Today, I went to Orchard Hills Elementary school to tag and release a couple of wild monarch butterflies. I do this often. It’s always rewarding, and a lot of fun to interact with a class full of wiggling, giggling 1st graders who just can’t wait to raise their hands and answer a question that you have not even asked yet. “Passing the baton” and all that. But today… today was a day like no other. Hunter (7) and his big sister Ellie (10) arrived with their Mom, and they proudly showed me the two monarchs that emerged from their chrysalises the day before. They explained how their Grampa and Gramma had introduced them all to the wonderful magic of the monarch butterfly. And two wonderful teachers were there, Miss Ashley and Miss Jamie. The caterpillars had been found a week or two before, munching away on milkweed in Phoenix Oregon. But that was before The Fire. But where were the other children? Where were Hunter’s little classmates? The school hallways were empty. The boisterous laughter of fifty exuberant 6 and 7-year olds is masked away at the other end of smartphones and laptop monitors. They could only see and hear through the laptop screen and tinny microphone as they sat alone in their own chrysalises- not because of this fire, but because of another kind of fire sweeping through the lands. Three of the children I see in the small rectangular boxes on the faded computer screen are not calling from their homes; they are calling from a motel room. Their homes are gone now. And so, we all did our best to share the “A-ha!” moment of releasing a monarch back into the wild; in the sooty, crumpled, ghostly apocalypse. And, I thought… These two lone monarch caterpillars I hold in my hands have been blissfully unaware. They were safely tucked into their chrysalises just a day before fiery mayhem struck. Ellie and Hunter would not evacuate without them! Protected, they did not feel the burn of horizontal flames screaming with the winds across the streets. They could not hear the explosions of propane tanks as the fires flew through the nearby businesses and the buildings quickly writhed into groaning rubble. They were unaware of the incredible hospitality of the business owner in nearby Ruch who came out into the parking lot at 10:00 at night to tell the 100-plus evacuees who had fled the flames and had to sleep in their cars, that she and her staff would continue to serve food until it was gone and leave the tiny restaurant open all night for use. They left behind the choking smoke and the flashing strobes as our emergency heroes went house to house to evacuate in the darkness. And, they could not see when Hunter and Ellie’s grandparents home in Talent burned to the ground. Yet, here they are today in this quiet ghostly aftermath; these two magnificent creatures who started their lives just days before the mayhem and are now ready to rise and take flight into the blue clarity above. I would like to think that a part of Hunter and Ellie are with them, rising from the ashes like a Phoenix. Aware of what happened, and moving on with renewed strength and resolution. The kiddos named them Isabella and Dusty. One is a boy and one is a girl. Their research tag numbers are E1836 and E1837, respectively. Please watch for them. Please make way for them.And when the electronic screen to the children went blank, and the tinny microphone was turned off, and the thank-yous and goodbyes were over, and I was alone. I let my tears run free at last and mix into the ash at my feet. Our Western Monarchs will survive. They are wild. They are resilient. And they are tougher than we think. The people of Phoenix and Talent in Southern Oregon will survive. We are resilient. We are tougher than you think.

 

Robert Coffan, Southern Oregon Monarch Advocates

Taking steps to foster future generations of Monarchs                                          The migration continues! SOMonarchs.org

Waystation # 10582