This is a wild time of year.

The Canada geese are gathering into noisy, restless flocks. Squirrels are working overtime, burying enough food to survive the winter and, hopefully, enough extra to plant an accidental forest. After a summer of hot sunshine and lower freshwater flow, the upper Chesapeake becomes warmer and saltier than it is during wetter parts of the year. As a result, blue crabs, Atlantic needlefish, and other species visit NorthBay and wind up in our students’ seine nets.

Meanwhile, mature American eels are beginning an even stranger journey. After decades in the rivers and streams that feed the Chesapeake, they head downstream, out of the Bay, and eventually toward the Sargasso Sea to reproduce.

All around us, animals are moving.

Countless migratory birds follow the Elk Neck Peninsula south. It works almost like a funnel, collecting and concentrating these animals before they gather the energy to cross the Bay. Look up at the right moment and you may see hawks circling overhead, geese passing in formation, or warblers dropping into the trees for a quick meal before continuing south.

But one small traveler undertakes perhaps the most breathtaking journey of all.

You might see it as a flash of orange crossing a field or stopping for a meal on a patch of goldenrod. It looks tiny, frail, and slightly confused caught by every gust of wind and about as likely to fly in a straight line as an elementary school student walking past a good puddle.

Do not be fooled.

 

That monarch butterfly is headed to Mexico. And it isn’t just any monarch. It’s part of a super generation.

It’s fairly common knowledge that Eastern monarchs spend the winter high in the mountains of central Mexico. They form enormous clusters in the oyamel fir forests of the Monarch Butterfly Biosphere Reserve. Millions can gather there, covering trunks and branches so completely that the trees themselves nearly disappear beneath a living blanket of orange and black.

But here’s the wild part: monarch migration isn’t a long round trip. It’s a relay race run across generations.

When spring arrives, the monarchs that survived the winter begin flying north. They mate, find milkweed, lay their eggs, and finally die.

Those eggs hatch into caterpillars that eat a truly impressive amount of milkweed, form a chrysalis, and eventually emerge as butterflies. That new generation continues north, then repeats the process. Several generations carry the migration through the Mid-Atlantic, New England, and into Canada. Most of these monarchs live only a few weeks.

Then, as summer ends and the days begin to shorten, something remarkable happens.

The final monarchs of the season emerge as what is sometimes called the “super generation.” They are strong, resilient, and built to last. Unlike their parents and grandparents, they may live for eight or nine months and they are destined to fly thousands of miles. They turn south and begin a journey toward the same mountain forests where their great-great-grandparents spent the previous winter.

They have never been there.

No parent leads the way. They don’t have Google Maps or even an old atlas in the glove compartment.

But somehow, here they go fluttering across fields, highways, cities, and mountains; down the Elk Neck Peninsula and across the Susquehanna Flats; and on and on until they arrive at an ancestral home they have never seen. The following spring, they start the journey north again, searching for milkweed, and the cycle continues. (National Park Service)

None of this is new information. If you are still reading an article about monarch migration and milkweed, there is a decent chance you already knew at least some of it.

But sometimes the things we already know are exactly where we should focus our attention.

In a world full of bad news and giant problems, monarchs are a splash of beauty and they give us an opportunity to do something small but deeply meaningful.

We can plant milkweed.

There are about 30 feet of grass between my front porch and the road. It’s not a nature preserve, but I’ve planted a scraggly perennial flower garden there. This year, one milkweed plant grew in it.

A monarch found this lonely plant, laid an egg on it, and eventually a monarch caterpillar stripped it almost completely to the stem.

One plant. One caterpillar.

“If you build it, they will come” may be an unreliable strategy for some things in life, but it is surprisingly accurate when it comes to milkweed and monarchs.

Monarch caterpillars can eat only milkweed, so planting native milkweed creates something essential: a place for the next generation to begin. Here in the Mid-Atlantic, common milkweed, swamp milkweed, and butterfly weed are all good choices.

If you are looking for milkweed, ask your neighbor. They might have seeds or plants to share. If not, you can buy seeds on amazon or ebay.  You can find mature plants at a native plant nursery. Seeds can be planted in the fall so winter provides the cold treatment many varieties need before they germinate in the spring. (Monarch Joint Venture)

Planting milkweed is one of my favorite nature activities to do with the kids in my life. 

The environmental problems we introduce to young people are enormous. Climate change. Habitat loss. Pollution. Species decline. We want kids to understand these issues, but their scope and scale can be paralyzing.

Kids need more than knowledge about problems. They need opportunities to experience themselves making a difference.

Researchers sometimes call this action competence: having not only the knowledge to understand an issue, but also the confidence and practical ability to do something about it. Research with adolescents has found a strong relationship between action competence and pro-environmental behavior. (Environmental Education Research)

In simple terms, successfully doing something helps a kid begin to believe, I am a person who can do something.

Planting milkweed is small enough to be achievable and impactful enough to be mind-blowing.

A kid can put a seed in the soil, watch the first shoots emerge, find a tiny white egg beneath a leaf, and later discover a caterpillar chewing its way through the plant. The connection between action and result is visible. And it’s part of a multigenerational, international journey that’s beautiful and jam-packed with something very close to magic.

That matters.

I don’t know which issue will eventually move a particular kid’s heart. It might be monarchs. It might be climate change, clean water, healthy soil, injured wildlife, or rescuing feral cats. We can help the kids in our lives become powerful by giving them simple opportunities to make a real difference.

We can help kids experience connection, beauty, and belonging by helping them take an action that works.

At NorthBay, we want kids to discover that they belong in nature—not as visitors but as members, each with a unique niche. We want them to build connections strong enough to last beyond their three days here. We want students to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are capable of acting on behalf of the places and living things they care about.  

We practice taking action with students here.  Before anyone goes home from their outdoor school experience they have succeeded in making a positive impact and they have the photos and the stories to prove it. We are building action competence with thousands of students every year.    

You can do this too! Plant some milkweed.

Let a kid push the seeds into the dirt. Let them check the leaves. Let them be the first to find the caterpillar.

Show them that the world is beautiful.

Show them that they are powerful enough to help.