Holly Kays photo
U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service biologist Sue Cameron collects data from one of the bats.
From hard hats to oversize coverall waders to—scariest of all—slacks and a blazer, I’ve worn some pretty interesting costumes in the line of duty as a journalist. But the get-up required to join in on an annual cave survey of hibernating bats easily tops the list.
I’d barely pulled into the parking lot of Linville Caverns before the layers started coming at me. Baggy sweats to pull over the clothes I’d come in. A white Tyvek suit, the kind you see Hazmat crews wear. Rubber boots and gloves, duct tape attaching their edges to the suit, and then a second Hazmat suit over the whole shebang. I had to leave my reporter’s notebook and headlamp, trading them in for waterproof paper and a plastic headlamp-helmet combo that could be Lysoled upon our exit. Even my camera had to be swathed in saran wrap.
And all this just to step into a cave whose cement walkways accommodated hundreds of tourists annually, each less carefully attired than me.
A multitude of bats—more than a hundred of them—used to fill the cave as well. The sight of them, flitting around the cave entrance before eventually settling in for winter hibernation, is something that the cave’s owner, Sarah Davis, remembers well.
“I absolutely loved them,” she reminisced, showing our group—which besides me included two biologists from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and N.C. Wildlife Resources Commission—the way in.
Inside, the cave was damp, smooth, and quiet but for the trickle of water and fall of our own footsteps. Green-tinged mineral deposits gleamed in the dim light—caused by an unwelcome algae, but nonetheless beautiful—and limestone formations stood sentry, appearing tantalizingly smooth and silky. I could see why someone would want to spend an afternoon walking through the caverns.
But the hundreds of bats Davis recalled from decades past were nowhere to be seen. The outing was more like a scavenger hunt than a hibernation spectacle. Long minutes elapsed between each discovery of a bat clinging to cave rock, the entire survey done in less than an hour.
The culprit in all of this was obvious—it was white-nose syndrome. The insidious fungus-caused disease first showed up in a New York cave about 10 years ago. Since then, it’s spread down the Eastern seaboard, reaching North Carolina in 2011.
The disease has decimated populations of cave-hibernating bats, with the death toll in Eastern North America nearing six million. In the five years since white-nose reached North Carolina, little brown bat populations have dropped by an estimated 92 percent, while northern long-eared bats have declined by 78 percent and tri-colored bats by 77 percent.
With numbers on the downturn year after year, I reflected, scientists must sometimes feel like powerless observers of disaster rather than heroes with the weapons to avert it. As one of the biologists with me in the cave said, even if white-nose disappeared tomorrow, it would be a long time, if ever, before bat populations recovered.
Not that there aren’t glimmers of hope. Last spring, for instance, the U.S. Forest Service released a group of white-nose-free bats in Missouri. The previous fall, they’d had the disease, but apparently there’s a native soil bacteria that “breathes out” a compound that keeps the fungus from growing. It was a rare moment of celebration in a field of research that can often be just plain depressing, but it will take plenty more research to arrive any kind of large-scale, practical solution.
Meanwhile, rank-and-file biologists will continue their careful tallying and data-gathering in hopes of contributing toward a solution.
“Here’s one,” someone called out, the triumphant phrase echoing off limestone walls. Smaller than my fist, the little bat slept suspended from the ceiling, the picture of peace. The scientists descended to take their readings—body temperature, swabs from the surrounding rock and, finally, from the bat’s furry body. As the q-tip rubbed against his fur, the little guy roused, giving a squeak like that of a fussy newborn before settling back to sleep.
He was one of seven we found that day. Seven. In 2006, biologists had counted 95.
Just as white-nose syndrome can be a depressing subject to study, it can also be depressing to write about. What would summer be without the nearly invisible wings of flying mammals flitting across streetlights? Or, on a more practical note, pest control without bats’ prolific insect munching to keep populations in check?
There has to be a happy end to this story, I continue to tell myself. But what, exactly, might it be? Time will tell.