A Journey with Monarchs

On a cold, windy morning in early October 2022, while walking in Petoskey, Michigan, in my mother’s semi-rural neighborhood, I spotted a monarch butterfly tucked inside a pink cosmos. Its motionless wings, tightly closed, looked dark brown. As I neared the flower, the butterfly ignored me, letting me sidle up and snap photos with my phone. Up close the wings didn’t look as dark, but the monarch’s legs remained still and its wings never flickered. It was the first time I had seen a butterfly behave this way. In July 2019, my four grandchildren and I brought a chrysalis home from the library after a program about monarchs. When our monarch eclosed from its chrysalis, even though it wasn’t ready for flight, it moved its legs and slowly fluttered its wings. But the monarch hanging from the flower in the cold Petoskey air was a statue.

While the bitter breeze prickled my face, I stared at the motionless monarch clutching the inside of the pink cosmos. Was it dead? Had rigor mortis caused its feet to adhere to the inside of the flower? Was the dark color on the ventral side of its wings also a sign of death? Was the monarch using the flower as shelter from the sharp winds and biting cold? It was eight o’clock in the morning and 38 F with 20-mph winds. If I hadn’t been wearing my stocking cap, mittens, and winter coat, I might have nudged the butterfly and crawled inside the flower next to it.

Finally, I wondered if the monarch was guzzling nectar for an upcoming flight to Mexico. Back home in Wisconsin, the squirrels in my yard were stashing food by digging tiny holes in the lawn to bury tasty tidbits. They were pilfering sunflower seeds from my birdfeeders, competing with the chickadees, nuthatches, goldfinches, and cardinals – who were also bulking up for winter. I sympathized. The onset of cold weather changes my appetite. I want to ditch salads and veggies and eat hot soups accompanied by slices of crusty flax-and-sunflower-seed bread made at a local bakery.

While I took pictures, the pink cosmos waved in the wind, but the monarch, whether dead or alive, remained motionless. Once more, I supposed it was dead and stuck to the florets at the center of the flower. I didn’t touch the monarch because if it was alive, I didn’t want to disturb it or harm it. If it was dead, I wanted it to drop to the ground on its own and be absorbed back into Mother Nature’s cycle of life. I continued my morning walk and juggled my theories. On my way back, I saw the motionless butterfly still clinging to the cosmos, which whirled in the unfriendly wind under a cantankerous sky.

On my afternoon walk, I stopped by the flower again. It was empty. I scanned the ground, but found no corpse. I hoped the butterfly was still alive. It was unlikely a bird ate it. Monarchs taste awful and they are toxic, so birds leave them alone. But a young, inexperienced bird might have tried to eat it. Fortunately, a monarch usually survives a bird’s bite.

I continued to stare at the empty flower, as if an intense gaze could conjure the monarch’s return. I wanted to know why it had been so motionless. I hoped it was on its way to Mexico. My curiosity about the iconic orange-and-black butterfly, who had clutched the cosmos and hooked my heart, took me on a journey of my own. I began to research monarch migration. I learned new information that would both educate me and change me. I might have learned more about monarchs at the library program where I had taken my grandchildren, but I had to entertain the youngest two in another room.

My monarch probably wasn’t dead when I saw it that morning. It must be at least 41 F for a monarch to walk and at least 55 F for a monarch to fly. On that morning it was 38 F – no wonder my monarch was immobile. The bottom segments of a butterfly’s legs are called tarsi, and they can grip leaves and flowers. Unable to move on that chilly morning, my monarch’s tarsi kept it anchored to the cosmos. At the end of its life, a butterfly’s colorful wings fade and become tattered, but my monarch was neither pale nor shabby. I think the overcast sky made its tightly closed wings appear darker. If my monarch had flight plans for Mexico, it had to consume loads of nectar – bacchanalian style – because it needed to build up its layer of fat. Over and over, it would have uncoiled its long hollow tongue, inserted it into a flower, and siphoned nectar.

To my surprise, I learned that not all monarchs born each year migrate to Mexico. My knowledge about monarchs and other butterflies had been gleaned from elementary school (over fifty-five years ago). We were taught that butterflies laid eggs from which caterpillars hatched. The caterpillars ate lots of leaves then formed cocoons. (We never used the term chrysalis.) When they were ready, the colorful butterflies would emerge from their “cocoons.” Monarchs were considered special because they migrated to Mexico in the winter. But since I was in grade school, scientists have amassed more information about monarchs, and the public has taken a greater interest in the amazing insects. We are all learning together.

For example, while I had never heard the word chrysalis, my granddaughter used it. I figured chrysalis was the modern term for cocoon and that the two were interchangeable, but my granddaughter told me, “It’s a chrysalis, Nana, moths have cocoons.” And it turns out the word chrysalis isn’t new – maybe back in my day, teachers thought cocoon was easier for grade-school children to say. Or maybe they had never heard the term chrysalis.

My grandchildren have learned much more about monarchs in school than I did, which is good because monarchs are in trouble. Their lives and yearly migrations are threatened by global warming, disappearing habitats, and chemicals, like herbicides, pesticides, and neonicotinoids. Because monarchs are beautiful, and because many of them perform a roughly 2,500-mile-awe-inspiring flight, they are the perfect poster child for teaching people that the survival of every living creature is important to all living creatures, including humans. Every time a species becomes extinct, other species, including humans, are more endangered.

Research has shifted my perspectives and made me more knowledgeable. Monarch migration is complex, with multiple generations completing the cycle each year. In the fall, generation-four monarchs will make the trip to Mexico, along with a number of generation-three monarchs who have eclosed in late August and entered diapause (delayed maturity).

However, other generation-three monarchs eclose in early August in southern Canada and the northern United States and don’t migrate. But they do lay eggs, so it will be their offspring who travel to Mexico. It takes about a month for their eggs to metamorphose. If the early-August monarchs lay their eggs in the northern part of their range, their children will be ready to migrate in mid-September. Unfortunately, deadly freezes can occur at that time of year. If my monarch was a generation-four and had come from an egg laid in early August, it should have left the northern part of the United States in mid-September. So why was my monarch still in Petoskey?

Perhaps its mother had been part of a pre-migration made by some generation-three monarchs, but she didn’t fly far enough south before laying her eggs. Maybe she had been lured by the abundant supply of milkweed that still grows in my mother’s neighborhood on undeveloped lots overlooking Lake Michigan. She took a chance and laid her eggs a little later in the season. Monarchs face a variety of weather conditions every fall, so they spread out before laying eggs that will hatch their migrating offspring. Somehow, they know to avoid putting all their eggs in one milkweed field. I have no way of knowing if my monarch was a generation-four monarch or a generation-three who had undergone diapause. But I think it may have missed its opportunity to fly south and was in jeopardy of freezing to death.

On that cold October morning, it was 38 F, but in the afternoon the temperatures reached the low 50s, maybe higher in the bright sunlight where I had seen my monarch. Perhaps, it left for Mexico, or maybe, it had only been able to fly up into a tree and hide among the branches and leaves while it hoped for warmer weather. If the temperatures warmed and my monarch had been able to file a flight plan for Mexico, it would have arrived at its overwintering grounds in November. Monarchs west of the Rockies migrate to coastal California. Those east of the Rockies go to Mexico. I want to believe my monarch had a smooth flight to Mexico then clustered in oyamel fir trees with millions of its buddies, where they kept each other warm and enjoyed a rest before their northward migration began in the spring.

Once in Mexico my monarch would have faced dangers from habitat loss, below normal temperatures, chemicals, and predators. Most birds and small animals won’t eat monarchs because they are toxic. However, black-headed grosbeaks, black-backed orioles, and black-eared mice – all native to areas in Mexico where monarchs winter – can dine on monarchs without ill effects or vomiting. Evolution has given them iron guts.

Sometime in March in a staggered start, like marathon runners, generation-four monarchs fly into the southern United States where they lay eggs then die. Those eggs produce generation-one, which flies into the southern Midwest region and lays eggs that become generation-two. Those monarchs fly into the northern United States and southern Canada and lay eggs that become generation-three, which will lay the eggs of generation-four that will migrate to Mexico in the fall. What a glorious cycle!

But each year the migration of the monarchs becomes more difficult. Global warming changes temperatures and wind patterns. Chemicals poison water and food sources. Construction eliminates native plants. Loss of habitat means less milkweed, which is vital to monarchs because it’s the only place the females can lay their eggs. And milkweed leaves are the only food their caterpillars can eat. Loss of habitat also means fewer wildflowers, which provide nectar for butterflies. Nectar is the energy source that fuels monarchs, especially important during migration. As monarchs marathon northward in the spring, they are assisted by humans who have planted milkweed and wildflowers in parks, on school grounds, or in their yards. Like a long-distance runner gratefully accepting a glass of Gatorade from a volunteer to sustain her, a monarch will gladly enjoy the bounty from a human’s garden.

On that October morning as I walked up and down the narrow roads in my mother’s neighborhood, my heart held joy and sadness. The partially-developed area is still a patchwork of fields filled with wildflowers and milkweed and a smattering of trees interspersed with homes. It’s a haven for bees, butterflies, rabbits, birds, insects, and coyotes. But over the ten years I have been visiting my mother, more and more of the natural habitat has been usurped. People build four- to six-thousand-square-foot homes on one-acre lots, which they clear of native plants then sod with the grass. And to maintain those perfect lawns, a truck arrives periodically and sprays them with chemical cocktails. The yards are professionally landscaped, but mostly with non-native flowers and plants. The wildflowers and milkweed that sustain butterflies, bees, and insects are not popular among the homeowners.

But I fantasize when I walk down the narrow roads. I imagine a different world on that hill overlooking Lake Michigan. What if homeowners left as many trees as possible when building their homes? What if they returned part of their property to its natural state? What if they cancelled the chemicals? What if they filled their gardens with native plants that attract butterflies and bees? What if they made sure everything they planted was neonicotinoid-free?

I cannot change the people in my mother’s neighborhood, but I can change.

Long ago, I stopped putting chemicals on my lawn. In the spring, my front yard sprouts sunny dandelions, and wild violets bloom, forming a thick carpet of pale purple. Later in the summer small white daisies, reddish-orange Indian paintbrushes, yellow buttercups, and purple and white clover appear. Bees and butterflies visit.

After reading about monarchs, I learned neonicotinoids are neurotoxic insecticides and are dangerous for living organisms. Many scientists believe they are killing bees and other pollinators in large numbers. I will buy plants and flowers from nurseries that only sell plants that have not been treated with insecticides. I recently bought my first bag of organic black sunflower seeds that are raised without neonicotinoids or other chemicals. I already grow bee-friendly plants in my yard, and I have plans to add milkweed and other butterfly-friendly plants.

I daydream, building a world in my mind where each person sees themselves as a caretaker, helping Mother Nature. A world where, with a collective voice, we demand that our politicians help care for our planet. Where we expect businesses to value sustainability and not just profits. Human thinking needs to migrate with the monarchs. As those beautiful butterflies take flight, overwinter, mate, and take flight again, we need to go along for the journey. Our journey won’t take us a thousand feet in the air over thousands of miles, but our partnership with nuture is crucial – learning, practicing good ecology, respecting nature – all deeds that will help preserve the flight of the monarchs and save the planet.

In the weeks after our library monarch eclosed, every time my grandchildren and I saw a monarch in my yard, I said, “Look, it’s our butterfly.”

One day, Clara, my little naturalist, set me straight. “You know, Nana, there are more monarchs around here than just ours!”

On that day I had hoped so. And today, I sure hope we can keep it that way.