When first I encountered a
bat up
close—close enough to touch—I rapidly sketched the critter, and
wrote beside it
“I am amazed by the live bat, how fuzzy its body,
how delicate its fingers, and stretched between them—that's real
skin! No photograph can capture it, nor can the sketchbook.”
The event was our first bat survey
night of the summer season at
Timpanogos Cave National Monument,
sometime back in June. The Natural Resources staff run the operation,
to discover what bats inhabit the canyon and forest. The method: find a
quiet spot on the American Fork river somewhere in the National Forest land, and stretch a net across. Wait
for the bats to swoop in for a sip of water and get caught in the
net; handle with gloves; identify the species, gender, etc; weigh the
animal, photograph it, record its echolocation call; then release the
furry flyer. Not having had my vaccinations, I just watch (and draw
and photograph, as I can.)
I have been to three more bat nights
since; all have provided an opportunity to listen to the river and
watch the moonlight draw patterns in the ripples, under the canopy of
silhouetted trees and rockfaces. As for the bats themselves, the
level of activity has varied. On some nights, only a few get tangled
in the artificial spiderweb. On the second bat night of the summer,
we had a bonanza.
We most often catch the small bats of the genus
Myotis (We can generically call this group “little
brown bats.”) These streamed in on that special night in June, but
so did one
hoary bat—a larger and feistier type—followed by another and another. These
fellows don't take kindly to being grabbed, and bite and flail, captives to no one, not even the pale-skinned
Kaiju. For
hoary bats, two pairs of gloves are recommended.
Up close, bats provoke incredulity: so
like us, as mammals, and yet so alien—with small size, skin and
veins stretched like a latex glove across wings and tail, and a
different sensory world by flight and echolocation. What goes on in
their little minds is hard to fathom, and that such animals can exist
can be hard to believe. We might seem just as strange to them, were
they not caught up in the struggle to escape our clutches at bat night.
Let us hope that they can continue to awe us, and escape the wrath of
White Nose Syndrome.
Back at the studio, I made tribute to
the winged mammals on scratchboard. I chose the
Townsend's big-eared bat, which we see sleeping or flying about in Hansen Cave (part of
the Timpanogos Cave system) from time to time. I intend to create
more stories on bats, in words and pictures. I'll make the time
somehow.
Third picture (Hoary Bat) by National Park Service, public domain.
