fields as they stop here and there to sip nectar. Occasionally you see a mated pair, the female doing the work of flying, the male dangling passively with folded wings while attached by his genitals. After the prolonged mating (and/or technically “mate guarding,” since it prevents mating by other males), the female glues her delicately patterned green eggs with gold markings, one at a time, to the undersides of milkweed plants. In a few days, the flashy yellow-black-white larvae hatch and start chomping. After about fifteen days (depending on the temperature), the caterpillars have increased their weight to 1.5 grams (2,780 times the hatchling weight). The caterpillar attaches itself to a support such as the underside of a leaf by a clasping organ at the hind end of its abdomen to hang upside down. It will then molt into the bright green pupa (chrysalis) with the shiny golden spots that is surely familiar to almost all school kids. In a few days, the chrysalis starts to turn dark, and the outlines of the orange-patterned wings are visible through the now-transparent cuticle. When the chrysalis splits, along a predetermined line of weakness in the back, the limp adult slips out and expands its wings, and in two or three hours hormones will have instigated a biochemical process that hardens its body armor and stiffens its wings. The butterfly is ready to fly. Where will its wings take it?
Thanks to the monarch studies initiated in 1935 by Dr. Fred A. Urquhart and his wife, Norah Urquhart, from the Zoology Department of the University of Toronto and continued to the present day with the input and cooperation of thousands of amateur volunteers, there is now an amazing story to tell. The Urquharts noted in the late 1930s that the monarchs they saw in late May and early June in Canada had tattered wings, and they knew that this species would not and could not overwinter in Canada, so they suspected that they may have come a very long way. Monarchs fly in a southwesterly direction in the fall, but nobody had a clue where they ended up. To get some idea of the butterflies’ movements, these researchers in 1937 began gluing paper tags onto monarch wings with this message: “Please send to Zoology University Toronto Canada.” Monarchs weigh almost half a gram and the wing tags only 0.01 gram, so the tags were not likely to hamper the animals’ movements. Similar tags, used today, have pressure-adhesive backing and can be folded in half and glued over the leading edge of the forewing (after the scales are removed).
The idea from the inception of the monarch-marking studies was to try to find out if the butterflies migrated — an idea that at the time, as Urquhart noted, “was considered quite impossible.” But the question of where the butterflies might be going to and coming from grabbed the imagination, and anyone seeing a tagged butterfly would be sure to try to catch it. Sure enough, tags were returned over decades that suggested a migratory pattern. Individual tags were returned from huge distances, up to 1,288 kilometers. One monarch that was tagged in Ontario in 1957 was recovered eighteen days later in Atlanta, Georgia, 1,184 air kilometers distant. Clearly, when the butterflies left Canada in the fall, they headed south.
Still, nobody knew what happened to the mass of butterflies. Then, in January 1975, Cathy and Ken Brugger of Mexico City found them — a dazzling, shimmering, orange display of an estimated 22.5 million monarch butterflies on one 2.2-hectare site (which turned out to be only one of ultimately thirteen overwintering sites in the mountains of Mexico). The millions of monarchs were festooned in the trees in the mountains of Michoacán near Mexico City. The Urquharts excitedly traveled to see the site and on January 18, 1976, listened to “the sound of the fluttering of thousands of wings [that was] like that of a distant waterfall.” As they stood awestruck by this dazzling display, a pine branch broke off from the sheer weight of butterflies attached to it, and it crashed to the ground right in front of them. Fred Urquhart had been posing for a National Geographic photographer surrounded by these just-fallen butterflies when, incredibly, he saw a tagged one among them. When he traced its origin, he learned that it had been tagged on September 6, 1975, by Jim Gilbert, from Chaska, Minnesota. Urquhart, who had encountered countless tagged butterflies in his career, said it was “the most exciting one I have ever experienced.”
The picture that has now emerged from decades of study is that individual butterflies migrate all the way from Ontario to Mexico in the fall, arriving there at their overwintering sites in a torrent during October. They spend most of the winter in Mexico in a cooled low-energy state but soar around on warm days to drink water and replenish on nectar. In early spring, when their sex urge awakens, there is a mating orgy followed by a mass exodus. Most of the females mate before leaving, and their “compasses,” which were set to take them south in late fall, are now “reset” to take them in a northerly direction.
As the tide of butterflies advances northward, the females stop to lay their eggs on milkweed. Some of the butterflies from Mexico make it all the way to the north, and others (their offspring) that grow from the eggs laid along the way arrive later. Those of the first generation have slightly tattered wings when they arrive in the north, while those that arrive later have untattered wings. (However, not all monarch populations migrate, and not all that do, travel in the same directions as the populations of northeastern North America.)
One of the mysteries that puzzled Fred Urquhart was how the butterflies home. In Urquhart’s 1987 book on the monarch, he speculated that the butterflies perhaps use the Earth’s magnetic lines of force, although different populations of the butterfly migrate in different directions, so they could not all be orienting to it in the same way.
A potentially even more puzzling question is the ultimate (evolutionary) one of why these butterflies migrate in the first place. Urquhart simply suggested what he admitted was a “perhaps far-fetched” idea: that “twice each year it [Earth] passes through an area rich in some sort of radiation that could impinge upon animal life [that] might affect in some manner the cells of the body causing reproductive organs to abort in the fall and develop in the spring and initiate the migratory response.” This is an unlikely theory, though, mostly because it depends on a mechanism that is not adaptive in evolutionary terms. Instead, more current thinking about the adaptive reason why the phenomenon has evolved focuses on energy economy and maximization of resource use under the expected evolutionary constraints from the monarch’s having evolved in the tropics, meaning it was not able to survive northern winters. (Monarchs belong to the family Danaidae, an otherwise strictly tropical group.) Migration to the north in the spring opens up the milkweed crop over a major swath of North America as a food base for the larvae. In addition, the journey is probably not costly to the monarchs, either in terms of predation (since they are chemically protected from predation by poisons they sequester from their food plants) or in terms of energy costs, since their energy intake along the way more than makes up for the energy expended for travel. Indeed, unlike most birds that may deplete all their fat reserves on migration, these butterflies instead fatten up on their journey and may consist of about 50 percent body fat by the time they arrive in Mexico, where their overwintering fast begins.
Butterflies and moths experience tremendous selective pressure, and undoubtedly there are constant readjustments of survival strategies. Weather affects the populations, not only through flight activity and flight range as well as growth rates of larvae, but perhaps also indirectly by influencing virus infections. But Urquhart noted that each female monarch butterfly lays up to seven hundred eggs, and he calculated that the “biotic potential” — the number of individuals if there are no deaths — of one female after only four generations (that is, at the end of one summer) is 30,012,500,000 adults. Luckily for the planet, animals’ reproductive potentials are never naturally realized, for long. The limit is quickly reached when the population uses up its food base, in this case milkweed. In some years a virus decimates most of the monarch population over North America, but then several years later it rebounds. But the population cannot rebound from some things: in recent years there have been massive declines of the monarch population that cannot be reversed, because they are due to unnatural causes — the massive conversion of land to crops, and the introduction of genetically modified crops that tolerate herbicides, which have allowed the elimination of milkweed that formerly grew between rows of corn.
The flight performance of monarchs is spectacular, but like the hordes of cluster flies from the surrounding fields and woods that overwinter in my cabin, they are traveling to a specific place for overwintering where they have never been before. Such homing movements are diverse, but common. Robert D. Stevenson and William A. Haber of the University of Massachusetts, Boston, found a regular