🦇 The Glory Hole
There are some experiences in the mountains that photographs simply cannot explain.
The bats at the Glory Hole are one of them.
The old Orient Mine sits high in Colorado’s San Luis Valley, tucked into the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
Getting there requires a bit of a climb.
You hike up the mountain toward the old mine, and when you reach the opening, the cave is safely fenced so no one can accidentally wander too close to the drop.
Nearby is a bench.
And that bench may have one of the best seats in Colorado.
You sit facing southwest as evening settles over the valley.
The sun begins its descent.
The mountains change color.
The sky softens.
And then…
the bats begin to emerge.
At first there are a few.
Then more.
And suddenly the sky is moving.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Tens of thousands.
Eventually, something like a quarter of a million Brazilian free-tailed bats pour from the old mine into the evening.
And the strangest thing is…
they are silent.
With that many living creatures moving above you, you expect a roar.
A rush.
Something.
Instead, they stream through the air almost soundlessly.
I remember watching them and thinking they looked like fish.
Not individual animals flying independently, but a great school moving through some invisible current in the sky.
They bend together.
Turn together.
Flow together.
And there you are beneath them, watching this river of bats pass overhead while the sun is setting across the mountains.
It is surreal.
And absolutely beautiful.
The Summer Residents
The colony itself is remarkable.
Approximately 230,000 to 250,000 Brazilian free-tailed bats spend the summer inside the old mine.
And these particular bats are bachelors.
The colony is made up of males who migrate north for the summer, creating an unusual seasonal roost high in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
At roughly 9,000 feet, the Orient Mine colony is especially remarkable because these are animals more commonly associated with enormous southern colonies such as those in New Mexico and Texas.
Yet every summer, these little travelers come all the way to Colorado.
And I am very glad they do.
Because anyone who has spent mosquito season in the San Luis Valley understands exactly why a quarter-million insect-eating neighbors are welcome.
They leave the mine each evening to hunt flying insects across enormous distances.
So while watching their emergence is spectacular…
their nightly work is a blessing.
Thank you, bats.
Seriously.
Thank you.
What Stayed With Me
It wasn’t really the number that stayed with me.
It was the contrast.
A quarter-million creatures…
and silence.
A sky filled with movement…
and stillness on the ground.
The last light of the day disappearing behind the mountains while this enormous living stream moved overhead.
There was nothing to do.
Nothing to accomplish.
Nothing to understand.
Just sit on the bench.
Watch the sunset.
And look up.
Sometimes nature doesn’t whisper a message.
Sometimes she sends 250,000 bats across the evening sky.
And somehow…
even that can feel like a whisper.
Continue Wandering…
Twenty-two visitors in a cottonwood.
🖤 The Kitten in the Cottonwood
The afternoon a raven taught me to follow a sound.
Meet the animals who have traveled through my life and imagination.
Follow another trail into the living mountain.
Return to the stories gathered along the way.
Return to the beginning.
5K High Altitude Apothecary 