12/5/2021: Forming new memories with Scolopendra heros arizonensis
Thanks to my wonderful and capable assistant William Samojeden, I’ve been able to plow forward with setting up new species and putting more time into culture maintenance. He has been an indispensable help and friend through the years, and many of my trips would not have been possible without his company.
Today I went through and labeled some Scolopendra that have been lying around without proper labels, and went to feed my current pride and joy: a peculiarly large individual. Upon opening the container to wipe off some condensation and despite her being busy feeding on a roach, she took a moment to scare the daylights out of me by swinging her head around to sample the air with her antennae. And thus, the flashback began.
Arizona, September 2021. Will and I were exhausted from our crash course collecting trip after driving all the way across the country and capturing a surprisingly good haul of our target species. We decided to stop at a reliable rest stop in Texas Canyon to refuel, relieve, and reassess our trip plans.
After scouring the building for crickets I wandered off to see if some piles of detritus were still around from our first Arizona trip. Kim Wismann has often told me things don’t change much in the desert, and as far as large flippable stuff goes, he’s definitely right: the same yucca stumps were there, looking much the same as they were five years ago.
Due to the rains there was lush foliage all around, which was certainly new, but I went to work on poking around in the duff beneath the fallen stump for Arenivaga. In a fairly short time I found several, but continued to look for neat bugs. I set the seven foot long stump back as I had found it and turned my attention to a tiny chunk I hadn’t yet explored. Thinking there could be a few sand roaches beneath, I casually flipped it, unprepared for what awaited me.
I recoiled in immediate panic and let out a loud “oh $4!1” as a massive Scolopendra heros arizonensis stirred from its slumber beneath cover that seemed far too small to effectively hide it. I dropped the stump, fumbled through my bag, and braced myself to confront the beast.
When I lifted the stump again, the giant had crawled up into fronds, now barely visible. Like a sane human being, I grabbed the yucca chunk as gingerly as I could and scurried out to the nearby road. A gentle shake and my prey (predator?) was out in the open on the road, where I had the advantage.
Folks pulling off the freeway to the rest stop got an entertaining show of me bolting and flopping around trying to corral the bottled lightning into a 32 ounce deli cup. A few minutes later, I was uncomfortably victorious with my new giant centipede angrily grinding its gnathopods into the slippery sides of the container.
As Will drove us to our next destination, I admired my acquisition through the container. A few times we discussed the existentialism of its existence: this huge, gnarly invertebrate was a living, breathing creature that occurred at the same point in space-time as both of us, and this is both special and horrifying.
I have a very healthy… respect… for centipedes. They’re one of the few things that give me nightmares (probably my subconscious expressing its very legitimate concerns about my activities). Encountering them in the wild is always one thing, but catching them is something else. Yet, I continue to do it, because for all their leggy, predacious savagery, I do find them beautiful and awe-inspiring.
-Kyle