An orange butterfly with bold black stripes passes silently by me to land briefly on a purplish-blue flower. It pauses on the bloom long enough to sip a bit of nectar, then lifts off again and heads out in the same direction, south. It is a sunny, warm afternoon, and the presence of the first butterfly alerts me to the rest of them. There are dozens of butterflies on the flowers in the glorious old field, grown up now into a shaggy riot of color in hues of yellow, green, and purple. I watch one orange gem lift off and spiral upwards in a tight circle, all its color lost against the bright background of the blue sky as it gains altitude, until it makes its last turn and heads south with all the others. There are dozens overhead as high as I can see, silhouetted against the sky, fragile wings lifting them as they soar away.

 They are monarchs, that most regal of butterflies, and they are heading south to Mexico, where they overwinter. Along the way, they “fuel up” on the nectar of flowers. Once they reach their destinations, however, they may not eat again, and rely on a store of fat to sustain them until spring. Only the last generation of monarchs, those that metamorphosed from caterpillar to butterfly in the waning days of summer, makes the migration flight. If they survive the winter to head back north in spring, they live only long enough to lay the eggs that will produce a new generation.

It is nearly unimaginable that a creature so small, so fragile, should be able to fly thousands of miles, but millions do. One monarch was tagged near Toronto, Canada, and was found, some weeks later, at a winter roost in Mexico. How long would it take you, a thousand times larger than a butterfly, to travel that same distance under your own power with nothing but sugary nectar to sustain you?

Monarchs in the eastern part of North America winter in the mountains of Mexico. There the perfect combination of moist and cool, but not freezing conditions, allows the monarchs to slow their metabolism and survive without eating. They neither dry-out nor freeze. They usually huddle together in huge groups of hundreds or even thousands of butterflies.

One cool migration evening, I glanced upwards as I stood near the edge of my flowery field, and there among the tired, yellowing leaves of a grand old tulip tree was a cluster of orange-winged monarchs. They huddled together and moved in the breeze as if the mass of them were a single, living organism, and this kaleidoscope of color shifted against a backdrop of the azure afternoon sky and luminous green and gold leaves of the tree burnished by the setting sun.

 As if trying to make up its mind, another butterfly flew by me slowly, turned up towards the huddled group, then dove back down and passed by me again, only a foot or two above the ground. It was a female, for the veins of its hind-wings were thick and lacked a central spot. Although the differences between the sexes are subtle, the black veins on the hind-wings of male butterflies are thinner than the veins of females, and they thicken in the center of the hind-wing to form a small black spot.
One of the best places to observe monarch migration is the Cherry Cove overlook on the Blue Ridge Parkway, just south of the 276 exit near mile marker 416. There the monarchs pass through a natural gap in the mountains. Anytime after the air warms up, mid-day to late afternoon, is a good time to see them, and the largest number of butterflies is usually during the last two weeks of September.

To stand in the midst of a monarch migration, as they suddenly appear over the trees to the north, glide by within a few feet, then drop off the ridge to the treetops in the south, is an immersion into the natural world. It’s worth the effort to experience that magical moment.

 Dr. Jennifer Frick is an Assistant Professor of Environmental Studies and Ecology at Brevard College.