Juniper Park

It was a dark and stormy night. No, I’m just kidding. If only that were true, then perhaps I would have been more prepared for the horrors I would encounter just outside of Halifax, Nova Scotia, on one frightful summer’s eve in 1997. This is a true story, unfortunately. Many of my paranoid fantasies are embellished, though, as humor can help one to deal with traumatic episodes. Also, unreasonable paranoia is the name of the game when it comes to arachnophobia—or any phobia, for that matter—so the embellishments do not exaggerate my true mindset by as much as you may think.

Riding in a forest green minivan with a tent camper in tow, my parents, my brother John, and I turned off the road and entered the campground we had chosen to stay at for the night. It looked attractive enough, so we registered for two nights at our selected site. Soon, however, campground personnel informed us that they made a mistake: Someone had already reserved our site for the following night, so our trailer could stay in place for now, but we’d have to move elsewhere within the campground on the following day. Since we hadn’t made much progress yet in setting up our mobile home, we decided to immediately move to a site where we could stay for both nights.

Arriving at our new digs, we once again began to ready our camper for the night. Just when I thought all was well, Mom decided that she didn’t like the new site so much after all. This, coupled with the fact that, through no fault of our own, we were made to relocate in the first place, motivated my parents to leave this campground altogether. I protested, but being only fourteen years old, my opinion didn’t hold much sway. Perhaps in my subconscious mind, I knew that something bad would happen if we left.

As we pulled into the new campground, I glanced at the old, wooden, weather-beaten sign that read “Juniper Park.” Granted, calling it “Your Worst Nightmare” or “Hell on Earth,” which are far more appropriate names, would make poor business sense, but Juniper Park brought to mind images of such tranquility that it seemed spending a night there could be nothing short of peaceful and rejuvenating. Driving on a dirt road, through a grove of trees and down a small hill, we found a dilapidated shack on our left, not far from the entrance. Dad entered that excuse for an office and registered us for a night. Thank goodness my parents just signed up for one night at a time at Juniper Park as opposed to immediately signing up for two like at the other campground.

Nearing our site, I looked out the car window and noticed some white patches scattered sporadically across the ground. Snow in the summer? It couldn’t be; not near the southern coast of Nova Scotia. Upon disembarking from our vehicle, I investigated further, and I didn’t find snow…I found spider webs. Seeing those on the ground was no less peculiar than snow in the summer, and I wondered what type of spider would have created them, although I didn’t particularly wish to come across any of the residents. Fortunately, all the webs seemed to be abandoned, but occupied or not, spider webs are an ominous sight for an arachnophobic to behold. Perhaps even more ominous was the fact that we were the only campers in sight. I tell you, it was like the beginning of a horror film, and I felt like someone was watching us and screaming, “Leave now, you idiots!”

Very close to our campsite was a lake, and I gazed at the calm, blue waters, attempting to relax and take my mind off the nearby webs, but I was compelled to examine the small structure that lay a few dozen feet from our camper. Judging from its adjacency to the lake, it likely served as some type of changing house, although it had clearly been long abandoned. Long abandoned by humans, that is—much to my chagrin, it was like Club Med for a certain brand of auburn-colored spider similar to a daddy long-legs but possessing a larger body. I could see several of them on the front of the erection, although my parents informed me that dozens more lurked inside. I observed the spiders from afar lest they leap from their perches and clamp onto my face, gouging my eyes out with their scimitar-like fangs. As I watched them, I didn’t move a muscle, and likewise, every single one remained in place the entire time, scrutinizing me with eight beady little eyes and awaiting my moment of weakness. There were so many of them but only one of me, and it would only be a matter of time before I let my guard down and they seized the opportunity to ensnare me in their webs and hold me prisoner. At this particular time, however, I diverted my attention from Club Med to help set up camp.

Unfortunately, excreting waste from one’s body is a necessary activity, so I walked a short distance to the restroom to examine its condition. I didn’t even have to walk in to know that using this restroom would test my courage more than anything else in my entire life ever had. Outside the edifice, nestled where the wall met the overhanging roof, I could see numerous spider webs. Actually, it was more like one colossal, jumbled mass that stretched all the way from one side to the other, looming over the entrances to the men’s and women’s rooms like a sickening cloud. Unlike the abandoned gossamer webs on the grass and the idleness of Club Med, however, the exterior of the restroom was teeming with activity and egg sacs. This is the point at which I made the decision to not walk through that door unless absolutely necessary, meaning that I’d just urinate in the bushes outside the camper. In addition, there was no way in Hell that I’d take a shower while at Juniper Park. I felt vulnerable enough being surrounded by spiders as it was; the last thing I needed was to be naked in a small, enclosed space with them. Ironically enough, John—the same person who teased me with a rubber tarantula when I was younger, almost certainly exacerbating my arachnophobia—also refused to take a shower.

At the very least, I needed to brush my teeth and remove and clean my contacts before I went to bed, so venturing into the spider-infested depths of the restroom was inevitable. That night, armed with nothing but my pack of toiletries, I stood outside the restroom and gaped at the thriving colony above the door, and the light outside the restroom plainly allowed me to see two spiders engaged in what appeared to be a fight to the death. Be strong, David. I knew it would all be over soon, but whether “it” just referred to my stay at Juniper Park or my entire life was still an open question. As I walked below the web, I worried that a spider, particularly the loser of the death match, would accidentally or intentionally drop onto my head.

I entered the restroom unscathed, and I hoped to exit it the same way. It helped to have Dad and John accompanying me. I stood at the sink closest to the door and performed the necessary tasks, not allowing my eyes to wander and focus on the monstrosities lurking nearby. Just when I thought my tribulations were complete, nature called in such a way that I would have to brave one of the stalls. Once in there, it seemed surprisingly free of spiders, but, as at the sink, I didn’t look around more than absolutely necessary. Not wanting any spiders to catch me with my pants down—literally—I finished quickly and beat a hasty retreat from the facility.

Contrary to my fears, the spiders didn’t overrun our camper during the night, so waking up in the morning proved to be an uneventful experience. I didn’t need water to insert my contacts, so I never again set foot in that blasted restroom. Checking up on the spiders at Club Med, I noticed that the lazy bastards still hadn’t moved from their original positions. Slightly confused, I procured a very long stick and gently brushed one of the exterior spiders. Receiving no response, I prodded its body and could hear a crackle as I penetrated its exoskeleton. The damn thing had been dead all along! Upon further investigation, they were all dead! Club Med was a veritable arachnid mausoleum! I didn’t find the thought of sleeping near a mass spider grave much less disturbing than if they had been alive, however. Besides, the restroom not too much farther away contained plenty of spiders that were living, breathing, crawling, and creeping.

I inquired about the fauna in the women’s restroom, and Mom proceeded to describe the “handsome” spider she saw in there. Handsome spider? That’s about as oxymoronic as a jumbo shrimp. However, the reason she called it handsome was not for its face but for what she considered an attractive design on its back. Apparently, this spider had such a large body—perhaps an inch in length—that a design was readily visible. After we packed up our camper, drove away, and said good riddance to Juniper Park, I felt that the one saving grace of the ordeal was that I never had to see a handsome spider for myself. Had I been born Stephanie Elise instead of David Aaron, however, I would have been using the women’s bathroom, and there’s a good chance I would have encountered that behemoth. That’s at least one reason I’m fortunate to be a male in this world, I suppose.