Dancing with Monarchs
I don’t see them at first. I wait as the sun starts to warm the air.
Sleepy, wing-folded monarchs begin to stir in the eucalyptus branches. Huddled and bundled like clumps of fall leaves among the menthol scented trees. I squint.
The sun’s rays filter through the foggy grove. Pumpkin orange wings veined with inky black designs flutter and flap. As if on cue, one… two… three regal insects peel off from clusters resting on the waxy blue leaves. The magic begins. The dance starts.
Three grows into ten until I lose count. The air between the grayish eucalyptus bark fills with monarchs swirling and twirling through the sky. Like ballerinas in flight, their beauty is mesmerizing. The grove quiet with humans observing the marvel. The moment awe-inspiring. These butterflies have journeyed hundreds of miles to reach their winter home.
In late October the fourth-generation arrives in full force. Multiple generations have lived and died during the last migration. All part of their life cycle. These monarchs, the gladiators of the species, have larger wings that sport a darker deep orange. They don’t die in two to six weeks like their predecessors. They travel from the Western Rocky Mountains to winter in California. Part of the population settles in the eucalyptus groves at Nature Bridges State Park along the Santa Cruz California Coast.
Symbols of entomological strength, this cohort lives for six to eight months and flies back north around late February-early March as the weather warms. Once they departure they will feed on milkweed. They will mate on their northern journey and populate a new generation.
I watch as they fly around me. Some so close I put out an open-palmed hand in hopes one might land on my fingertips. The air still. The aroma of eucalyptus a heady experience. I look at my son. He looks back with a grin. He too is lost in this marvel.
How can these creatures, with paper-thin wings, journey so far? Some reaching heights of 20,000 feet in flight. How do they find this exact grove, a mere speck on our planet. These butterflies are four-generations removed from the ones that migrated back to the Pacific Northwest last spring.
Remarkably, these insects behave like migratory birds. Monarchs are the only known insect to make a two-way migration, traveling North to South and vice versa as the seasons change.
I am watching a phenomenon of nature, a mere 30 miles from my home. My son and I walk the Monarch Trail. No one else is present. We hike alone in our joy. The butterflies pirouette in the sky, their black body and black-bordered wings sprinkled with perfectly spaced white dots. My son and I stop to soak it all in. I spread out my arms, lift my head to the sun, and pirouette in rhythm with my newfound friends.
In a world where life has become unpredictable and coated with a pandemic. Where falsehoods have usurped truths. One constant can be found in the small eucalyptus grove by the Pacific Ocean. The monarchs have returned and when the sun warms their wings they will fill an afternoon sky with dance.
I want this dance to last for seasons to come, but the magic appears to be on life support in the Western United States, due to loss of habitat from development and climate change. Since 1990 about 970 million monarchs have disappeared, according to a 2015 U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service report as reported by Washington Post writer Dino Grandoni.
Even if I plant milkweed and other butterfly-friendly flowers in my garden, the lack of rain and the prolonged dry heat in California is fueling fires and killing off butterfly food. Still, I will create a haven for the brave orange and black beauties that make their arduous journey down the coast from the Pacific Northwest.
I will welcome them. Provide them sustenance, and if I am lucky, maybe a flurry of monarchs will find their way to my home and perhaps grace me with a mid-flight dance in the garden.
