So...What Does It All Mean?

My trip started out as a bike ride to follow the monarchs and share my love of adventure, science, and conservation with students along the way. I picked the monarch because it was likely one of the only migrations I could keep up with by bike, and one with a range (all except near the sanctuaries) that was widespread enough so I had a decent chance of finding them. Since the migration didn’t discriminate between city and town, wild spaces and school playgrounds, or parks and roadside ditches I could travel without boundaries; and because the migration could reach anyone living on its route, my audience wasn’t restricted. The monarchs, like clouds, are democratic in their reach. So, I picked the monarchs for logistical reasons, but the monarchs turned my trip into something more. I learned to see the monarch not just as an inspiring creature, but as a symbol in many lights.  

sara monarch caterpillar antelope milkweed (2).JPG

For one, the monarch is a symbol of our shared continent. Not Mexican or United Statesan or Canadian, the monarchs are instead Mexican and United Statesan and Canadian. The monarchs, you, me, we are North American. The monarch reminds us that borders are just lines on maps, and that our neighbors are our teammates. The only way to save the monarch is to work together. If we succeed it will be a win for every North American, and every future North American. If we lose, it will be a loss for all, and a shameful, selfish legacy.

The monarchs represent more than just butterflies. They remind us that we are North American, and if we don't work with our neighbors we will likely fail.

The monarchs represent more than just butterflies. They remind us that we are North American, and if we don't work with our neighbors we will likely fail.

The monarch is also a symbol for the health of our planet. Scientists call species whose populations give insights into the condition of ecosystems 'indicator species'. As the monarchs decline they are indicating problems. They show us that the prairie is sick, the forests in Mexico are degrading, the balance of plants and pollinators is askew, the prevalence of deadly chemicals is growing, and the climate has changed. All these things might first seem to only affect the monarchs and the frogs and prairie dogs, but as the problems grow the symptoms will reveal themselves more and more in our lives. We can learn to listen to the monarchs, heed their warnings, and perhaps one day we will see that we were not saving them, but they were saving us.

The monarchs are a symbol of our planet's health.

The monarchs are a symbol of our planet's health.

Perhaps as important as showing us our planet is sick, monarchs show us how to heal it. They show us with their presence; championing native gardens, public lands, un-mowed roadside ditches, and chemical free farms by visiting them. They oppose the vast sprawl of green grass lawns by ignoring them. Their eggs show us what works by simply showing up, their caterpillars show us by attacking milkweed bite by bite, and their pupae show us by transforming in unlikely places. The monarchs show us that to have a future they need a place to live. And for now, their declining populations show us that we must keep fighting.

The monarchs show us how they are doing, how the planet is doing, and what we need to do to help.

The monarchs show us how they are doing, how the planet is doing, and what we need to do to help.

But this is not my fight or your fight. This is our fight, and the monarch is a symbol of many adding up to something more. One monarch, alone, could never visit every town, inspire a movement, or paint the sky orange, but thousands and thousands of monarchs add up to a phenomenon. So while one garden might feel small and meaningless, this trip and the monarchs have shown me that thousands and thousands of our gardens add up to a phenomenon too. Our voices add up, our passion adds up, our hard work adds up, and our compassion adds up. Together we are becoming too loud to be ignored, too dedicated to give up, too strong to lose hope, too compassionate to turn away.

Our gardens add up, our voices add up, and our passion adds up!

Our gardens add up, our voices add up, and our passion adds up!

Compassion is perhaps the most surprising symbol held up by the monarchs. I came to this conclusion as I cycled and listened to the hate and fear caught in every news story. At first I didn’t see the connection between monarchs and boys shot by cops, families in Syria trapped, school kids deported, people gunned down in churches, and kids denied a proper education. Instead, I took in the news and began to question my bike ride. How could I spend one second prioritizing monarchs as injustice sharpened its sword and prepared for more and more attacks?

From the confusion and anger and grief I saw a symbol in the monarch emerge. I realized that no one blames the monarchs for their population plummet. No one says it is the monarchs’ fault that their babies can’t survive the herbicides and pesticides, or that they can’t adapt to the changing climate. No one thinks that monarchs are lazy because they can’t find milkweed anymore, or that they deserve getting hit by cars because their migration passed over I35. We don’t blame the monarchs. Instead we see their struggle. We rally, fight, cry, get angry, and do something.

No one would blame this female monarch for dying because it flew across a street. Instead we fight harder for them.

No one would blame this female monarch for dying because it flew across a street. Instead we fight harder for them.

This means we are capable of seeing that the world as an equation, tweaked in favor of some, so that the result is best for those making the rules and moving the pieces. It means we can see that the monarchs’ failures are a product of this equation built for and by people with investments, land, lobbyists, and lawyers; all operating in a world where science and education are under attack. Thus the monarch migration becomes a symbol of this compassion and understanding. The monarch shows us we can’t blame the victims or expect the most vulnerable to fight alone. So, as you listen to the news and reflect on your community, remember the monarch.

And remember that this is our only chance. So while we must fight for justice in all its forms, we can’t put anything on the back-burner. If we wait the monarch migration could be stolen from us, and never again will the orange wings dance though our yards, inspire our kids, or paint our skies. Never again could we see a female lay an egg and know that we were seeing the first moment of a life that might defy all the odds and fly thousands of miles to a distant tree. Never again. The monarchs need us now, and while the world can feel like it is falling apart all we can do is keep trying.

Now is our only chance. We don't want to lose the opportunity to see an egg laid , to become a butterfly that might eventually fly thousands of miles to Mexico.

Now is our only chance. We don't want to lose the opportunity to see an egg laid , to become a butterfly that might eventually fly thousands of miles to Mexico.

And try we will! We will try to find our voice in the conversation, and give our time, our power, our love, our hearts, and our heads to saving the totem of our dedication. Whether it is the monarch or black lives or immigrant rights or frogs, we are all fighting for the same thing: a chance for the world to give space for life to thrive. We are each a puzzle piece, and when we work together, we form a world where every color can render the world a rainbow, every song can mix with the wind, and every life can make long, seemingly impossible journeys. What matters is not which issue is the most important, but that you pick something and join the train moving justice forward.

If your goal is to let diversity have a place on the planet, then I believe you are moving justice forward.

If your goal is to let diversity have a place on the planet, then I believe you are moving justice forward.

On this train, the folks dedicated to the monarchs are a symbol all their own. They are a symbol of what a team can do. I felt their passion and dedication, I saw their accomplishments, and I experienced the community they nurtured.  I was continually impressed by their commitment and willingness to teach and learn. I truly believe the monarch is still here because of them.

I truly believe that the hard work of the "crazy monarch network" is the reason monarchs are still here. Their dedication and passion was a surprise to me and an inspiration.

I truly believe that the hard work of the "crazy monarch network" is the reason monarchs are still here. Their dedication and passion was a surprise to me and an inspiration.

I am very proud to have joined this monarch team. Now, as I begin to make plans that are not on the migration route, I wonder what is next. Will I feel like I am losing my tribe, or will I simply be a butterbiker on migrations of different kinds? What I know for sure, is that the monarch will live in my heart and my head forever. They changed me, and I hope I changed the migration. I hope I made their lives a bit easier, a bit better. And I’ll keep using my voice to speak on their behalf.

Whatever I do next, the monarchs will be in my head and heart.

Whatever I do next, the monarchs will be in my head and heart.

So while my trip is over, the end is nowhere in sight. The road to a future with monarchs leads us forward on paths paved with wonder, gardens, education, and a bit of cultural wrangling. These were my rallying calls for 10,201 miles and here they are once again: celebrate the monarch, plant native gardens, teach your community about the migration, foster an informed, compassionate, and engaged team of monarch stewards, and scrutinize our cultural commitment to manifest destiny.

My rally call: plant native gardens, teach your community about the migration, foster an informed, compassionate, and engaged team of monarch stewards, and scrutinize our cultural commitment to manifest destiny. (photo credit: Kylee Baumie)

My rally call: plant native gardens, teach your community about the migration, foster an informed, compassionate, and engaged team of monarch stewards, and scrutinize our cultural commitment to manifest destiny. (photo credit: Kylee Baumie)

The last one is the least straightforward, the least discussed, and perhaps the most significant.  We must reevaluate our cultural norms that suggest humans own the earth, deserve to use and abuse it, and are here to control it. We must learn to share the planet and work with it rather than against it. We must begin to see beauty in natives, waste in green grass lawns, threats in short term chemical fixes, arrogance in killing animals with our cars, our developments, and our blind need for more, and we must see protected spaces and limits as keys to our future.

This planet is not just for humans, and we must take responsibility and start sharing it.

This planet is not just for humans, and we must take responsibility and start sharing it.

So while the future of the monarch is unknown, I know the future is full of fight. My fight will shift course, but as things settle my future will show itself.

My plan for now is to stay in Mexico until March. I’ll use this time to practice my Spanish, hang out with my friends, visit the monarchs, and write a book. I’ve day-dreamed about writing a book for many trips and decided to make a try of it. My goal is to write a book for young adults which covers the science of the migration, while telling the story of my adventure. I want my book to make people look for monarchs and explore in their own ways. I want my book to be an example that normal people can be scientists, adventurers, and conservationists. I figure my first book will be like my first presentation eight years ago: not very good. But my trips have always been about figuring it out as you go, and improving with practice. I see no reason to change course now!

I want people to read about my heroic encounter with this skunk and immediately leave their house to go meet a skunk themselves.

I want people to read about my heroic encounter with this skunk and immediately leave their house to go meet a skunk themselves.

I also have plans to make a bit of money for my next steps. As of NOW I am currently selling prints of the watercolors I made on the road of the migration. The system is a bit jankey, but again, no reason to change course now! While I am at it, I am helping my friends at the monarch sanctuaries sell these totally unique monarch cross-stitched towels/napkins that they custom made for me. If you love monarchs or know any “crazy monarch people” and think a bit of butterbike bling would suit you/them, I’d be grateful for your order!

If you love bikes and butterflies then you might want to order one of my prints.

If you love bikes and butterflies then you might want to order one of my prints.

My watercolor blog has many, many more!

My watercolor blog has many, many more!

And you can order a seriously limited edition butterbike towel. Or there are sewing monarchs, guitar-playing monarchs, monarchs with balloons, and monarchs dancing with beans!

And you can order a seriously limited edition butterbike towel. Or there are sewing monarchs, guitar-playing monarchs, monarchs with balloons, and monarchs dancing with beans!

 And being grateful takes me to the most important part. Saying thanks.

Thank you to the teachers who grant kids the opportunity to know monarchs. Thank you to every student that laughed at my jokes, gave my videos a chance, asked great questions, and now take the reins as unfair as that is. Thank you to every gardener with native plants and milkweed, leading by example and being inspirational. Thank you to every scientist for uncovering the details that make the migration more and more spectacular. Thank you to everyone using their voice to speak for the monarchs. Thank you to everyone that cooked me a meal, invited me into their house, shared their passion and knowledge of the monarchs with me, donated money, provided route intel, read my blog, edited my blog, shared my posts, decked my bike with monarch swag, let me rant about corn and politics, spread the word, helped me network, contacted the press, and lifted me up so I could keep going. I don’t remember every mile, but I remember all of you.

Thanks to everyone that supported my trip and continue to support the monarchs. I couldn't have done it without you.

Thanks to everyone that supported my trip and continue to support the monarchs. I couldn't have done it without you.

And finally, a shout out to the monarchs. You all are amazing. Thanks!

And a big thank you to all the monarchs!

And a big thank you to all the monarchs!

Home Stretch

Having cycled across the USA/Mexico border twice previously, I was well aware of the perceived dangers at the border thanks to the constant barrage of warnings. Warnings are not new to me, in fact folks often go one step beyond warning me, by looking into my eyes and telling me I am going to die

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South Through the South

After looping and lollygagging through Missouri, I set my sights to Mexico and began a bee line (or butterfly line perhaps) south. I punched through the forested mountains of Arkansas and Oklahoma, and landed in Texas hill country at full speed. I was still seeing monarchs, but knew they would pass me soon, so my route was purposeful and direct, with scheduled stops only in Arkansas’ NW corner and 700 miles later in Austin, TX.

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A Loop Through Missouri

While strange weather postponed the monarch migration, I carried on, looping through Missouri like a collie rounding up any monarchs I could find to herd them south. This loop through Missouri was part a logistical inevitability and a lucky break for me. Inevitable because I wanted to visit a handful of towns that edged Missouri’s eastern, western and southern borders. A lucky break because Missouri is one of my favorite states and I welcomed the miles. I was happy to meander along the Mighty Missouri as it carried stories of mountains and prairies in its waters. I was thrilled to visit Missouri’s southern corners where the Ozarks formed a tangle of limestone rock, perfect color rivers, and thick, green forests.  I was also happy to visit the communities enjoying both and fighting for both.

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My Southern Pre-Migration

Leaving Canada, I aimed south, southwest, and pedaled a relatively direct path to Kentucky, heading south prematurely, weeks ahead of the flood of migrating monarchs. Because I was ahead of the flock, and because I still had one last northbound push through Missouri, I began to refer to this head start as my pre-migration migration.

I started heading south, ahead of the bulk of the migration, but I was still seeing monarchs.

I started heading south, ahead of the bulk of the migration, but I was still seeing monarchs.

Some monarchs also have a pre-migration migration. To understand this movement south by reproductive monarchs, imagine it is early August and you (now a monarch) are a recently eclosed adult. It is too early for you to be a migrant, so you will mate, lay eggs, and those eggs will metamorphose in 30-35 days and then fly to Mexico (congrats). If you lay your eggs at the same latitude you were born at, then your kids will become migrating adults in mid September, a time of seasonal and potentially deadly freezes in the north. So instead of laying your eggs in the most northern parts of the range, and risking killing frosts, you move south to lay your eggs. A head start, away from the cold and closer to Mexico.

It takes about 35 days to go from egg to adult monarch, and thus in late summer in the far north, reproductive adults will sometimes fly a bit south to lay their eggs, with less threat of freezing fall weather. This is called the pre-migration migration.

It takes about 35 days to go from egg to adult monarch, and thus in late summer in the far north, reproductive adults will sometimes fly a bit south to lay their eggs, with less threat of freezing fall weather. This is called the pre-migration migration.

This pre-migration migration is not the only thing the monarchs and I had in common on the first leg of my southbound route. Traveling through the core of the country we both welcomed the colorful roadside prairies, suffered from habitat loss, relied on generous hospitality, and felt the urgency of the coming winter. All these commonalities made up the bulk of my Canada to Kentucky pre-migration.

From north to south, the monarchs and I sought out roads without painted lines or traffic but instead a border of roadside ditches alive with the songs of insects, the colors of flowers, and the itchiness of constantly wading into it all. Biking through this lattice of life kept the miles from dragging on. As did the dapple-lit forests and small family farms I wove alongside. These were the good miles, where the monarchs and I could enjoy the thrill of traveling towards unknown horizons. These were the miles where I could wave at families sorting through rows of pumpkins and peppers, and smile at kids on strange bikes who, I assume, thought mine was strange too.

I love that the monarchs and I both enjoy the prairie roadside ditches (can you spot the monarch?).

I love that the monarchs and I both enjoy the prairie roadside ditches (can you spot the monarch?).

Best of all, these were the miles where monarch moms looked to raise their kids, where hungry monarchs looked to gain strength, and where I, the butterbiker, could lose track of time, kneeling in the itchy grasses, finding colorful, living secrets. A buffet of life. In these miles, I could find large monarch caterpillars, sitting boldly on their leafy banquets, feasting while waving their antenna-like conductors to a symphony of plants and wind. I could find cream-colored eggs and rice-sized young instars hidden on the freshest leaves of browning milkweed. I could find orb spiders centered in their hammocks, skippers skipping from flower to flower, milkweed beetles slurping seed pods, and the surprise of creatures with names I didn’t know. Sometimes I would stop several times a mile to investigate and gain eyes to see the world beyond the blur of inattentiveness.

Roadside ditches are full of some incredible creatures.

Roadside ditches are full of some incredible creatures.

Then I would hit a mowed stretch, and everything I knew living in the ditches would spread across my consciousness smashed, erased, evicted. I could imagine the caterpillars ripped to shreds, the chrysalides crushed, and the eggs destroyed. I could see the hopes of a creature nurtured on Indiana or Ohio soil flying to Mexico, fail. Butterfly or not, I felt the loss of habitat, the loss of home, and the loss of orange wings migrating across continents.

Mowing the ditches means many caterpillars, eggs, and chrysalids won't survive.

Mowing the ditches means many caterpillars, eggs, and chrysalids won't survive.

The silence of these miles was always the most painful. The silence of the non-human, unable to rally, protest, flee, demand, ask, call, write, or vote. The winged, the segmented, the many-legged, the exo-skeletoned disappearing without a fight, a silent cry most of us don’t hear as we look the other way. As I bike I don’t look away. I look into the destruction and reflect on our selfishness.

Inspecting the stubble but unable to find what they look for, the adult monarchs forge on. I wonder what they make of the barren land, and try to harness the power they have to keep moving forward. They always seem confident that they will find what they are looking for. An assumption, a hope, that there still exists pockets of land people have spared.

Does a monarch wonder where all the habitat has gone?

Does a monarch wonder where all the habitat has gone?

I am lucky enough to find some of these pockets of hope. In Ohio, between corn and soybean, I stay with Kylee and Romie. Kylee, an author, raises, rears, rescues, teaches about, and protects the monarchs. From her book about monarchs to her nightly walks to collect roadside caterpillars from pending mowers, she is a voice for the monarchs. Speaking for monarchs can often feel like you are speaking into a void, but she has had some victories. The owner of a nearby field held off mowing after he learned about the monarchs, and her young neighbors now explore for caterpillars, thrilled to be part of the migration. Turns out the void might actually be listening.

Kylee is a voice for the monarch, and her garden is a buffet for monarchs.

Kylee is a voice for the monarch, and her garden is a buffet for monarchs.

Kylee wasn’t the only person I met on my pre-migration walking the talk. A few days earlier I met the folks that organized a presentation in Fort Wayne, IN. They were a team of action, making conservation fun as it should be. After the presentation I stayed with Louise, a college professor leading the way, with a new environmental studies textbook focusing on helping students connect the dots between their environment and their lives. I agree wholeheartedly with this approach, anything to link our actions to consequences. After all, the declining monarch populations are a symptom of a disease we are all exposed to. The monarchs and frogs and coral reefs are on the front lines today, but tomorrow? Connecting the dots, educating ourselves and seeing Earth’s systems as our lifelines, and our fellow species as indicators of health is our best defense. Talking with folks like Louise is my best defense too.

Louise was part of the team that set up my presentation in Fort Wayne (at which she did some introductions), and she hosted me at her house so I could rest up before heading on.

Louise was part of the team that set up my presentation in Fort Wayne (at which she did some introductions), and she hosted me at her house so I could rest up before heading on.

The generous hospitality continued in Centerville, IN and Evansville, IN, a smallville and a bit-biggerville respectively. In Centerville, after my presentation, I headed south through protective forests and then climbed up a long, steep gravel driveway just in time to watch a pink glow wash away the blues of the day. At the top of the hill I spotted an old farmhouse that look not just old, but wise, and full of stories. I was greeted at the house by goats, chickens, a few weary dogs, and Dana who welcomed me in. While Dana and her husband cooked real food, their granddaughter fed me plastic ice cream and toy cheeseburgers. I wasn’t super hungry, but found myself eating as much (of the non-toys) as anyone, unable to resist the mac and cheese and potato salad.

Arriving at the top of a steep hill, I catch my breath and am welcomed to Dana's house by the dogs and chickens. TOO CUTE!

Arriving at the top of a steep hill, I catch my breath and am welcomed to Dana's house by the dogs and chickens. TOO CUTE!

In Evansville, a few days later, I had an entirely different set up. Gena had arranged not only a public presentation, several school presentations, and a presentation with her adventure scouts, but she had also set up housing for me at the local university. For several days I had my own house and refrigerator, a luxury that allowed me to go to the store and stock up on things like ice cream and cantaloupe, food I just can’t carry on a bicycle. To supplement this strange diet folks like Val treated me to Greek food, Susan and her ball of yarn smiles hooked me up with farmers' market veggies, and Gena provided me with homemade mini muffins.

Now while the monarchs don’t eat mini muffins or Greek food, they too rely on my new friends for food too. The same folks that feed me, are the folks planting gardens in their yards to feed the monarchs. So while Dana was feeding me mac and cheese, and Louise was feeding me pizza, and Kylee was feeding me catfish, all three had gardens in their yards full of inviting flowers and occasional milkweeds. This generous hospitality links butterflies and butterbikers more than our route, preference for prairie and struggles with habitat loss. I like that the monarchs and I can both find these people in our own ways. I like that we both arrive hungry and tired, and once rested and full, we leave ready for more.

Just like the monarchs, Kylee feeds me (and a few of my friends who happen to be traveling through). Photo curtosity of Kylee Baumle

Just like the monarchs, Kylee feeds me (and a few of my friends who happen to be traveling through). Photo curtosity of Kylee Baumle

AND she feeds the migrating monarchs with her garden.

AND she feeds the migrating monarchs with her garden.

And more the monarchs and I had! During my pre-migration Mexico felt impossibly far way, and the demanding distance led to a sense of urgency. I had left Canada just as the monarchs were beginning to group together and send all the monarch folks into a frenzy. While many thought tagging premature, just the idea that tagging, reserved for the migrating monarchs, was enough to make me worry. I imagined the monarchs all passing me before I hit Missouri and spending thousands of miles hearing people tell me I just missed them, and that I better catch up.

I can’t say if the monarchs felt the same urgency I felt, though I imagine they sense something. Perhaps for them it’s a mere craving, a hankering, a pull. For me it was all alarm bells and sirens, which started as soon as I started to receive email and facebook updates telling me that tagging efforts were heating up and I needed to pedal fast. I felt like I was slowing while the miles were growing. Mexico seemed to be getting further away and the pressure to get south grew.

The milkweed going to seed was fun to see but added to the sense of urgency I felt to get south quick.

The milkweed going to seed was fun to see but added to the sense of urgency I felt to get south quick.

And then, all of sudden, I started finding eggs again. Each egg, needing 30-35 day to develop into an adult, meant I had time, and like that, I gained breathing room, 35 days of breathing room. 35 days of gaining ground because (not to brag) I am faster than a caterpillar! I explained the reason for this new wave of eggs and tiny caterpillars with the pre-migration migration. Having reached southern Indiana, I had also reached the destination of those pre-migrating adult monarchs, who laid their eggs in my path and gave me precious time to pedal. So even if the race was on, it wasn’t a sprint yet.

Seeing this female lay an egg was a huge relief. Her eggs would need over a month to develop, which meant I had some time!

Seeing this female lay an egg was a huge relief. Her eggs would need over a month to develop, which meant I had some time!

Instead of racing I continued at my one and only pace, slow and steady, enjoying the scenic miles and generous hospitality, lamenting on the mowed ditches and habitat loss, and feeling like a monarch butterfly. But for all the experiences that link butterflies and butterbikers, many exceptions exist. Night riding thick with amphibians, a critical mass of junior butterbikers, terrifying bridge crossings, and a broken bike drew the line, making my trip unique enough to be its own migrating thing! These differences are as memorable as the similarities.

The monarch and I have many shared experiences but obviously there are loads of differences too.

The monarch and I have many shared experiences but obviously there are loads of differences too.

At the top of the list was the critical mass of junior butterbikers, which I found myself a part of in the middle of, after a series of presentations in Evansville, IN. The junior butterbikers were adventure scouts, boys and girls of varying ages, who rallied for an evening presentation and bike ride to a monarch garden. After the chaos of sorting kids and bikes, and arranging all for a photo, we headed down the path. Before starting, I said something ridiculous like “alert bikers to bumps with hand signals.” Then, watching kids careen nearly out of control down the path, I laughed. My advice might as well have been to rebuild their bottom brackets it was so advanced, and I should have gone with something like “go slow on the downhills”.

I got to bike in a critical mass of jounior butterbikers, which made me both nervious AND proud.

I got to bike in a critical mass of jounior butterbikers, which made me both nervious AND proud.

Regardless of my bad advice we all survived the mile or so adventure to the garden. Sure I’d had to stop for a few downed kids, and twist loose handlebars back into acceptable positions; but we all had made the journey and all earned the confidence for future trips. Talking to a few of the older kids filled me with pride. They were so excited to be on an adventure, and I saw that same craving for exploring, challenging your muscles, and searching for freedom that lured me to bike travel when I was their age. I could see their minds calculating the potential and possibilities of future trips. I could see that they had found windows into a new world.

And biking is such a great way to enter new worlds, like worlds full of amphibians on the move. Night rides with frogs, toads, and salamanders are another thing a butterbiker gets to experience but which butterflies don’t. The disparity is because butterflies don’t fly at night, but butterbikers can! Taking advantage of this privilege one night in Indiana, I turned on my lights and biked through the darkness of a warm, humid night. I was feeling strong as the 100 mile mark of the day grew closer, and I was enjoying the way my lights swam through the moisture rising off the pavement. Focused on the dark, I sped down the hills, accepting the invitation from darkness to join the nocturnal wilds. When the first salamander shape caught my eye, I focused only on finding more.

At night salamanders cross the roads and I do my best to find them.

At night salamanders cross the roads and I do my best to find them.

I’ve spent a dozen years training my eyes to register the lumps and shadows of hiding, camouflaged, and reluctant amphibians. I have a search image in my head that sends signals to my body before I even process them. I can tell leaves and springs and broken tires from hunched frogs and oblivious toads. In the world of science it is the skill I have, but it is the skill that can break my heart. Because while I can tell contorted plastic bottles from frogs, I can’t usually tell dying toads from the still alive, and thus my encounters often end sadly.

I am always so happy when the animals I find are still alive and I can move them off the road.

I am always so happy when the animals I find are still alive and I can move them off the road.

I’ve found thousands of dead amphibians and reptiles on the roads. Unless I’m flying by at 40 mph I will usually stop and move them off the road as an act of dignity and respect. When I’m forced to put toads leaking guts or crying blood out of their misery, I wish I could spread the pain I feel to each oblivious driver. Since I can’t, I let each death touch me, absorbing the stillness so that the deaths don’t go unnoticed or forgotten. One day we will look back in shock at our relationship with other living things.

It is not just amphibians I find. This hummingbird had been hit by a car and was barely alive when I moved him off the road and out of the rain.

It is not just amphibians I find. This hummingbird had been hit by a car and was barely alive when I moved him off the road and out of the rain.

Perhaps I’m extra sensitive about all the road kill, because all day I suffer the stress of reckless cars driving by recklessly. This is always the most pronounced on bridges, which tend to squeeze roads into traffic jams without wiggle room. On these such bridges I focus on nothing more than staying alive. Later I reflect with jealousy on how monarchs don’t need bridges!

On my pre-migration I crossed two bridges, both taking first and second place as most terrifying bridge crossings of the trip. Both spanned the Ohio River, and both left my lungs burning, legs aching, and heart beating fast with adrenalin and concern.

Some bridge crossings are mellow, scenic, and fun. Others (which I don't stop to photograph because I don't want to die) are NOT fun!

Some bridge crossings are mellow, scenic, and fun. Others (which I don't stop to photograph because I don't want to die) are NOT fun!

The first place winner of the two bridges was outside of Evansville. The bridge, under construction, loomed as I approached. Herds of cars crossing south were funneled into one narrow lane which was closed in with cement barricades and a retaining wall tipping into the expanse between road and water. After asking a cop for advice, I found a gap and moved as fast as I could. I pedaled with every ounce of strength I could muster, attempting to keep up with the traffic going relatively slow through the narrow passageway of the road. When I found a break in the cement wall, I ducked in and let traffic pass by.

Catching my breath I waited for another gap. The second gap took me to the crest in the bridge, looking over my shoulder I saw a huge semi coming forward. Rationally I knew, as I biked in the center of the lane, that the semi could see me and would not run me over, but I still looked back with fear. The gap grew smaller. I pedaled faster. I cursed every road authority with the audacity to leave safety up to me. I cursed the constructions works who yelled “hey that’s illegal” but gave no clues as to what I was to do. Did they want me to swim? And in fact, it wasn’t illegal, though perhaps offering cyclists no safe options should be. Mostly though I wasn’t thinking, just racing ahead. The gap grew smaller, but I had nowhere to go. And then I did. The bridge ended and the road uncurled, spewing a shoulder which I veered into with panicky reverence. Pulling over I let my heart slow down. Miles later I noted that my lungs still burned and the next day my legs were sore.

The last thing faced on my pre-migration that the monarchs would never and will never have to deal with was a broken bike. My bike went from ridable to not so much just south of Detroit’s city center. At the time, I was still fuming about transportation equity, when one of my bungee cords, not properly tied down after the impromptu repacking to get across the border, got wrapped in my rear wheel. As the bungee twisted, pulled, snapped, and bent reluctant parts, I slammed on my breaks. Then I pulled over to inspect the damage.

This is me pretending to crash and it is NOT how I broke my bike.

This is me pretending to crash and it is NOT how I broke my bike.

My chain had been twisted until the links had popped apart. The cassette (the gears on the wheel) was warped and no longer spun. The rear spokes were chewed and threatened to snap. I assessed my options and was amazed to see that every other factor was in my favor. It was a weekday, during business hours, in a city, and I had a phone. I took off the chain, so that when I spun the pedals they couldn’t engage the faulty cassette, and then took off down the road. Instead of pedaling, I balanced one foot on a pedal and the other I used to kick off the ground like a skateboard.

In the 5 miles, from breakdown to bike shop, I perfected the art of bike-skating. Quiet roads with kerbs made for the best conditions, since, next to the kerb, my pumping foot could reach the slightly higher ground and spare my other leg from having to squat down. This cut down on the burn, but still, by the time I made it to the bike shop I had discovered muscles in my thighs, back, and neck I didn’t know I had…

I lucked out on the bike shop, finding a guy that assessed the damage, came to the same conclusions, and sold me a new wheel. During this time a reporter called to ask me questions, and I had to preface the interview with “I am happy to talk to you but you should know that I just had the most miserable experience crossing the border and then my bike broke down, so my answers might not be all hugs, smiles, and sunshine.” I don’t know how famous people cope.

By the end of the day I had put enough miles behind me that both dramas were no longer toxic and I was able to relax in the shadows of a lonely church. Not one car that zoomed by knew, hidden from view, that there was a cyclist reveling in the stillness of night and recovering from a bad day. I wonder if monarchs land for the night in the shelter of leafy branches and let out sighs of relief to signal the end of a bad day. I assumed bad days to monarchs are usually finalities, and that perhaps recovery was something afforded only to butterbikers. Still, finding shelter and becoming invisible every night, that, we have in common.

Nothing like finding a perfect camping spot after a long, bad day.

Nothing like finding a perfect camping spot after a long, bad day.

By Kentucky my pre-migration was wrapping up and unlike the monarchs I wouldn’t pass the baton, but would instead keep moving. I’d keep watching for monarchs, learning from our overlapping route, and cheering on the next generation. I am not a butterfly, but I get it. I can see their world, celebrate their victories, feel their challenges, and continue being their voice. And they will continue to lift me up, cheer me on, and thank me with the flashes of a colorful wing and inspiring swirls in the roadside prairies we both continue to stumble through.

I'll keep on cheering on all the butterflies I see on the road, and they will keep showing me how incredible this planet is.

I'll keep on cheering on all the butterflies I see on the road, and they will keep showing me how incredible this planet is.

Chasing Southern Ontario's Crazy

Originally, my route took me through Canada only once; but after a few emails from some passionate monarch stewards it was clear that the energy in southern Ontario couldn’t be passed up. This energy, after all, is the commodity that makes my trip more than a bike ride. It is the resource I need to connect my trip to audiences and media. Alone, my voice is quiet, limited by the necessity of splitting my time between scheduling, networking, presenting, documenting, updating, OH AND BIKING! So when people with energy offer their support, expertise, and help, I do my best to take advantage of it. I’m 99% glad I changed my route to visit Southern Ontario.

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My Eastern Loop

Planning my route, long before I started biking and learning about the monarchs, was a game of guessing. I knew I couldn’t go everywhere, I knew unpredictable weather would win over careful planning, and I knew I needed variety to pull off another USA bike tour. So, I did some research, made some lists, and did some guessing.

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Happy Canada Day, Happy Canada Several Weeks

I crossed the St. Marys River, a living churning border between Michigan and Ontario, on a bridge under construction and being tested by strong winds. Cresting the top of the bridge, weaving around cones and bracing for the impatient cars, I left the United States behind. Then letting gravity pick up my speed, I was carried into Canada.  I was excited to enter new terrain, the monarch’s northern territory, and I biked with gusto into the world of loonies, kilometers, Tim Hortons, and bilingual signage. I was in Canada. I had biked there from Mexico.

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Enjoying the Upper of the Upper Midwest

On a map, Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan float north to the border, fitting like puzzle pieces around their Great Lakes neighbors. These lakes convene on the map like five watery states, and I can feel the impact of the states’ lake shores, like the freshwater reflections and the waves without tides are persuading these states into something of their own. Perhaps, I wonder as I bike, if the lakes are that shared ingredient that leave visitors like myself attaching Upper to their Midwest identity. 

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Iowa and Nebraska: Hope Between the Corn

So, when a reporter, over the phone, asked me “are you always this angry?” two things popped into my head. First, I was annoyed. Was I not allowed to be angry? Did talking about butterflies obligate me to paint some pretty picture of this world? A world where wild places were under attack, the monarchs and frogs were the casualties, and my tiny bike tour counter attack seemed like a joke? I was so weighted down by reality that anything less than anger seemed to be nothing short of gullibility.

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Remember Kansas?

I had all the intentions in the world to write about my Kansas miles in a relevant time frame, but since I’ve now put a healthy distance between me and my home state I’ll have to rely on my memory.

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Texas and Oklahoma, Surprisingly Awesome!

But this pass through Texas and Oklahoma has been anything but drab, and the winds have graced me mercifully, pushing me forward. Even the rainstorms that have charged through have been survivable, especially considering I had to survive the last one inside a wonderful house with a passionate and generous monarch advocate (so rough huh!). I am happy to report that the scenery, the wildlife, and roadside support has made this trip more enjoyable that I ever imagined it would be.

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1,000 Miles in Mexico

This meant it was up to me to guess a route through Mexico. My 1,000 mile route in Mexico took me down loose gravel roads and new, smooth-as-butter pavement; through humid forests, baking deserts, and tiny towns. And while my route did take me by a few migrating monarchs, after 1,000 miles in Mexico I am left with more questions about the migration than when I started.

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Offically, Offically, Officially Starting

It is here, riding side by side with this monarchs, that I deliberately remind myself of what my trip means. Yes, I will be biking 10,000 miles over the next nine months trying to follow these monarchs, their babies, grandbabies, great grand babies, and even their great great grand babies. And while 10,000 miles on a bike is a lot, I still feel like the impressive part of the whole thing is that these monarchs will be traveling the same terrain. These monarchs that slide through the forest and race down the road have traveled thousands of miles, arriving here without not only a map but without having ever been here before.

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Waiting in Mexico

We stand surrounded by the quiet trees and the monarchs that cling to them like books on shelves waiting to be read. Here monarchs land after thousands of improbable miles to wait out the winter. What the other visitors think I do not know. What I think is this: The world is full of truly unimaginable things that inspire me to walk into the wild AND fight with everything I have to save them from ourselves.

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