The sanctuary is in a protected forest in the central Mexican highlands. Every monarch butterfly east of the Rockies migrates here during the winter. In other words, every single North American monarch outside of California makes its way to this small patch of forest each year. Butterflies from Texas, Chicago, and Ontario all manage to make the 3,000 mile journey here every November.
But that's not the most amazing part. Every butterfly that makes the journey has never been here before. Neither had its parents. Or its grandparents. The lifespan of most monarchs is 4-5 weeks, so when the current generation is ready to fly north in March, it'll barely make it to the US-Mexico border before it lays its eggs and dies. Then the next generation will get to Texas. Then around August, the third generation will get to the upper Midwest and Canada. Then, come November, the 4th or 5th generation of monarchs will make its way back to the exact same spot that its great-great grandparents departed from six months earlier. It's absolutely incredible.
The migrating generation works its way back to this area every year because the conditions are absolutely perfect for hibernation. The butterflies need a certain amount of humidity, along with a cold-but-not-freezing average temperature to shut their bodies down for the winter. In these conditions, the migrating generation can actually live for up to 8 months (7-8 times longer than the average monarch).
Each February (hence the timing of our trip) the butterflies all wake up, eat, mate, and build up strength for the flight north. But in the ultimate irony, the plant that the butterfly larvae need to survive doesn't grow around here, so the females have to make another long flight back north before they can lay their eggs. It's one of the most delicate balancing acts of nature, and we couldn't be more excited to see it in person.
But of course, we need to get there. And this is still Mexico. Our hotel runs prearranged trips most days, but they are fairly overpriced, and Aimee and I wanted to meander around the region at our own pace. So we started our journey with another taxi ride. Our destination was Ocampo, a tiny farming community that also acts as base camp for the sanctuary.
The cab ride was relatively easy. That is to say we only had to come to a screeching halt once to avoid colliding with a car in front of us. And nothing says rural Latin America like unmarked speed bumps on the freeway, and lane lines that are really just a loose suggestion.
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| "Downtown" Ocampo |
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| John Lennon Street is Ocampo's main drag |
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| Stocking up for the hike |
On the advice of our taco chef, we found a colectivo, or shared van, to take us up to the sanctuary. Since most tourists come via organized trips, the colectivos are generally used by locals to get between the high elevation mountain farms and the low elevation homes and shops of Ocampo. Not exactly luxury travel, but they get the job done.
The road to the sanctuary was comprised of alternating sections of dirt, cobblestone, potholes, and, occasionally, the faintest hint of pavement. Bouncing around the back of a 1980 econoline van, I began to question our decision to eat the breakfast tacos.
But we made it up just fine, and the weather was perfect for our hike. This still being Mexico, the first half mile leading up to the park was lined with wood huts selling everything from bottled water to imported Disney blankets.
The shops seemed a little out of place, but they're probably actually a good thing. By giving the residents of Ocampo a piece of the tourism dollar, the shops provide jobs outside of the illegal deforestation industry, which had been providing most of the region's income before the sanctuary was developed.
It's hard to understand how people could devastate something so ecologically important, but semi-illegal farming is often the only means of survival in developing countries, particularly in the rural areas. Besides, we're equally complicit in the deforestation by expecting cheap produce year-round. But the good news is that major environmental protection agreements have been put in place to slow just this type of devastation. The deforested areas around the preserve are now regrowing, and the forest is recovering bit by bit every year.
Now back to the butterflies. After paying a very reasonable entry fee at the park entrance, we were assigned a local guide. Each group of visitors is accompanied by a guide who can point out interesting features of the park and discuss the butterfly lifecycle. But I suspect that their primary job is to make sure visitors kept to the trails. Either way, it was nice to have him along for the hike.
Our guide was a pleasant, leather skinned man of about 40 or 50 years old. He knew the park inside and out, and made the 80-flight stair climb to the top 3 or 4 times daily. He did so in jeans and worn leather shoes. But he was a young spry compared to the multiple women in their 70s or 80s that did the same job in sandals and traditional dresses. Looking at them, I felt ridiculously over-prepared with my Camelbak and hiking shoes.
Butterflies need to be relatively warm before they can fly. So the first stretch of our hike was relatively butterfly-free, although plenty beautiful in other regards.
After 30-45 minutes of climbing, we reached a small stream where Monarchs were congregating for a drink of water. The butterflies don't actually scoop up water from the stream, but rather soak it up from the wet ground on either side. So the ground was covered by a sea of orange and black wings. One wrong step would have been a disaster.
The stream was next to the drop off point for horseback riders. For a hundred pesos, visitors to the park could take a horse up to the river, skipping the steepest part of the trail. But the hike was actually something that we were looking forward to, so skipping the horses was an easy decision. Besides, I'll pay a hundred pesos any day not to ride a horse. See exhibit A, B, and (sort of) C.
By this point, the butterflies were starting to warm up enough to take to the air. It was nothing short of magical.
After the clearing, the trail continues on another hundred yards or so to the top. By that point, we were deep into the forest. Not only were there enough monarchs in the sky to shade the sun, the trees themselves were absolutely covered. What first looked like leaves densely covering each branch were actually sleeping Monarchs. The entire scene was indescribably beautiful.
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| Look closely. Those are butterflies, not leaves. |
After about an hour at the top, we signaled to our very patient guide that we were finally ready to head back down. As with most hikes, the way back felt much faster, even if Aimee did stop every 10 feet to let a butterfly land on her.
Back at the bottom, we bought some cervezas and refrescos from the vendors at the trail head. Warm beer has never tasted so good.
We only had to wait about 15-20 minutes for a collectivo to take us back down to the village. And I don't know if it was the 45 degree slope of the road, the butter-slippery vinyl seats, or that particular driver's aggressive-even-for-Mexico driving style, but the way down was a particularly harrowing journey. Aimee and I didn't say much during the ride (holding on took most of our energy), but the look she gave me when we got out told me that Aimee was equally happy to be back in Ocampo.
After a relatively uneventful taxi drive back to Zitácuaro, we filled our bellies with another great meal at the ranch. We were headed back to Mexico City the next day, and couldn't have planned a more perfect send off.
