I’m in a hotel room in Galveston, Texas. A thunderstorm is keeping me from saltwater fishing, but I’m entertained anyway. I’m holding a book published in 1907 titled The Use of the National Forests.

I’ve decided to read the whole book in one night based on its enticing introduction:

“To the Public: Many people do not know what National Forests are. Others may have heard much about them, but have no idea of their purpose and use. A little misunderstanding may cause a great deal of dissatisfaction.”

It’s just a weedy field full of the normal browns, blondes and greens of summer. Black-eyed susans and plains creopsis offer splashes of yellow throughout. The sun is cresting over cottonwoods and willows as the first rays illuminate what look like tiny puffs of white smoke across the field. The puffs shimmer in an unseasonably cool summer breeze. I’m puzzled at first. Even after looking over countless fields at sunrise in my four decades on Earth, I’m not sure about what I’m seeing. A second later it hits me. They’re webs. I’ve found a spider metropolis.