Chasing Fireflies

One dark night in Mexico

Forest Sanctuary

A few fireflies flickered through the rain. Across the canyon, I heard shouting as all of us stopped on the steep path and clutched our rain gear tighter. Too dark to go on, confused and uncertain, we waited for the signal to proceed.

Earlier that afternoon, our van had picked us up at the lively Puebla Zocalo and drove us through the hillside country to the firefly reserve at Nanacamilpa, a village bursting with tourists, buses, and roadside vendors selling rain ponchos and snacks. I was the only gringa in the van, occasionally understanding words or phrases such as luciérnagas (fireflies), which the villagers described as new gold after the reserve outside their village was discovered and exploited.

Fireflies live for 2 years: 1 month as the flying firefly we know. 20 months as a larva in the dirt.

The fireflies can only be seen after dark at an elevation of around 8,500’, just over a mile up the path from the park where we had dinner. I saw the guide talking to a rather heavy-set young woman who had sat in front of me in the van. She wore skin-tight, brightly colored leggings and I thought if she could make it, surely I could also, even though I probably had 30 years on her.

Firefly light is produced exclusively by the females to attract males.

After dinner, we started up the grade and within minutes, my breath was ragged and I was hot, too hot. I knew I needed to slow down so I fell back and noticed others who were also having problems. The guide’s pace was too much for several of us.

Fireflies are called bioluminescent insects, but are actually beetles.

When we stopped for a break a few minutes later, my Fitbit showed a pulse rate of 132, still high. I needed to take it slower. The woman from the bus also seemed to be having problems. Our guide was talking to her and when we started again, he set a slower pace.

The light was fading and a few fireflies were showing up. The show we came to see was about to begin.

I had stripped off a couple of layers of clothing and Jorge, my new, English-speaking friend from dinner, insisted on taking my pack. We walked on for a bit and then halted again. The fireflies were dancing and it was quiet and lovely. Enough fireflies were around us that we could notice the synchronization of their blinkings. The word we shared, quietly, was increíble, perfect in both languages.

Then the shouting, muffled by the mountains and trees, garbled the words or even their direction. My anxiety rose as I tried to see through the dark.

We waited. The fireflies danced around us. Thunder began to rumble in the distance and flashes of lightning lit the dark forest shadows. Soon came wind, rain, and ponchos. We edged down the hill, I assumed because of the weather and the condition of the path. A woman grabbed my hand and together, step-by-step, we proceeded, hearing “cuidado” (careful) frequently as we descended.

At a bend in the path, we came to a group of people in a low huddle. In the dark it took a moment for all the pieces to come together. Light shining on a bare stomach on the ground … the pumping motion of CPR … the woman from the bus, her leggings shining in the wavering light.

There was nothing to do. Everything was being done.

We continued on. Phone lights lit. Silence. The restrictions about light and noise were already broken. Gripping hands. One step after another. Few words; we just kept stepping carefully. 

At one point we tried to sing away the horror and the fear. Cielito Lindo. But it drifted away, swallowed by the night.

In the returning van, one passenger short, we found that no one on the trip knew the woman. Sola (alone). Not knowing her felt like an insult, a rejection of her life. I had called her la mujer (the woman), however, the women on the bus called her La Señora, which seemed more respectful, an acknowledgement that she would be missed, mourned. After a long quiet, the group began a prayer from their shared religious background. 

I didn’t understand their words or share their background, but found it comforting.

It took an hour and a half to inch our way from the mountain back through the village and to the highway, stopping frequently on the narrow road to let emergency vehicles pass on their way to do whatever was left to be done. I wondered what brought La Señora on this journey. Who was she? What had she loved and who had loved her? 

I couldn’t help thinking about my own situation, my own solo life, the possibility that it could have been me, alone on that strange dark mountain, in an unfamiliar country, off on an adventure, chasing the beauty of fireflies, alone. 

— From a trip to Puebla, MX, August, 2018

Coming Next Wednesday, June 28: One of the more unusual experiences of my life and one that taught me a lot about hate.