They have come from hundreds, even thousands of miles away, on fragile wings, sometimes fringed with wind-wear. To see them, it’s astounding that they travel at all. Fewer and fewer of them each year, dwindling to naught or simply dipping, we don’t know.
When I lived in Santa Cruz, on the west side, the park was an easy bike ride from my shabby student rental in “the circles”. I don’t know how many visits I made on my new bike, helmetless in those days, hair blowing dangerously in the wind, before they arrived that first time. Down West Cliff Drive, hook a right at the park on a quiet weekday morning, follow the road and then head down the dirt path to the right.
Riding that bike, the first bike I’d ever purchased with my own money—probably the first big thing I’d ever purchased, if I think about it—was one of my favorite things to do. Sometimes I felt like I was ten years old again, riding wherever I wanted to go as fast as I could, with no particular destination.
The first time, I don’t know that I knew they were there before I went, or if I had heard they would come. Dripping from branches, in flickering clusters, they warmed themselves in shafts of light that seeped through the canopy of eucalyptus into the quiet grove. What I remember is how magical and serene it was to ride through the mist and stay there in the quiet of that half-lit grove among them.
Now, twenty-five years later, young, clean-shaven park rangers patiently answer questions from a road-addled tourist at the gate. Yes, the butterflies are here. Yes, you can take your dog into the park, but not to see the butterflies (duh) and please make sure your car is parked in the shade with the windows down and obvious water for the dog and don’t stay too long because other people get really upset if they see a dog in a car for a long time. Ten dollars for day use, please.
The quiet dirt path has been replaced (very necessarily) by a new boardwalk, which is attractive and sturdy, designed to take the abuse of eager nature-lovers. At the base of the walkway in the grove itself is a low multi-level deck.
At first, it is lovely just to see the Monarchs flitting silently between the trees. You'll notice that there are no close-up photos. The butterflies are very, very high up, though when it's quiet, and bored children have dragged their parents back to the beach, they'll swoop teasingly close to the deck.
A mother and her young daughter were lying on the edge of one of the deck’s steps, looking up at the treetops. They were talking sweetly, sharing an enviable mother-daughter moment. A small family group was listening to a female ranger talk in whispers about the butterflies and their journey. I caught just the end, just enough to hear her say, “…people who saw them twenty years ago, in the 80s, say that there were hundreds and thousands of them…what you can do is plant milkweed to grow during the seasons that they are traveling…”
I don’t want the butterflies to be just another thing that is dwindling, dying, disappearing. Once there were hundreds, herds by the millions across the plain, great black clouds of wings in the sky, etc., etc. My generation really is Generation D, for disappointment. Everything “used to be” bigger, more. Everything is just outside of our grasp, lost to us by just a little bit.
But then I think, how lucky that I was one of the people who saw them then, who got to stand in that grove alone, on a quiet weekday, not surrounded by well-meaning eco-tourist families whispering questions below the fluttering clusters of insects. I could come down any morning I wanted, and see them hanging on drooping eucalyptus branches, wings still too wet with dew to fly.
As soon as the woman and her daughter left, I found my own spot on the deck and leaned back, resting my head against the wood. The family group moved on, and the couples that trickled down into the grove were respectfully silent.
Directly above my head was a branch whose clustered leaves fluttered—every bare twig shimmered with the dun undersides of their orange and black wings. The sky was blue, and the smell of eucalyptus was caught up in the occasional breeze. There was a serenity in the scene that made me wish to stay. But I had promised the rangers that I wouldn’t leave my dog for long, even though she was safely parked in deep shade, and so I had to be on my way.
First stop: The Bagelry, downtown Santa Cruz for a "Dark Star": An "everything" bagel with thickly-layered with cream cheese, chopped olives and chopped walnuts. (PS- they call it the "Ultimate" now.) Mike’s favorite from his MBA days. Mike does not have a Master’s in Business Administration, but he was once the assistant dean at the Monterey Bay Academy. After a walk around the block with the dog, fill the water jug, use the clean bathroom for customers only and park in the free parking for customers only.
Second stop: Butterfly grove
Third stop: Lighthouse point
Fourth stop: Caffe Pergolesi for a chai (the chai by which all others must be judged-- perfect.)
Fifth stop: Pizza My Heart for a pesto pizza to bring home to Mike. Another favorite.
Sixth stop: Cemetery
