Born to Fly

by

Outdoors

×

1 of 6

Born to Fly

Jo Harris photo

Born to Fly

Tagging monarchs helps researchers learn more about the species’ incredible migration.

×

2 of 6

Born to Fly

Jo Harris photo

Born to Fly

A monarch clings to the remnants of her chrysalis immediately after emerging.

×

3 of 6

Born to Fly

Born to Fly

Glenna Julian’s Monarch Waystation in Kodak, Tennessee, assures traveling monarchs will find nectar, milkweed, a safe place to rest, “puddle,” and bask in the sun. Jo Harris photo

×

4 of 6

Born to Fly

Jo Harris photo

Born to Fly

A monarch caterpillar and chrysalis (right) on milkweed.

×

5 of 6

Born to Fly

Tennessee Aquarium photo

Born to Fly

A male monarch (note dark spots on hind wings) enjoys the butterfly garden at the Tennessee Aquarium in Chattanooga.

×

6 of 6

Born to Fly

Tennessee Aquarium photo

Born to Fly

Isabela Hall, visiting Cades Cove as part of the Tennessee Aquarium Member Program, gets assistance with tagging from outdoor educator, Wanda DeWaard.

I was buzzing with anticipation as I assembled my supplies—pencil, adhesive tags, data sheet—but I wasn’t the only one getting antsy. I extended my hand into the butterfly habitat I’d improvised from a mesh, pop-up laundry hamper. A female monarch, one I’d raised from a minuscule egg found on the underside of a milkweed leaf 28 days earlier, walked bravely onto my fingers. She was gorgeous!

I studied her bold colors, how the orange was separated into a stained-glass pattern by black veining. The black edging on her wings was stippled with white and her velvety, polka-dotted thorax was exquisite.

Less than two hours earlier, on my front porch in Jonesborough, Tennessee, she had emerged from her chrysalis and immediately grasped onto its papery remnants. There she basked contentedly, drying her wings in the warm October sunshine—until impatience got the best of her. This girl was born to fly.

She was justifiably skittish as I brought her delicate wings together, but I succeeded in getting a tiny tag, pre-printed with identifying information, applied to a mitten-shaped cell on her hind wing. I had just tagged my first monarch. In a flash she darted away, then, as if to say thank you she U-turned, fluttered overhead, then disappeared.

Monarchs are fragile, almost weightless creatures, but every year in late summer and fall they make an incredible journey. Some fly up to 3,000 miles to reach their overwintering sites in central Mexico—or California if west of the Rockies—and if nature is kind, these same butterflies will start north in the spring with their progeny advancing to the northern reaches of the continent. When the weather begins to cool as fall approaches, the annual cycle repeats with the last generation of the season migrating south.

But why tag? A recovered tag tells where the monarch was tagged, by whom, and when. That information helps answer questions about the species’ migration instincts, their pathways and patterns. And, as interest in tagging spreads, so will conservation efforts. Volunteer taggers and spotters—all citizen scientists—play important roles in monarch research and conservancy.

Sign up for our FREE monthly newsletter
Marketing by

Wanda DeWaard, one of the region’s most passionate monarch supporters, started a monarch tagging program at the Great Smoky Mountains Institute at Tremont in 1997. GSMIT trains volunteers who lead groups into Cades Cove during fall migrations. Every year some 300 monarchs are netted and tagged in the cove by these groups alone. The Facebook group, Mountain Monarchs, tagged approximately 700 monarchs last fall, with six being recovered in Mexico. Wanda personally tagged over 400 monarchs, and five were recovered at three different locations in Mexico. Imagine something so delicate making it from Cades Cove to Mexico.

My fascination with monarchs began in 2013 when I toured Glenna Julian’s garden in Kodak, Tennessee. An official Monarch Waystation, her garden provides the traveling butterflies with lots of treats to sustain them during migration. Every element of her garden made me gush like a love-struck adolescent, but it was among a simple patch of milkweed that I fell head over heels.

I’d never given monarchs more than a passing thought, but when Glenna told me about the alarming decline in their numbers, I was unexpectedly touched. She explained that millions of acres—where milkweed once thrived—had been destroyed by land development and the prolific use of herbicides and pesticides, especially in agribusiness. When weather variabilities and loss of habitat in Mexico are thrown into the mix, the monarchs are fighting an uphill battle. Researchers have estimated the monarch population east of the Rockies was more than a billion two decades ago. Some say that number has dwindled to 60 million. Glenna made a compelling case; no milkweed, no monarchs.

Growing milkweed was appealing to me, but my previous horticultural experiences did not inspire confidence. I danced around the idea for two years before fate nudged me into a ditch. During a walk in my rural neighborhood I spotted seedpods—think okra on steroids—clinging to dried stalks that had escaped the blades of the county mowing machines. The milkweed pods had ripened and the seeds, each attached to a parachute of fluff, were spilling out. I collected the seeds and was thrilled when a few of them germinated.  

Imagine my surprise when weeks later I spotted eggs, and three monarch caterpillars munching on the milkweed. How had a gravid female found so few plants?  I put the caterpillars, and the eggs still attached to the milkweed leaves, into the mesh habitat. Providing fresh milkweed for those voracious eaters and “sweeping” up after them with an old makeup brush kept me busy, but I don’t regret a second.

My internal compass is reset every time I see a monarch emerge from its chrysalis with wet, crumpled wings and watch as fluid from its engorged abdomen is pumped into those beautiful wings. It is both bittersweet and euphoric when one I’ve nurtured flies out of my protective hands.

I’m not setting records, but I know the 25 monarchs I reared in 2017 are 25 that didn’t die in the wild before they had a chance to spread their wings. I’ve learned that simple actions can produce big results. The best advice? Don’t use chemicals! But please do plant nectar sources such as butterfly bushes, Mexican sunflower, asters, zinnias, and of course native milkweed. Elaborate gardens aren’t required; containers on the patio will suffice. 

When the monarchs head off to Mexico, there is more riding on their delicate wings than a tiny paper tag. There’s a ray of hope; a hope they will defy the odds and survive the long, perilous journey. I choose to believe this iconic creature will not fade into history, but always be around to brighten our gardens and our lives.

Social Butterfly?

Learning about monarchs is as simple as a few key strokes, and some online sleuthing may reveal special catch and tag events in your area during September and October. Here is a sampling of sites to check out online and/or in person:

SUBSCRIBE TO
SMOKY MOUNTAIN LIVING