by which they become aware of others' progress, in order to redirect or reinvigorate their own work, as well as to confirm each other's results. Science has often progressed by means of showing that some proposed theory contains an error—because it can first be falsified and then improved on. It's a fine method of checks and balances.

This is the problem with Weinstein's approach. For 20 years he has labored in isolation—publishing nothing. Now he emerges into the limelight with a full-blown theory that promises to solve most every conundrum of physics. He may be right, but no one can yet verify or disprove his claims. He hits the streets with a fait accompli. He has caught fellow scientists off guard. They can't make an informed comment on the validity of Weinstein's work until he publishes—if he publishes! Some of them are understandably pissed off. He is splashing his scientific ideas around in a very unscientific manner!

Don't hold your breath on the resolution of this brouhaha. It'll be months (even years) before the verdict is in. In the meantime, tempers flare and skepticism abounds. Mainstream physicists have been thrust into an uncomfortable spot, as the pushy media pepper them with questions about the “breakthrough.” I don't expect the media to follow the course of the potentially lengthy debate that will ensue; it's not sensational enough... unless Weinstein is right. Then expect a blockbuster movie, with the trailer headlines, “Lone mathematician puts entire scientific world to shame.” Starring, of course: Leonardo DiCaprio as the intrepid scientist and Kate Winslet as his mathematically brilliant assistant and lover.