Northing -- Annie Dillard

Narration and Description

The following passage is from “Northing,” a chapter in Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim

at Tinker Creek. In it, the author vividly describes monarch butterflies and their

migration.

Northing

A few days later the monarchs hit. I saw one, and then another, and

then others all day long, before I consciously understood that I was

witnessing a migration, and it wasn’t until another two weeks had passed

that I realized the enormity of what I had seen.

Each of these butterflies, the fruit of two or three broods of this

summer, had hatched successfully from one of those emerald cases that

Teale’s caterpillar had been about to form when the parasitic larvae snapped

it limp, eating their way out of its side. They had hatched, many of them,

just before a thunderstorm, when winds lifted the silver leaves of trees and

birds sought the shelter of shrubbery, uttering cries. They were butterflies,

going south to the Gulf states or farther, and some of them had come from

Hudson’s Bay.

Monarchs were everywhere. They skittered and bobbed, rested in the

air, lolled on the dust—but with none of their usual insouciance. They had

but one unwearying thought: South. I watched from my study window:

three, four . . . eighteen, nineteen, one every few seconds, and some in

tandem. They came fanning straight toward my window from the

northwest, and from the northeast, materializing from behind the tips of

high hemlocks, where Polaris hangs by night. They appeared as Indian

horsemen appear in movies: first dotted, then massed, silent, at the rim

of a hill.

Each monarch butterfly had a brittle black body and deep orange wings

limned and looped in black bands. A monarch at rest looks like a fleck of

tiger, stilled and wide-eyed. A monarch in flight looks like an autumn leaf

with a will, vitalized and cast upon the air from which it seems to suck some

thin sugar of energy, some leaf-life or sap. As each one climbed up the air

outside my window, I could see the more delicate, ventral surfaces of its

wings, and I had a sense of bunched legs and straining thorax, but I could

never focus well into the flapping and jerking before it vaulted up past the

window and out of sight over my head.

I walked out and saw a monarch do a wonderful thing: it climbed a hill

without twitching a muscle. I was standing at the bridge over Tinker Creek,

at the southern foot of a very steep hill. The monarch beat its way beside

me over the bridge at eye level, and then, flailing its wings exhaustedly,

ascended straight up in the air. It rose vertically to the enormous height of

a bankside sycamore’s crown. Then, fixing its wings at a precise angle, it

glided up the steep road, losing altitude extremely slowly, climbing by

checking its fall, until it came to rest at a puddle in front of the house at the

top of the hill.

I followed. It panted, skirmished briefly westward, and then, returning

to the puddle, began its assault on the house. It struggled almost straight up

the air next to the two-story brick wall, and then scaled the roof. Wasting

no effort, it followed the roof ’s own slope, from a distance of two inches.

Puff, and it was out of sight. I wondered how many more hills and houses

it would have to climb before it could rest. From the force of its will it

would seem it could flutter through the walls.

Monarchs are “tough and powerful, as butterflies go.” They fly over

Lake Superior without resting; in fact, observers there have discovered a

curious thing. Instead of flying directly south, the monarchs crossing high

over the water take an inexplicable turn toward the east. Then when they

reach an invisible point, they all veer south again. Each successive swarm

repeats this mysterious dogleg movement, year after year. Entomologists

actually think that the butterflies might be “remembering” the position of a

long-gone, looming glacier. In another book I read that geologists think

that Lake Superior marks the site of the highest mountain that ever existed

on this continent. I don’t know. I’d like to see it. Or I’d like to be it, to feel

when to turn. At night on land migrating monarchs slumber on certain

trees, hung in festoons with wings folded together, thick on the trees and

shaggy as bearskin.

Monarchs have always been assumed to taste terribly bitter, because of

the acrid milkweed on which the caterpillars feed. You always run into

monarchs and viceroys when you read about mimicry: viceroys look

enough like monarchs that keen-eyed birds who have tasted monarchs once

will avoid the viceroys as well. New studies

indicate that milkweed-fed monarchs are

not so much evil-tasting as literally nauseating,

since milkweed contains “heart poisons

similar to digitalis” that make the bird ill.

Personally, I like an experiment performed

by an entomologist with real spirit. He had

heard all his life, as I have, that monarchs

taste unforgettably bitter, so he tried some.

“To conduct what was in fact a field experiment

the doctor first went South, and he ate

a number of monarchs in the field. . . . The

monarch butterfly, Dr. Urquhart learned,

has no more flavor than dried toast.” Dried

toast? It was hard for me, throughout the monarch migration, in the middle

of all that beauty and real splendor, to fight down the thought that what

It is easy to coax a dying or exhausted butterfly onto your finger. I saw

a monarch walking across a gas station lot; it was walking south. I placed

my index finger in its path, and it clambered aboard and let me lift it to my

face. Its wings were faded but unmarked by hazard; a veneer of velvet

caught the light and hinted at the frailest depth of lapped scales. It was a

male; his legs clutching my finger were short and atrophied; they clasped my

finger with a spread fragility, a fineness as of some low note of emotion or

pure strain of spirit, scarcely perceived. And I knew that those feet were

actually tasting me, sipping with sensitive organs the vapor of my finger’s

skin: butterflies taste with their feet. All the time he held me, he opened and

closed his glorious wings, senselessly, as if sighing.

The closing of his wings fanned an almost imperceptible redolence

at my face, and I leaned closer. I could barely scent a sweetness, I could

almost name it . . . fireflies, sparklers—honeysuckle. He smelled like honeysuckle;

I couldn’t believe it. I knew that many male butterflies exuded

distinctive odors from special scent glands, but I thought that only laboratory

instruments could detect those odors compounded of many,

many butterflies. I had read a list of the improbable scents of butterflies:

sandalwood, chocolate, heliotrope, sweet pea. Now this live creature here

on my finger had an odor that even I could sense—this flap actually

smelled, this chip that actually took its temperature from the air like any

envelope or hammer, this programmed wisp of spread horn. And he

smelled of honeysuckle. Why not caribou hoof or Labrador tea, tundra

lichen or dwarf willow, the brine of Hudson’s Bay or the vapor of rivers

milky with fine-ground glacial silt? This honeysuckle was an odor already

only half-remembered, as breath of the summer past, the Lucas cliffs and

overgrown fence by Tinker Creek, a drugged sweetness that had almost

cloyed on those moisture-laden nights, now refined to a wary trickle in the

air, a distillation pure and rare, scarcely known and mostly lost, and heading

south.

I walked him across the gas station lot and lowered him into a field. He

took to the air, pulsing and gliding; he lighted on sassafras, and I lost him.

For weeks I found paired monarch wings, bodiless, on the grass or on

the road. I collected one such wing and freed it of its scales; first I rubbed

it between my fingers, and then I stroked it gently with the tip of an infant’s

silver spoon. What I had at the end of this delicate labor is lying here on this

study desk: a kind of resilient scaffolding, like the webbing over a hot-air

balloon, black veins stretching the merest something across the nothingness

it plies. The integument itself is perfectly transparent; through it I can read

the smallest print. It is as thin as the skin peeled from sunburn, and as

tough as a parchment of fleeced buffalo hide. The butterflies that were eaten

here in the valley, leaving us their wings, were, however, few: most lived to

follow the valley south.

9

The migration lasted in full force for five days. For those five days I was

inundated, drained. The air was alive and unwinding. Time itself was a

scroll unraveled, curved and still quivering on a table or altar stone. The

monarchs clattered in the air, burnished like throngs of pennies, here’s one,

and here’s one, and more, and more. They flapped and floundered; they

thrust, splitting the air like the keels of canoes, quickened and fleet.

It looked as though the leaves of the autumn forest had taken flight, and

were pouring down the valley like a waterfall, like a tidal wave, all the leaves

of hardwoods from here to Hudson’s Bay. It was as if the season’s color were

draining away like lifeblood, as if the year were molting and shedding. The

year was rolling down, and a vital curve had been reached, the lift that gives

way to headlong rush. And when the monarchs had passed and were gone,

the skies were vacant, the air poised. The dark night into which the year was

plunging was not a sleep but an awakening, a new and necessary austerity,

the sparer climate for which I longed. The shed trees were brittle and still,

the creek light and cold, and my spirit holding its breath. ■