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

Suddenly, I see a flash of orange above me. There's one monarch. Then two. Then three. When I see Paul motioning for us to stop, indicating that we've reached our destination, I'm surprised. I don't know what I'd been expecting, but I hadn't been expecting this. He's standing in a clearing the size of a standard bedroom, which is filled with 40 or so people staring into the trunks of the forest ahead.

At first, I don't notice that the tree trunks are exaggerated in size, that there are millions of butterflies, wings folded, clinging to the bark. They look like bark themselves. But then the butterflies come into view. They are hanging from low-lying branches like heavy, dark bags. The monarchs are only in the trees to the right of the clearing, which is surrounded by a yellow rope. Behind the rope are two men in straw hats with long machetes strapped to their belts. They are here to ensure that this small area remains the domain of monarchs.

As I stare out into the ghostly, silvery clumps of the butterflies' undersides, my enthusiasm begins to deflate. We've come all this way to watch butterflies sleep? Above us, the day's darkest clouds intercept the sun's warmth. The monarchs holding onto the forest's oyamel trees look like distant shadows. It is too cold for them to leave the trees, the ritual that makes the migration so spectacular to witness. The trampled wings of fallen butterflies litter the forest floor as a reminder of what will happen if they fly off under the wrong conditions.

A few butterflies, maybe the last of those just arriving to Mexico, flutter down to us, but soon they are all tucked away, colors hidden. They are stone still, and we are, unexpectedly and disappointingly, unmoved.

Almost everyone else has gone except for the Matthewses and Janet Elfant, a solo traveler from Philadelphia who has befriended the family. I make my way over to Judy, who is perched on a log next to a collection of broken wings.

Together, we look out over the silent forest and oscillate our eyes between the clumps of butterflies and the sky. In the distance, I see a small patch of blue amid the darkness. "I think the sun is coming out," I say, and I point to our right.

"Yes, I think it might," she says, "I can see it!"

Beside her, I notice Dan shaking his head, a nonbeliever. He touches his mother's arm to lead her away. As Dan and Janet help Judy down the path leading to the horses, I follow, turning every so often to look at the butterflies hanging dormant in the trees. Thunder rumbles in the distance.

Suddenly, Judy stops. "Wait!" she shouts. "Do you hear that? I can hear them. It's the butterflies!" She is having trouble moving, so she doesn't turn around, but she closes her eyes for a moment as we all pause to listen.

Dan places a hand on his mother's back and says, "That's just the wind blowing the leaves." And so it is.

AS I WANDER AROUND THE MAKESHIFT VILLAGE AT THE BOTTOM OF THE MOUNTAIN, I am still mourning the day's absence of light and life when I hear someone call my name from inside one of the rough-hewn wooden buildings. It's Bill McCormick and his daughter, Terri Piel, from Odessa, Tex. "Get on in here," they shout. They claim they're having one of the best meals of their life, and their invitation makes me realize I am ravenous.

On this mist-cloaked mountain, on this utterly unsatisfying day, I find solace in a quesadilla filled with yellow squash blossoms. A woman standing next to a wood fire covered with a sheet of scrap metal is working culinary magic. Bill takes a swig of honey- and cinnamon-laced coffee and says, "This place should be written up in the AAA."