Never in my life had I seen so many bats. And I was not really prepared for the emotions that would accompany that experience.
I was in Ruby, Arizona, a century-old mining town, abandoned for decades, but with a large number of structures still standing, which was why I was here. I got an introduction to the site, and to the desert, from the caretaker. I was informed that everything in the desert pokes, pricks, stings, stabs, bites … and if it doesn’t, then it’s hiding something. The actual list was a whole lot longer, but this is all I could remember. It was enough, though. I got the message.
I pitched my tent in a secluded area, under a flowering mesquite tree for a little shade from the hot desert sun. I had heard that a migratory nursery colony of Mexican freetail bats spent the warmer months in a cave near the mine, and was happy to learn that they were back already, having arrived a week earlier. And so as dusk approached, I found myself in the company of the caretaker and a middle-aged couple, near the cave, waiting for the bats to appear.
The first bat came out fairly early, flew around, and went back in. This was a scout, who would signal to the others when it was time. Which apparently, it was not yet. So we waited. And we waited some more. And all the while, it grew steadily darker as the sun sank further and further below the landscape.
Eventually we started to wonder if they would ever come out. And it wasn’t until a little time past that point that we detected the first few bats issuing out from the cave. They were scattered at first, but then strengthening, came out in greater numbers, streaming out of the opening, flowing like a divergent river over our heads and across the landscape towards the last light on the horizon. There would be a brief pause after one wave, then another surge would stream out. Most were well overhead, but some flew quite close. And these were not the little bats I was used to at home; these were much larger, substantial creatures, and they flew with such speed on their determined course. Their speed, combined with the increased darkness, made it nearly impossible to photograph anything more than black blurs. They continued streaming out for a full quarter of an hour.
Flying towards the horizon
I returned the next night, this time the lone watcher, and this time pointing my camera away from the cave but towards what little light was left on the horizon. That worked a little better.
By the third night I decided to leave my cameras at the campsite and just enjoy the experience. And what an experience it was. I was alone again, enveloped by the muffled fluttering of thousands upon thousands of beating wings in the growing darkness. It was a kind of wonderfulness that even now I struggle to find words for. And so I sat and let it surround me.
I returned to the campsite for a few hours’ sleep, before rising to photograph the landscape under the stars. Here and there through the night I would catch a hint of unseen wings speeding past me. And so I found myself still up as twilight cautiously tinged the night’s eastern fringe. Knowing what this might signal, I moved in the direction of the cave. Before long I saw the bats returning, flowing overhead, converging on that one point, and then streaming, swooping into the cave as if being sucked in by a giant vacuum. I stood and watched for some time, marveling at the sight. Then I turned, made my way to my tent, and zipped myself into the sleeping bag for just a little more sleep.
Good night.
Yes, it certainly had been.