The Long Journey

I have empty nest syndrome. I miss my little flutters.

Last year, during the pandemic lockdown, I spent more and more time in my garden. I graduated college with a biology degree, though my career has more focused on geology and metallurgy than the organics in the system. Walking among the plants three generations of my family planted gave me a good respite from the constant reminders of mortality.

It was in the middle of the summer when I saw my first black-yellow-white striped caterpillar on the milkweed that planted itself.

This is the very first time I'd ever seen monarch caterpillars in the wild. They're sneaky! I've looked many times since I was a kid, and I had never seen one. Now, it's as if they can't wait to show themselves. Last year, we kept tabs on twenty-six of them in our garden, and I even collected one chrysalis when the silly thing chose a bad spot to chrysalize. I brought that carefully inside after quickly reading up on how to do the transfer safely - only to have heartbreak when we learned it was parasitized by calchid wasps right at the moment of its greatest vulnerability, as it was hanging to form the pupa.

And thus the idea was born.

I bought some mesh habitats over the winter, and some other supplies needed for raising little flutters. I read articles, and read more articles about the dangers of parasitization of various things on caterpillars. See, caterpillars are basically the potato chips of the creature world, and I wanted to give the monarchs every fighting chance I could.

As ready as I would ever be, I sat and waited for the first wave to emerge.

And waited.

And waited.

As it was, I spotted the first group at my parents' house instead. They had THREE - count them, THREE - lousy volunteer milkweeds, and here we sit on two dozen plants in our garden, the most sincere milkweed patch you will ever meet. Sincerity as far as the eye can see! And they had FIVE caterpillars chowing down on one stalk!

So for two weeks, I snipped milkweed out of my own garden and trucked it over to theirs to supplement the supply. They chewed each plant to sticks every other day.

And they kept coming, on theirs, not ours! So we finally gave in, collected all the caterpillars that hadn't chrysalized already, and brought them back to our house and set them up in one of the habitats so we could feed them properly.

Why didn't we have any?

I started patrolling my garden three times a day, looking for our share. We'd seen adult monarchs for over a month, what was going on? After a few days I would find a tiny one here or there, and I'd bring them in to our indoor milkweed forest, leaf and all. Inside they grew steadily and well.

Outside? Not so much.

We figured it out eventually, when we saw The Patrol darken a window one day. We know that Brood X cicadas were supposed to march through, and on their heels (er, tarsal claws) was a strange bird virus killing chicks in the nest. We never got our brood, and any of the regular yearly cicadas would call a few times and then go eerily silent. It's possible those two things were related, the cicadas and virus; for us, it manifested in All The Boids raising metric boatloads of chicks to maturity. At least two hundred formed a mixed flock of various species of finches and sparrows and even a few mourning doves, and they patrol downtown in curving swoops like they own it. Small wonder the regular cicadas didn't stand a chance.

I can math. Even if each just-fledged bird eats just one caterpillar and finds out they taste bad to never eat one again, that's two hundred caterpillars sacrificed to their gaping maws.

Each caterpillar seemed a bit more precious at that point. The black swallowtail ones, too - I'd snip the fennel stalks as soon as I saw them and bring them inside to feed on parsley I was cutting from a second pot. The whole while, many many pairs of birdy eyes followed my every move.

We kept them in our mud room, right inside the back door. Three large habitats, a small one for the black swallowtail caterpillars, and we'd rotate to the next large habitat after six or seven chrysalises formed at the top. They were amazing to watch - how they'd attack a milkweed leaf savagely, how they'd crawl up and down the plant looking for just the most succulent one, how they'd crowd each other if it was a good leaf, how they'd crawl up to the top of the cage near the other chrysalises and try to find the exact perfect spot to form the silk button, with antennae wiggling furiously like they were having a conversation.

As I'd clean out their frass (a kinder word than poop), sometimes one would startle and jump as I opened the zipper. I'd very gently pick them up and stroke them, and it wouldn't be long before they'd uncurl and wiggle their antennae at me, and I'd put them back on a leaf to continue munching.

Even the black swallowtail caterpillars were so used to my touch, they didn't react at all. They have what is called an osmerterium, a forked tongue-like thing they can pop out of their body that has a bad smell to scare off predators. I'm told all swallowtails have it. I've never seen it.

It got to the point that we didn't want to disturb them. The bathroom door was right across the doorway from the habitats I didn't want to disturb them, maybe use the upstairs bathroom instead? Use the microwave in the next room? The beeping might disturb them. Set a timer for the laundry in the basement? Move it into the living room, far far away from disturbing them. I don't think they ever noticed.

And they were voracious. We started calling them our wiggly pigs. I was cutting milkweed every other day, switching water bottles and wrapping the opening in aluminum foil to make sure they didn't crawl down the stem inside the bottle and drown. Sometimes pulling out all the bottles to clean frass, and switch stems eaten to bare sticks for fresh ones. Put them back - but keep the sticks in a cup full of water, because dang it if every once in a while I'd find one in the morning gripping a stick and looking lost. Tiny frass outside the cage became my marker to look for strays.

And I documented each one I brought in. And counted when I switched bottles or habitats. And I had more than I could account for. Eventually I found what the tiny, tiny eggs look like, another first for me. I had accidentally brought some in as eggs with the cuttings, the best of all outcomes.

And a week to ten days after they started to chrysalize, I'd come downstairs each morning to find a freshly-eclosed flutter drying its wings. Though they wanted out that afternoon, I'd hold them for twenty-four hours to make sure those wings were strong enough for the long flight.

Of course, three decided to eclose during the hurricane. And two the day after. They were restless and fluttery till the heavy rain turned into a waterfall, then suddenly they got still and just let it beat on the roof. They were pleased to be let loose to fly into a wet sparkling world, right at the butterfly bush in the backyard.

I though perhaps our black swallowtail chrysalises would overwinter, but no, they also eclosed. They headed straight for the river when I let them go, and they had just enough time for another generation before the cold settled in. I kept a watch on my parsley and fennel, but I haven't seen any.

The last chrysalis put on a show. Eclosing is quick; you can miss it in minutes. Most were already eclosed when I came downstairs, though a few fooled us by quietly turning dark in late morning, and I'd check two hours later, and there was a flutter! But the very last turned dark while I watched for a while, and I happened to check again just in time to see him come out with wrinkled wings. I got some pictures, but they're through a layer of plastic. I'm not going to bother little flutters with photos while they're that vulnerable. (I did take pictures of each one before release...some were rather put out with me for it.)

Twenty one out in the world, doing their fluttery thing. I lost three caterpillars to some disease, and three chrysalises to parasitizing by tachinid flies (it happened before I collected them from the wild, so there was nothing I could do). Those are amazing odds, and an amazing experience, and I can't wait to do it again next year.

But I miss my flutters. I tend towards being a bit helicopter-y, and if I could drive them to Mexico myself, I would! But for now, I watch the butterfly bush for others coming through on migration. We get about one a day, tanking up, then off again to follow the river south. And I'll buy a few more habitats, and keep a watch out for other species. We have a spicebush in the back yard, and we just planted three more out front, so it's possible we'll find spicebush swallowtail caterpillars. I'll plant even more fennel and parsley as sacrifices to the wiggly pigs. I just got a pipevine and need to plant it, for the rare pipevile swallowtail. I'll keep an eye out for others that may need shelter from The Patrol. Who knows how many I'll release next year? But for now, the house is a little too quiet, and I miss the little rustly chomp-chomp sounds of my wiggly pigs.