The Day of the Bats

In August 1995, my good friend Rick and I were camping and fishing in a remote spot near Virginia, Minnesota. This beautiful area is surrounded by towering pine trees and a secluded 200-acre lake. The only way in was through two mud holes, each nearly one hundred feet long and two feet deep during an average year. A four-wheel-drive vehicle was definitely required. Fortunately, there was sand underneath the mud, and the location remained one of our best-kept fishing secrets.

We were drifting quietly across the lake in a duck boat. The water was as smooth as glass, and we were catching largemouth bass and sunfish one after another. The fishing couldn't have been better.

Suddenly I noticed what looked like a flock of small birds flying over the trees toward us. Hundreds of them. As they got closer, they weren't birds at all—they were bats.

They flew directly over the boat, circling, swooping, and diving around us while feeding on the mosquitoes and insects hovering above the water. The sound was incredible, almost like hundreds of electronic pagers all going off at once.

Rick instinctively started swatting at them with his fishing rod, which only confused them even more. Several bounced off the boat, a few brushed against us, and others collided with each other as they darted through the air.

Two fishermen surrounded by hundreds of bats while bass fishing in northern Minnesota.

The swarm lasted only about five minutes, although it felt much longer. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the entire cloud disappeared into the evening sky.

I looked over at Rick. He looked back at me. We both sat there for a second in complete silence.

Then Rick laughed, picked up his rod, and tossed his frog lure toward the edge of the lily pads as if nothing unusual had happened.

It was one of the strangest experiences I've ever had on the water—and one I'll never forget.