Wings And a Prayer

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Butterflies Are Free

Hundreds of millions of monarch butterflies spend the winter in central Mexico.

» LAUNCH PHOTO GALLERY

Judy and Donald tag monarchs with tiny stickers to assist Monarch Watch in tracking the species' movements, but none of the Matthewses' marked butterflies have ever been retrieved. Monarch Watch would have called them, Judy explains. This is something Donald seems to have never considered before. He reflects on this fact and softly whispers, "Poor little guys."

NO BUTTERFLY SPECIES MIGRATES MORE MAJESTICALLY THAN THE MONARCH, known to scientists as Danaus plexippus. These migrants, weighing less than half an ounce, move through thunderstorms and gale-force winds as they fly across the continent, traveling up to 3,000 miles to reach Mexico from their respective homes.

The butterflies heading south are four to five generations removed from the butterflies that left the mountains of Mexico last spring. A monarch's life span is only two to six weeks in the summer months, but the generation born in late fall lives for seven to eight months. This generation is responsible for carrying on the species' migratory legacy.

Depending on conditions, monarchs fly an average of 40 to 100 miles a day. They are believed to catch natural updrafts, which they ride for great distances. It takes a monarch about two months to reach its ancestral Mexican homeland from Washington.

The monarchs' arrival and departure weeks are the best time to see them in action during their November-to-March stay in Mexico. It is now mid-November. In another two weeks, the monarchs will be less active as they huddle together to brace for winter.

Despite recent research leading scientists to speculate that the sun plays a role in the butterflies' navigation, it is unknown how monarchs make the many decisions necessary to stay alive as they choose their moments of passage in high-stakes situations such as crossing the Great Lakes. It is also a mystery how they find their way back to the very specific spots where they gather in Mexico's mountains in concentrations of millions per acre. They always return to the same vicinity and often to the very same tree their ancestors left the year before. Scientists believe the butterflies mark the trees in some way, but they do not know how. The monarchs' mystique is part of their appeal.

ROCAMAR TOURS CAPS THE NUMBER OF PEOPLE IT TAKES INTO THE MONARCH SANCTUARIES AT 20, but our small group is still too large for Paul's spacious van, so some of us ride with a hired driver, Francisco "Paco" Buenueva. His last name roughly translates as "good, new." It's a nice name for a guide to have on a quest centered on metamorphosis. As we drive out of Morelia, we roll past fields of dried cornstalk and small towns where sherbet-colored church spires are the only things cresting wheat-colored crops.

It is nearly a three-hour drive from Morelia to Sierra Chincua, the first of two sanctuaries we'll visit. We skirt Lago de Cuitzeo, which seems to go on forever. We pass small villages where green, turquoise and yellow boats idle empty next to cinder-block houses. A lone fisherman in a bright blue boat is out in pursuit of lunch. He is joined by flocks of white pelicans that fly off as we drive by.

As we approach our destination, the fields become as level and flat as any I've ever seen, making the mountains behind them look as though they were placed there as an afterthought. When we reach the sanctuary parking lot, we are besieged by a group of men in ten-gallon hats and teenagers wearing headphones. They are shouting: "Caballo! Caballo! Caballo!"

"You need a horse," the local cowboys, or vaqueros, tell me over and over again in Spanish. One of them grabs my elbow, and I feel crowded. I make my way over to a small horse with a silent owner. He tells me the horse is "tranquilo." Calm. Tranquil. I'm nervous about riding a horse, so tranquilo is a welcome word. Tentatively perched, I start to climb.

Halfway up the mountain, after a few jolts inspired by particularly rocky sections of path, I decide to dismount my horse and return him to the vaqueros who have come along for the walk. The pass is fairly steep, but I live in the Appalachian Mountains, and I've climbed tough terrain before. "I can handle this," I think to myself.

After nearly 30 minutes, I reach the end of the horse trail. The weather has pushed the butterflies down the mountain, so we don't have very far to go. But the walk from where the horses stop leaves a bit of a challenge for some of the group members, including Judy, who is flanked by her husband and son as she negotiates a footpath cluttered with tree roots.