Contributing writer
Twenty years ago, when I bought land in Ramona, one of the delightful things about visiting town in the fall were the monarch butterflies. I’ve always loved them with their gorgeous black and orange wings. In Ramona, I had more time to diddle with the camera. After all, I was supposedly on vacation in those days — even though we usually worked our tails off.
It must have been 1995, the first year that I saw the monarch migration come through town. We were here in September for a longer period that year. Stefie, my little neighbor girl, called out to me, “The monarch’s are back, Pat. They’re in the park. Come see!”
I’d seen the monarchs migrating through California when they were so thick in Monterey that they would become caught in windshield wipers and flew in faces. You dare not open your mouth while riding bikes along the coast or you’d ingest them. They were everywhere — fluttering, clumping, clinging, and dancing on the wind. You’d expect this kind of grand display in California where the climate is mild. But in Kansas? Who would expect flocks of butterflies to land in Ramona?
That particular year the monarchs were extremely abundant.
Paula called from the farm.
“You should see our cedar trees. The monarchs have covered them so completely that the trees look brown and dead.”
“You’ve got to go out there and take pictures,” Aunt Gertie said. “I’ve already been there in their wind break and you won’t believe it.”
Aunt Gertie was an avid photographer herself and neither wind nor weather, sleet nor hail, would keep her from getting a good shot.
Dutifully, I went out to take pictures and the beauty overwhelmed me. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. That was in the days of plain old film in the camera and I clicked away, hoping for that one magnificent shot when those lovely butterflies would open their wings.
Suddenly, the tree would change from dull, dead brown, to magnificent blinding orange, catching the fading light as the sun went down.
In 2000, when we moved to Kansas from the Napa Valley, I looked forward to fall and seeing the monarchs come through. I do remember one of those early years when I saw what I thought was a flock of birds riding the wind currents.
You know how the starlings congregate in the fall and you’ll see them swoop up and around, high and low, over and under, as if they were guided by some unseen conductor of bird orchestras? It’s an amazing sight. One day I stood watching what I thought was a flock of birds high in the sky. Then the little black dots got bigger and bigger in their fancy glides. It wasn’t birds at all. It was butterflies.
Obviously, they were much closer than I thought and before I could even run and grab the camera, they were landing in my neighborhood, all around me, clinging to trees, visiting the fading flowers of fall. Who could believe that these fragile winged creatures were heading all the way to Mexico on their migration?
What year was it that they had that unseasonably cold weather in Mexico and the monarchs froze? I heard it on the news. I read about it in The National Geographic and I saw the results right here in Kansas. No more monarchs migrating by the thousands through Ramona.
Oh, I’d see a few of my favorite butterflies in the garden; but never anything near a flock. Until Monday, that is. I was mowing the lawn by the creek and suddenly there was this flurry of brown leaves flying into the air and I thought to myself, “I didn’t realize the trees had lost that many leaves yet.” And then I saw those leaves tilt in the afternoon sunlight: monarchs. The air was filled with monarchs.
After a moment of joyous surprise, I ran for my camera. First, I had to call Stefie. She’s all grown up, of course, but I was pretty sure her artistic, butterfly loving soul was still intact. Her Mom answered the phone.
“Tell Stefie the monarchs are back.”
It seemed like just another day in the country, but it wasn’t. It’s miraculous. It’s marvelous to see how nature heals itself. May we all be so blessed, so transformed, so renewed.