Illustration by Alex Siklos
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In the heat of the summer, the arrival of even one fiery-orange monarch butterfly in my postage-stamp backyard is always thrilling, and a bit mystifying. Although I had dutifully cultivated milkweed plants as a butterfly magnet for a decade, I really didn’t know much about the monarch’s life cycle or travels. That was, until a recent trip to Mexico opened my eyes to these remarkable butterflies.
In February, I found myself in remote mountains 3,000 metres above sea level. There, in a forest of rare oyamel fir trees, I learned that my backyard butterfly journeys 5,000 kilometres on a once-in-a-lifetime voyage to hibernate. It’s one of the longest insect migrations in the world. No GPS co-ordinates needed.
My friend Kat and I had booked a week-long urban birding adventure in Mexico City. Our tour included a visit to the nearby highlands for more birding and a side trip on horseback to the winter home of the monarch butterfly. Farewell, northern cardinals. Hola, vermillion flycatchers.
Flying over Southwest Ontario, I spotted Point Pelee, a celebrated birding destination, jutting out into the frozen expanse of Lake Erie. As our plane turned south, I realized we were following the fall migratory route of millions of birds and, as I’d read, countless monarch butterflies to Mexico.
It was Kat who reminded me that Canadian researchers Fred and Norah Urquhart discovered this incredible journey 51 years ago by attaching price-tag stickers to the butterflies and communicating with a network of monarch-watchers. Their news was so big that monarch migration made the cover of National Geographic in 1976. Now, solar-powered radio tags provide data during the two-month trip south. Our flight took just five hours.
The first two days we followed Justin, our Canadian tour leader, and Pamela, a self-described “punk-birder” into the wilds of Mexico City’s vast parks. Pamela’s twentysomething chilanga vibe defied most stereotypes of birders. She was cool, even with binoculars. Together, we identified 114 species in her vibrant city, from American white pelicans to Rivoli’s hummingbirds.
Rubén, our intrepid Mexican troubleshooter, was not a birder. But his passion for Mexican history, culture and cuisine was inspiring. He even persuaded me to try fried grasshoppers on guacamole. He loved the monarchs and marvelled at their migratory mission that compelled generations to travel between our countries.
Midweek, we headed to our butterfly base, a two-hour drive west into the region near Valle de Bravo, an area of waterfalls and forests. Rubén couldn’t wait to show us the remote monarch refuge among the oyamel trees.
But in the morning, he looked grim. Rain at the Piedra Herrada Monarch Sanctuary had made the trails dangerous for the horses. Regrettably, he postponed our trip until the next day – our final day in the highlands. That night, storm clouds gathered above the sanctuary range. Two of our group, including Kat, were ill. Not auspicious before a horseback ride up a rocky trail.
On Friday morning, Rubén told us that plans had changed, again. Our hearts dropped. Could we have come this far only to miss seeing the monarchs? We were going to venture further to the Sierra Chincua Sanctuary in the state of Michoacán. Everyone was onboard.
The route to this UNESCO World Heritage Site climbed past avocado trees and villages lined with fruit stands. Local people run butterfly tours, horse rentals and cocinas (small restaurants) as co-operatives. Rubén was greeted warmly by our guide, Beto. This would be their last tour of the season.
As days grow warmer each year, the monarch hibernation is changing. Females are departing earlier after mating with males (who then die), returning north to lay eggs on milkweed found in Texas. The reproductive cycle repeats three times during the spring migration, before a fourth generation of monarchs reaches Southern Ontario.
As we mounted the horses, nervous chatter filled the air. The sky was a brilliant blue. The higher we climbed, the quieter we got. Perhaps it was the altitude that subdued us as we hiked into the forest after dismounting. Or the sense of awe as monarchs began to appear, first just one or two, and then dozens. Alarmingly, the trail was littered with dead monarchs. Rubén picked one up to show how birds had eaten its abdomen and discarded the orange-and-black wings.
Soon an aerial ballet of monarchs surrounded us. They swirled and soared, the midday sun triggering their need for water and nectar. Further ahead, heavy green-grey branches of towering oyamel vibrated, weighed down by rust-coloured curtains of monarchs in the hundreds of thousands.
We were spellbound by a breathtaking dance of beauty and renewal that our cameras couldn’t capture. The forest was cathedral-like and the monarchs seemed sacred. None of us would likely be here again. We were witnessing a timeless spectacle of a species now threatened by climate change, illegal lumbering of the oyamel, and pesticide-driven destruction of the milkweed corridor.
As we began our descent, Rubén declared it was the second-best display of monarchs he’d seen in 10 years. Filled with gratitude and delicious quesadillas made by Beto’s mother, I hoped that offspring of these monarchs would find their way to my garden, where the milkweed awaits them. It’s already spring, and somewhere to the south, the monarchs are on the move again.
Jane French lives in Toronto.