To weave a web, a spider needs just the liquid silk in her body and some comfort with

chance.

She tugs a few threads of silk out of the spinnerets at the back of her body.

Then she sits and she waits.

And when the right breeze hits, it lifts those threads up, catching one of them on something

like a branch.

This anchors the first line.

And then she gets to work, drawing different kinds of silks out of her body.

The stronger fibers for the outer frame and softer and stickier ones for the inside.

And sometimes just an hour, a spider doesn't only build her world, but she also programs

a way of navigating it.

Different threads have different frequencies and she listens to their unique vibrations

to figure out what's going on and where to go.

In a way, it's like a talking map.

On a June afternoon, I drove out to Vermont to visit a spider web farm.

A place where allegedly over 16,000 webs have been spun and collected since 1977.

In a quarter mile, turn right onto spider web farm road.

What?

They have a road named after them?

I'm Abby Peralt, and this is Atlas, web skierre, a celebration of the world's strange

incredible and fibrous places.

Today, we travel to Williams Town, Vermont to visit the only known spider web farm on

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