A dance of new life

The monarch butterfly appeared suddenly. Dancing in air, in rapid twists and turns, it kept changing direction and elevation above the gravel trail. My eyes could barely follow the stuttering flight.

It was my first monarch sighting of the season, and so I wanted to document it. The monarch zig-zagged away until it became a flickering speck against the new leaves. But just as quickly, it reversed course and came back toward me. I stood still; it passed within a few feet.

The monarch finally alighted on the small leaves of a buckthorn shoot. I stalked, camera focusing on the orange and black patchwork against the cluster of low leaves. I inched within arm’s length of the monarch, its wings heaving slightly. And then it lifted off, starting anew its erratic and colorful flight against the trailside’s emergence of greenness.

It appeared to be a dance of new life, this monarch butterfly celebrating spring after its first migration flight. I hoped it wasn’t a dance of death, for all is not bright in the world of monarch butterflies, those efficient pollinators of our wildflowers.

This butterfly probably hatched in Texas a month or more ago, coming to winged life along the Mexico to Wisconsin migration route. A female adult monarch deposits eggs on milkweed after leaving the overwintering forests of central Mexico. An egg becomes a caterpillar, and the caterpillar transforms into a chrysalis from which the butterfly slips free. Miracle of metamorphosis.

The adult butterflies—“our” monarchs from summer’s last hatch—normally die after leaving Mexico and “planting” this first generation of the season (there will be four or five). The newly-hatched make the remaining migration miles northward. The last generation of summer lives the longest—eight months—and makes the thousands-miles trip to Mexico. And it all starts over again.

But more often than not these days, there’s no starting over. Monarch butterfly numbers continue to decline, both the eastern (in this region) and western species. According to the World Wildlife Fund, eastern monarchs this past winter occupied only 2.2 acres in the Mexico forest, compared to 5.5 acres the previous winter and a whopping 45 acres in 1996-97.

Science and nature writer Christine Peterson notes that 30 years ago overwintering monarch butterflies occupied so much area in Mexico you could see it from space—millions if not billions of butterflies clustered over 50 acres.

Ornithologists tell us that monarchs are declining because of loss of wintering habitat and shelter through deforestation, and the loss of milkweed along the migration route and summer habitat. Some pesticides for gardens and croplands target or poison milkweed, the required plant for monarch reproduction. On top of this, an increase in hurricane and tornadic activity takes its toll.

How many young butterflies were lost in the prolific tornado outbreaks across the Central Plains this spring? I can’t stop tornadoes, but I can avoid pesticides, and I can plant and nurture milkweed.

I stared in awe at this single butterfly in May. Its “mother” survived thousands of miles of migration last fall, then survived winter. Now, this weeks-old butterfly in front of me had dodged the storms. What flights of life against the odds of death.

Dave Greschner, retired sports/outdoors editor at the Rice Lake Chronotype, writes about nature and the outdoors, pursues nature photography, and is the author of “Soul of the Outdoors.” He can be reached at davegreschner@icloud.com.