As October looms, we have just left behind what anyone with functioning sweat glands must agree was a very hot summer.
As I write this, on the first official day of autumn, two words perfectly evoke the new feeling in the air and the new quality in the sunlight: sweater weather.
This past summer, though a little hot and sunny for me, was perfect for the Monarch butterflies that appeared in surprisingly large numbers this year. It was evidently a banner year locally, even though the species as a whole is down nearly 15% from last year in their wintering grounds in Mexico, and about 90% over the last two decades. Against that grim backdrop, the fluttering visits to my milkweed and butterfly weed seemed all the more poignant.
I counted over 30 Monarch caterpillars in my newly-installed garden this season, and I was able to observe firsthand the critical link between Monarchs and the plants they depend upon. I planted three pots of robust butterfly weed (Aesclepias tuberosa) in June and left a couple of common milkweed volunteers. I happened to be present when a female fluttered from plant to plant depositing her eggs. Weeks of quiet drama followed as the tiny caterpillars grew through their five instars (stages of molting) and prepared to pupate, forming their signature J-shape under a nearby leaf or twig. After this phase the chrysalis forms, a green acorn with a circlet of gold, and the unimaginable metamorphosis into a butterfly begins in its murky depths.
Photo Lisa Stefaniak.
After losing a few chrysalises to predators and other unseen forces, I brought a couple inside to increase their chance of survival. I was lucky enough to witness one moment of emergence as a chrysalis hanging in my kitchen split open and an adult butterfly emerged and, transported hastily to my porch, began inflating her glorious orange wings. There’s one last chrysalis hanging from a blade of native switch grass out in the garden. It’s a late-comer, but if that one is successful, I’ll have shepherded six Monarchs this year. It’s not many for a species in decline, but better than the 2%-5% survival rate typical in the wild.
For me, though, installing a garden with predominantly native plants was successful beyond my wildest dreams. When Thoreau tried his hand at farming, he famously described his “daily work” as “making the earth say beans instead of grass.” By gardening with mostly native plants, I imagined myself, in my own small way, coaxing the earth to say caterpillar and butterfly and bird instead of “lawn” or “foundation planting.” I don’t know if the earth needs more beans, but it definitely needs more butterflies.
Will we see the same number of Monarchs next year? The numbers do not look good. Habitat loss, pesticides, hurricanes, drought, and the effects of climate change make it increasingly difficult for Monarchs to complete their incredibly complex, multi-generational migratory journey across the continent.
What can anyone do about it? It’s estimated that 1.4 billion milkweed plants would need to be planted to make a significant difference in terms of restoring habitat. It’s a mind-boggling number. Still, the number is currently somewhat less because of my three butterfly weed plants. Some number of butterflies, however small, are currently winging toward Mexico that otherwise might not be. It’s easy to get lost among the large, depressing numbers of habitat loss and species decline, but maybe the most important number is one: the one gardener who chooses to plant differently, and the one Monarch who survives as a result.
Get Out! by Lisa Stefaniak
