A trip to the Monarch Butterfly reserve of Sierra Chincua, Michoacan

Leaving a cool Patzcuaro around 9 a.m. on February 25th, 2001, we drove through Morelia and hit the Cuota (toll road - highway 15D), where we caught our first views of Laguna Cuitzeo. Acres of semi-dry lake bed stretched into the distance and where there was water, tufts of weeds stuck out from the shallows.

Continuing east along the lakeside toward Maravatio on the toll road, we came to what looked like a deeper part of the widespread body of water, spotted with the small boats of fisherman and quantities of water birds amongst the reeds. Between us and that water we could see narrow boat channels cut straight through the sodden vegetation of the shore, affording passage to the small wooden boats from the lakeside settlements.

Near the Maravatio turnoff of the highway, fruit trees were blossoming and roadside stands held pineapples, melons and habas (large lima-type beans) for sale. At Maravatio we turned onto the secondary road leading to the towns of Aporo and Angangueo. The village of Cuajada was a widespread community whose specialty, judging from the quantities of blackened brick ovens with chimneys (called galeras) and excavations in the fields, seemed to be brick and tile making.

Aporo's main street, too, was paved with bricks, or "adoquines", as cobblestones are called in Mexico. The town looked neat and tidy and featured a church painted a creamy color between brick accents.

Approaching Angangueo we ascended into regions of pines and other evergreen trees. Nearing town, we came across a large banner stretched above the road, offering parking and guides for excursions to the El Rosario monarch butterfly sanctuary and others in the area. Prices for guides from that point to the parking lot were listed at $100 pesos; to be guided all the way to the butterflies cost $150 pesos and horseback rides were being charged at $40 pesos each way from the parking lot.

Since we hadn't been here before and didn't know exactly where we were going, we opted for getting one of the guides to show us the way. Young Dimas Padilla Salazar got into the truck with us. He pointed us forward to follow the same road we had already been travelling, along which we shortly arrived at the town of Angangueo. Dimas wasn't a very talkative for a guide - we had to selectively coax information from him. We did find out from him that the butterflies preferred settling in the pine, fir, cedar and oyamel trees high up in the forested mountains beyond Angangueo, that the town was a silver mining center (we passed the mine on our way through the settlement which wound along the sides of a deep ravine), and that at the butterfly sanctuary we were to expect temperatures quite a bit lower than the ones we were currently experiencing on the road up, which were already definitely cool.

We climbed and winded through Angangueo (situated at an altitude of approximately 2,600 meters, or 8,300 ft.) and then through another couple small towns before finally coming to what seemed nearly the top of the mountain. Just before reaching a sign proclaiming the border of the state of Michoacan with that of Mexico, Dimas directed us to turn onto a rough track, covered with powdery white dust, that curved into the forests. This was the Sierra Chincua Butterfly Sanctuary.

Amidst billowling clouds of the talc-like dust, we arrived at a large open field where cars and tour buses were parked. A series of rustic wooden stands lined both sides of a pathway leading toward the sanctuary. Horses were tethered around and people were bundled in sweaters and shawls against the chill air, even though it was already noon. We were now at an altitude of about 3,200 meters (over 10,000 feet). Food sellers sold steaming corn on the cob and savory tacos while other vendors offered small wooden carvings and mementos depicting the colorful monarch butterfly.

Dimas then lead us past the "gate" where we paid our entrance fee of $20 pesos per person. We trudged forward up the mountain, well covered in sweaters and jackets and with good, solid walking shoes on our feet. Around us were pods of people, mainly Mexican tourists and of every age, making their way back or toward the sanctuary. The climb was stiff and the air was very chilly. After laboriously puffing my way up part of the hillside I decided that horsebacking it was much more my style and hitched a ride on a somewhat sorry-looking animal being lead by his driver, only to find out that we were already almost at the top of the hill and about to make our way down a long sloping track cut into the other side of the mountain.

As I happily rode, John continued along on foot beside me. The dust was thick here and many of the hikers and riders were wearing surgical masks to help keep it from their lungs, which surely were already taxed enough by the thin air. My horse began to high-tail it down the hill at a faster clip than John was managing. At the bottom of the long incline the road ended and other horses were gathered, awaiting to return the butterfly observers back up to the top of the mountain. Here I dismounted and waited not more than a couple of minutes before John came striding down, still amidst clouds of dust and quite covered in it. It had taken us about 40 minutes to make it to this point from the parking lot.

Our guide took us down a much smaller path that skittered along the steep hillside covered slippery pine needles. No horses were allowed in this area. After a few short minutes of walking we approached a spot where people were quietly sitting on the slope, staring up into the trees that towered up from below. Those spectators that were talking spoke in soft, low whispers. There was a feeling of awe in the air itself as we looked around and saw that the large dark clumps hanging pendulously down from the branches of the tall trees were in fact masses of hundreds and thousands of monarch butterflies.

They looked like bunches of dark moss. Every so often a small piece would drop off as the sun hit between the branches, and the butterflies so released would suddenly start to flutter slightly and waft into the breeze, or drop down to the forest floor, which itself was covered in a litter of whole butterflies still too cold to move effectively, interspersed with the loose wings of those that didn't make it.

There were a few small, older indigenous women and men who stayed with the spectators, admonishing them to not step on the fallen butterflies, and warning all of us not to get too close to the heavy clusters of monarchs on the trees. These were self-appointed guardians who, in exchange for a few pesos as acknowledgement for their dedication, kept the observers from damaging this migratory habitat.

We sat on the hillside and silently watched as the activity of the butterflies waned and waxed according to how the clouds broke up in the sky and let warming shafts of light into the sanctuary. The warmer it got, the more wing and flutter activity we saw in the branches. Unfortunately, the sun never did break through at any strength for any length of time that day. It was, in fact, getting steadily cloudier and cooler. After a time of quite contemplation and an attempt to take a few far away photo shots of the monarchs, we decided to head back up the hill.

This time John joined me on horseback. We clamored aboard the backs of our beasts and proceeded up the hill with Dimas holding onto the tail of one of our horses. It was becoming steadily colder, despite the fact that it was the height of the afternoon. By the time we reached the heights between the sanctuary and the parking lot, a wet sleet had begun to fall, turning swiftly into hail that pelted down on us and our guides. Our only defense against the cold was to stick our freezing fingers into the sleeves of our sweaters and jackets while still trying to hold onto the horses as they stumbled down the final stretch to the car. By then it was 3 p.m. The return trek on horseback from the sanctuary had taken us about 25 minutes.

We lost no time in paying our guides and hurrying back to our dust-enshrouded vehicle, where we discarded our wet, outer clothing, turned the heater on as high as it would go and made our way down the long mountainside back on the road to Morelia and Patzcuaro.