I travel for those moments when my body stops and my heart fills, when my brain cannot categorize all that I see and my soul takes over to hold the moment. I will relive yesterday over and over again, because my heart and soul were nourished.

As we ( crews of Flight, Serendipity and Swift Current) walked in the Monarch Butterfly Sanctuary, we immediately saw butterflies beside the path. It was just like home, when a butterfly's bright wing caught your eye. We stopped and photographed them - identifying the males by the dots on the lower third of their wings. As we climbed higher the sightings became more common. Our guide, Ricardo, led us ever higher for 45 minutes, and then we stopped. We saw a dozen or more butterflies milling about. Clouds covered the sky, and we were told the butterflies awoke with the warmth of the sun. We would wait, hoping for more. The longer we were stopped the more we saw. Our eyes took time to adjust. Was that a clutch of butterflies clinging to that yellow flower? Were there butterflies on that tree above us?
The first patch of blue appeared in the sky, and more flashes of orange and black began to quiver. The trees, swathed in gray, in the valley below us were not covered in moss, for the moss started to move. As the clouds moved along the the gray and the green became background. First dozens, then scores of butterflies flew before us, as the scores became hundreds and then thousands. My brain tried to categorize the images. At a distance they were like bats dancing in twilight, up close they showed the acrobatics of hummingbirds. We listened to the wings beating, forewarned that it would sound like rain. Yes, the constant tapping on a tent roof, or the murmur of a fountain. It had a water quality. Then one inadvertently landed on me. I was kissed by a fairy. The delicate legs oscillating pressure as the wings beat. As we watched the air filled and the trees emptied. First at the top, and then as the sun's warmth reached lower, the pines turned from grey to green. The valley no longer empty, but filled with orange life.
The continent of North America is funnel shaped, somewhat. Canada and the United States are the open port and it narrows to Mexico, serving as the spout. The monarch butterflies live in this funnel. They lay eggs in the wide area, where the milkweed grows, and then migrate down through the spout to the mountains of Michoacan. They rest on the oyamel at el rosario (a pine tree) from November to March. A multigenerational trek, for those resting now are the great, great grandchildren of last year's inhabitants.
It was over a three and a half hour drive from Morelia to the car park, from there we walked a quarter mile up through an alley, bordered with souvenir and food stalls. The food vendors cook on grills, fueled with wood scraps. Grey-blue tortillas lay on griddles. The color coming from the blue corn of the region. The souvenirs include baskets woven from the pine needles and cloth mats with butterfly motifs. Hundreds of butterfly nicknacks, that I feared would be the best display. When we reached our spot on the mountain, we could hear the mariachi quartet playing below. "I hear the butterflies, and they have a Latin beat." the smell of wood smoke gave way to the tang of the oyamel. The car park was half full,and there were 14 tour buses parked at the lower level. I was dismayed by the crowds - it was the Saturday of a three day weekend. Our driver, Jesus (I'm saving that introduction for later) promised me it would be alright. He walked us to the park entrance and found our park guide Ricardo. Pointing to Hugh, who has a bad back that has never stopped him from hiking or zip lining, Jesus asked Ricardo to help us see the butterflies. Ricardo requested permission for us to use a side trail, that was only 45 minutes instead of the hour to the top. This is how we ended up above a valley alone, with waves of butterflies surrounding us.