Monarch Butterflies in Michoacán

Greetings from the mountains of Michoacán, my nature-loving friends! I've just witnessed one of the most extraordinary natural phenomena on Earth: the monarch butterfly migration. Every year, hundreds of millions of monarchs travel up to 4,800 kilometers from Canada and the United States to winter in the oyamel fir forests of central Mexico. They arrive in such numbers that tree branches bend under their weight. The sound of their wings is audible. It's like entering a fairy tale, except the fairy tale is real and it's in a Mexican mountain forest.

The journey to the butterfly sanctuaries is part of the experience. From Mexico City, I drove four hours to Angangueo, a former mining town that now serves as a base for butterfly tourists. From there, it's a hike up to the Rosario sanctuary at about 3,000 meters elevation. The air is thin. The trail is steep. Horses are available for those who need them (I considered it, but cacti and horses have complicated relationships). The guides warned me to pace myself. I ignored them, got winded after ten minutes, and then paced myself. Listen to the guides.

Nothing prepares you for what you see at the top. Entire trees—entire forests—covered in orange and black wings. The butterflies cluster together so densely that the trees look like they've grown new bark. On warm days, they take flight in waves, thousands at a time, filling the sky with living color. One landed on my head (spines be damned) and rested there for several minutes. I stayed very still, barely breathing, honored by the visitation. My guide said monarchs are believed to carry the souls of the dead returning for Día de los Muertos. Watching them swirl around me, I could understand the belief.

The science behind the migration is almost as miraculous as the sight itself. The butterflies that arrive in Mexico have never been there before—they're the great-grandchildren of the ones who left the previous spring. Yet they navigate to the same forests, sometimes the same trees, year after year. Scientists still don't fully understand how they do it: some combination of the sun's position, the Earth's magnetic field, and perhaps genetic memory passed down through generations. These delicate creatures with brains smaller than a pinhead accomplish navigational feats that would challenge modern technology.

The sanctuaries are only open from November to March, when the butterflies are present. I visited in early February, considered prime viewing time. The morning was cold and the butterflies were clustered, saving energy. As the sun warmed the forest, they began to stir, then fly, then explode into the sky in numbers that defied counting. I sat on a log for two hours just watching, feeling the brush of wings against my spines, understanding why people travel thousands of miles for this experience. Some things have to be witnessed to be believed.

If you want to see the monarchs, plan ahead. The season is short, and the best viewing depends on weather conditions. Go early morning or late afternoon for the most activity. Bring warm layers—the mountain air is cold, especially in the shade. And hire a local guide; they know where the butterflies are clustering and can share knowledge about the ecosystem. This is one of those experiences that changes how you think about nature, about migration, about what small creatures can accomplish. The monarchs travel farther than I ever have, and they weigh less than a gram. Humbling doesn't begin to cover it. 🌵🦋🇲🇽