Herman
By Wayne Pike

I have done it again. I meddled with nature and thereby may have tangled the intricate web of life. When will I ever learn?

It all started as my wife and I took our evening walks late in August. Out of curiosity, we began to search the milkweeds for the monarch butterfly caterpillars that we knew had to be there. Every evening we walked and watched, hoping to spot either the caterpillar or the caterpillar’s end stage, the chrysalis. We succeeded in getting dusty, but failed to make eye-to-antenna contact. 

Finally, about mid-September, I noticed two monarch caterpillars grazing side by side, each on its own milkweed. I suggested that the only way we might ever watch the transition from caterpillar to butterfly was to domesticate one of the little green, black, white and yellow creatures. We harvested one of the milkweeds, complete with its inhabitant, and placed them both in a clean five-gallon bucket. We brought our “caterpillar cage” into the house and set about waiting for nature to take its course.  

At this point, we had no idea what we were doing. My wife, generally in charge of assigning names to livestock that come onto the place, named our caterpillar Herman. By naming it thus, she assigned him not only a name, but a gender as well. We managed to keep Kacie, the Domineering Dalmatian, from snuffling Herman into oblivion. Doing caterpillar chores was easy enough. All he needed was a few fresh milkweed leaves every day and that was about it. I thought that he needed a drink one day, so I sprayed him with water from a mist bottle to simulate a light shower. He seemed to neither like it nor despise it so I left him alone after that. You do not get a lot of feedback when you have an insect for a pet.

It froze hard a couple of nights and there was even some light snow during Herman’s stay in the house. We wondered then what would have happened to Herman had he stayed in the wild. We were also wondering what was happening to Herman in the house. He did not seem to be making much progress after ten days. Then, on a Wednesday morning, he did not seem to be eating and we feared the worst. However, within hours, Herman had miraculously formed his chrysalis and was hanging upside down doing that metamorphosis thing. Again, there was nothing to do but wait and watch. 

And try to learn. We learned that monarchs that live west of the Rocky Mountains migrate to California. We learned that monarchs can be tagged with little bumper-stickers that attach to their wings. We learned that there are people who devote thousands of hours trying to determine if monarchs fly most efficiently by flapping and gliding or flapping constantly. We learned that the monarchs that leave Minnesota now are the great-grandbutterflies of the monarchs that came here last spring and the monarchs that leave now will return here next spring. Herman, should he emerge from his chrysalis and make his southern flight, would have a life expectancy of about nine months, many months longer than monarchs that are hatched here in the summer. 

After an unusually lengthy sixteen days in his chrysalis, Herman emerged in all his orange and black glory on a warm Saturday morning. Our literature told us that good butterfly managers keep their butterflies caged for at least a day after emerging to make sure that they get a good drink of nectar and dry off well. We tried to get Herman to drink, but that is sort of a touchy deal with a reluctant butterfly. You know the old saying about leading a butterfly to nectar? Well, it’s true. 

Herman spent a few hours crawling around inside an overturned mesh wastebasket in the warm sun. The day was so nice for the middle of October that we decided that Herman ought to be on his way as soon as possible. We placed him on a purple petunia and took his picture. Then, as we had done earlier, we waited for Herman to make a move. We wandered off to do yard work and returned to Herman’s flower to see if he had left. “Daylight’s wasting, Herman,” we told him, “Be on your way, boy. This might be the difference if you hit an early blizzard in Oklahoma.” Herman did not seem to share our sense of urgency.  

Nor did he seem to share our sense of direction. Two hours later, Herman left. He flew north. Then he flew east. Then he flew west. He covered several hundred yards and settled in a tree just a few yards from his purple petunia. “Oh, Herman,” we moaned, “Go south, boy, go south.” We pointed at the sun and urged him on. He eventually tired of our advice and lost himself in the multi-colored maple leaves.  

What advice can you give an insect going out on his own for the first time? You’re the last monarch out of Minnesota, Herman, you better hustle your abdomen. Watch out for birds and cars. Look for your buddies down in Mexico. Don’t waste time flying sideways. Come back to see us next spring.  

Fly hard, Herman. Fly high.