Northern Myotis ecology: A fellowship in flight

Setting up the nets was far more time-intensive than I expected. There’s an art to it: brush to be cleared, poles to be anchored, angles to be adjusted, sag to be tested and retested. The pocket of the net, the space where the bat gently drops, has to be just right.

By dusk, or what the team calls “emergence,” the sky dimmed just enough for the bats to take flight. That first night, we caught over 40 bats. Each one was carefully processed: weighed, measured, monitored, and released. I saw them up close, their delicate wings, their impossibly tiny faces are so cute. It was a humbling experience.

July 16: The rain returns

Rain halted our work again. We used the downtime to ensure our nets were positioned for the next clear evening. Same forest, new spots. A reminder of the persistence this work requires. What I enjoyed about this night was visiting at camp, telling stories, and sharing the traditional knowledge I carry about bats with the team. A bridge of knowledge sharing was created.

July 17: Townsend's surprise

After another prep-filled day, we returned to the site and began again. We caught about 10 bats early on, then things quieted. Just as we were preparing to wrap, I woke from a short nap in time to witness the capture of a Townsend’s big-eared bat (a different species and a special encounter). We ended the night with around 15 captures, returning to camp just as the sky began to lighten.

Reflections and recommendations

Reflecting on my time in the field, one of the most important observations I came away with is the noticeable absence of Indigenous voices within bat conservation programs. This absence is not necessarily due to a lack of effort by organizations like WCS Canada, which has demonstrated a willingness to engage, but perhaps a lack of broader awareness or meaningful access points. In many cases, the knowledge and interest are there, but the pathways between community and conservation institutions remain underdeveloped or inaccessible.

I believe there is a clear opportunity to invest in long-term, community-based approaches that bring Indigenous land guardians into bat monitoring efforts. Whether through co- developed programs, localized training, or support for Nations to carry out their own monitoring with cultural and scientific guidance, this work requires patience and continuity. Relationship-building must be treated as the foundation of meaningful conservation.

Final thoughts and gratitude

As I reflect on this experience, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I’ve said it before, but it’s worth saying again: I am so thankful for the opportunities this fellowship has opened up for me. Being out on the land, learning alongside others, and contributing to meaningful conservation work has been both humbling and affirming.

One of the greatest gifts of this trip was the people I shared it with, particularly Jason and his partner, Becca. Their presence truly shaped the entire experience. From the very beginning, they made me feel welcome. Jason was incredibly generous with his knowledge, always taking the time to explain and include me in every part of the fieldwork. He made me feel like a true part of the team, and that sense of belonging is something I will carry with me. Relationships like these are what make fieldwork meaningful. Beyond the data and the monitoring, it’s the connections we build that create lasting change.

I want to end this reflection with deep appreciation for them, and for everyone who made this experience what it was. It reminded me that conservation is not just a science. It’s a practice of showing up, of learning from each other, and of remembering that how we do the work matters just as much as the work itself.