They are not silent creatures after all.
Millions of delicate wings, all beating together, sounded to me like gently falling summer rain. Other people at the El Rosario monarch butterfly sanctuary high up in the mountains of central Mexico said they thought they sounded like falling leaves.
As we made our way slowly up the mountain path, butterflies flitted against our faces, parting to flow around us as if we were merely rocks in a stream. The raw beauty of finding yourself in a river of monarchs is overwhelming.
We had to watch where we stepped because the fragile creatures littered the ground as well -- some resting, some dead, and some beginning the mating dance that prefaces their return to the U.S. and Canada next spring and summer.
I've been fascinated by monarchs ever since I was about 12 years old and kept a monarch caterpillar in a Mason jar. I happened to be there when it emerged from its chrysalis and it sat for an hour on my finger drying its wings before flying off.
At that time, scientists knew the monarchs migrated south for the winter but, until 1975, they had no idea where they went.
Then Canadian scientist Fred Urquhart's work led to the discovery of the monarch colonies here in the state of Michoacan, about three hours northwest of Mexico City.
Finally, I got a chance to see these butterfly colonies for myself and it's a truly wonderful experience -- especially for those concerned about the fate of these insects, whose migration is considered endangered.
Monarchs that emerge from chrysalises in the Ottawa area in late August and September migrate up to 4,000 kilometres to Mexico along with their peers east of the Rocky Mountains. (West of the Rockies, they migrate to California.) They spend the winter clustered high in the oyamel fir trees at 3,000 metres in the mountains, clinging by the millions on branches, needles and trunks.
El Rosario is the easiest colony to visit, reachable by taxi from the small town of Angangueo. After getting dropped in the parking lot, you start the climb along a paved path through dozens of wooden stalls selling food, souvenirs and handicrafts. They’re run by the local people who are trying to make a living from opening their communally-owned land to tourists. We bought our souvenirs on the way back down — the air is thin so we didn’t want to carry anything unnecessary.
"No, gracias. Mas tarde (No thank you. Later)," we kept repeating. At the entrance to the butterfly reserve, we paid our 30 pesos (about $4 Cdn) and stood marvelling at the monarchs “puddling."They gather on damp earth or puddles to sip minerals from the mud. We were already amazed at the sight of so many butterflies, little knowing what was to come.
We started up the concrete path through the forest (really staircases connected by slanted sidewalks), our necks craned back as we spied more and more clusters. Every so often, as the day warmed up, a cluster broke apart and the air filled with a cascade of these delicate, yet tough creatures. It was a magical sight — like a little girl’s fairy-tale dream.
Partway along, we encountered Alfredo Gonzales Arigeta, a barrel-chested Mexican guide who is one of the communal landowners known as ejidatarios (eh-heeduh-tareos).
With his rough farmer’s hands, he stooped to gently pick a butterfly off the path and set it past the rope barrier onto the dead leaves of the forest floor where no one would step on it. Straightening, he smiled shyly and continued leading our small group up the path. He doesn’t speak English, so information about the butterflies was limited to our fractured Spanish, plus lots of gestures. However we all willingly chipped in to pay him because we wanted to contribute to the local economy.
Logging, mostly illegal, is destroying the oyamel fir forests and with it the monarch’s overwintering grounds. When combined with pesticide use and urban sprawl across North America that reduces their summergrounds, the monarch’s migration — believed to be the longest of any insect in the world — is considered threatened, possibly headed for extinction.
The illegal loggers are described as Mafia-like — well organized, with lots of money, guns and high-tech equipment to back them up. They will descend on an area and clear-cut it before anyone can stop them. Under international pressure to protect the butterflies, the Mexican government set up Monarch Butterfly Biosphere Reserves, defining core areas that cannot be logged at all, and buffer zones where ejidatarios may do some logging to build their homes and stoke their cooking fires. But the illegal logging continues.
The ejidatarios at El Rosario decided to welcome tourists as a way to make a living on their own land. They laid the concrete path and built washrooms, souvenir stands and tiny restaurants. Through an interpreter, Alfredo told us they get 30,000 to 40,000 visitors a year, but at only 30 pesos a head it’s not much to support the 87 ejidatarios and their families. If they charged more, many Mexicans could not afford to visit.
Alfredo said Canadians and Americans could help by visiting the butterfly colonies. On the way back down, we stopped for chicken-and-cheese quesadillas and bought T-shirts, postcards and baskets woven from the extra-long pine needles that grow all around. They smell heavenly.
The next day, we visited another sanctuary called Sierra Chincua, but it took considerably more effort to get to the butterflies. Rather than hike for several kilometres through the thin air, I opted to hire a guide with a horse. Sitting astride El Negro on a wooden saddle, with my guide Alfonso leading the way on foot, we bumped for an hour across a wide valley and onto a rough, dusty track, sometimes quite steep, through the forest. We had to dismount and descend the final section on foot because it was even steeper.
This colony was smaller, and we squatted on the slope, sometimes lying on our backs to view the huge clusters high above us. Butterflies landed on our hats and arms and knees, offering the treat of a close-up view. The ejidatarios ask people to whisper, because they regard the area as a sanctuary, just like a church. And indeed, it was just as breathtaking as any gold-bedecked cathedral in Mexico.
In late February, the monarchs were already starting to mate. Soon, they would fly north, stopping in Texas to lay eggs and die. Their children would continue the journey north, stopping to lay eggs and continue the cycle. The grandchildren and great-grandchildren reach Ontario usually in June. The butterflies that are ready to migrate the next September are three to five generations removed from their ancestors who made the trip the year before.
Scientists are still searching for many answers. How do these tiny creatures know where to go when they’ve never been there before? Why do they cluster on oyamels at high altitudes? Why do they form clusters at all? And how do they survive all the threats that beset them?
But the ejidatarios are concerned with more immediate issues such as stopping illegal loggers. Francisco Ambrosio Martinez, the senior ejidatario, described through an interpreter a confrontation three years before when illegal loggers clear-cut four hectares of land before the ejidatarios drove them off. Although they received some federal police protection after that, Martinez said, they need more. In the off-season when the butterflies are up north, ejidatarios patrol the woods in shifts, watching for loggers while they plant trees, maintain trails and manage the forest.
About 500 people, adults and children, depend on Sierra Chincua for their livelihood. Again, we stopped for food and souvenirs in the small enclave of shacks at the entrance, smiling at the young children helping their parents by selling souvenirs and serving food.
I pinned a Canada flag pin to a shy little girl’s shirt and, after asking permission from her mother, snapped her picture. Each time I look into her luminous eyes, I hope, for her sake and the world’s, that these delicate yet tough butterflies continue to find healthy stands of oyamels in Mexico, year after year after year.
Kathryn Young is an Ottawa writer who visited the butterfly sanctuaries last February with a group of Canadian and American teachers from the Monarch Teachers Network, which uses monarchs to teach a range of subjects.
If you go...
When to go: Monarchs start arriving in Mexico about Nov. 1. Until late January, they cluster high in the trees and don’t move around much because it’s too cold. By February, with the days getting warmer, they fly around looking for water and nectar — that’s the best time to visit. By mid-March, they’ve begun their journey back north. The size of the colonies varies year to year, but 2007 is expected to be a good one.
Getting there: Many airlines fly to Mexico City. From Montreal in February, Mexicana airline (www.mexicana.com) has return flights starting at $586 U.S. From Mexico City, fly or take a bus to Morelia, the capital city of Michoacan state. From there, you can take one of many tours to the butterflycolonies. If you want to travel independently, take a bus to Zitacuaro, then north to Angangueo, then arrange a taxi ride to the colonies.
Where to stay: Mexico City and Morelia abound with hotels. There are affordable choices in Zitacuaro or Angangueo, but if you want to treat yourself, stay at Hacienda Cantalagua, a restored stone estate building with luxurious rooms and gorgeous courtyards with fountains. It’s about 45 minutes from the colonies (www.haciendacantalagua.com, which is Spanish only, or e-mail email@example.com). Guided tours: Rocamar Tours (www.rocamar.com.mx) offers a three-day monarch tour from Morelia for $370 U.S. per person. S&S Tours (www.ss-tours.com) offers an eight-day tour that includes other sights in the area. S&S will also help organize independent itineraries. Canada’s GAP Adventures offers a 10-day tour from Mexico City for $695 Cdn (that includes basic accommodations, but not meals). For other possibilities, try www.ecotravelmexico.com www.mexico-tours.com or www.mexconnect.com
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