This column is about a butterfly. I know that this disclosure may prompt some readers to step outside and see whether they are still affixed to a planet that orbits a single, yellow sun but it is nevertheless true. I choose, of my own volition, to write about a butterfly. The Monarch butterfly.
Big, orange, showy, omnipresent (at least this year). In fact, it is the very weight of their numbers that has prompted this column. A few years back, migrating Monarchs were about as elusive as a politicians promise. This year, they are more common than excuses.
Monarchs are migratory. They breed across much of North America–north into southern Canada. They winter in the mountains northwest of Mexico City (with smaller numbers wintering along the coast of California). If the folks advocating free trade between Canada, the U. S. and Mexico were looking for a mascot, they couldn’t go wrong with the Monarch.
The life-cycle of this insect is as complex as biology and as fundamentally simple as a relay race. After departing winter roosts in the spring, last year’s surviving adult insects carry their genetic dowry’s several hundreds of miles north, breed, die. Their offspring pick up the genetic baton and carry it for the next leg of the race then, following their parents lead, breed and die. This pattern continues until the penultimate generation reaches the finish-line.
It is their offspring that break the pattern. Rather than breed, they flee. South. Flying nonstop to the roosts in Mexico.
It is this mass exodus that prompts masses of insects to concentrate in Cape May.
There are lots of Monarchs already. They will peak in late September or the first several days of October.
“OK,” you are thinking. “Right. Lots of butterflies. What of it?”
Fair question. Here’s the answer.
Magic.
When you were a child, magic was matter-of-fact fact of life. You believed in tooth fairies, unicorns and the wisdom of adults. Rainbows were magic. Clouds were magic. Fireflies were magic.
Then you grew up. Went to school. Learned that magic is just ordinary phenomena.
And you became an adult yourself.
But the magic of magic is that it never truly disappears. Just as birds are descended from dinosaurs, magic simply morphed into something else. Magic-like.
It became Wonder. While wonder isn’t quite as captivating as magic, it is (to the adult mind) more believable. Monarchs tap right into wonder’s mother lode. You see just one insect, and it strums chord, laid down in your childhood, in your soul. You see thousands of insects and you are brought to marvel.
Thousands?
Yep. Thousands. Some years. And while I cannot promise that this year will be as big as the migration that passed through Cape May in 2001 (a year that saw over 500 Monarchs a minute passing Cape May Point), I can pretty nearly assure you that there will be lots and lots of migrating Monarchs this September.
Why this year?
At the risk of diminishing what little magic remains, the reason Monarch numbers are high is because last year there was a very low mortality in the Mexican roosts. This summer, milkweed (the Monarch’s host plant) is having a banner year. Put the two together, add the high productivity of insects, and you get lots of Monarch butterflies.
Why pretty nearly assure? Because all it would take to put the kibosh on Monarch numbers would be one good, early frost across New England.
Frost is lethal to magic.
If you want to see lots of Monarchs head for the beach - a natural beach; one with dunes and vegetation. What you (and the Monarchs) are looking for is seaside goldenrod. Monarch’s love goldenrod. They feed upon the yellow blossoms by day. They roost upon them by night. There are times and places when stalks are bowed beneath the weight of insects. There are also places where roosting butterflies cling to the south facing sides of cedar trees, close their wings, and become almost invisible.
Almost. You want to believe in magic again? Go to a roost tree, on a still, chill morning after the passage of a cold front. When the roosting Monarchs feel the first touch of morning sun, they open their wings and the trees bloom.
Magic.
You want me to tell you where the butterflies roost? Sorry. No-can-do. I once fielded a call from some nut case who asked me to tell her how to find Monarchs. Naively, I obliged only to learn that what she planned to do was collect the butterflies and turn them into lamp shade decorations. Duh!
Thank God I didn’t tell her where the local Unicorns gather after a night on the town!
For more information on Monarch migration visit the Monarch Monitoring Project or go to View from the Field for up-to-date reports from the MMP seasonal staff.