[Editor’s note: The following article is the third installment of a travelogue begun in an earlier issue of the G’num. Jon and his friend, Lars Grabo (who is “crazy for Noctuid moths’), took an extended trip to the Arctic region of the Yukon Territory in the summer of 1989. In an earlier installment, in addition to Lars, we met Jon’s other companions, Jon and Sigrid Shephard, Kenelm Philip, and Glenn Morrel. The last installment left Jon and Lars in the Ogilvie Mountains of northern British Columbia, waiting for action. The saga will be continued in future editions of the newsletter.

8 JUNE–DAY EIGHT: TWELVE HOURS; BUTTERFLIES GALORE

What I am about to relate is not for the faint of heart. At least if butterflies stir you at all. Lars and I spent one more restful night, if the ever-brightening “nights” could be so called. We rose early, or should I say we slept fitfully? It was not apparent that the weather was about to break, only that the clouds seemed thinner. The morning rituals begat breakfast and coffee until … the sun shone! In that moment, at least five different species of butterfly appeared. Breakfast was over! What transpired over the next twelve hours can be described only with the enthusiasm of someone “Crazy for Butterflies.”

Creatures of my dreams. That is what Arctic butterflies were until this day. Books, pictures or even tales told could not prepare me for the abundance, this fantastic beauty. In the days ahead I would become accustomed to discovery, jaded to the novelty. Well, at least a little. On this day, it came rushing at me with breathtaking suddenness.  The first butterfly I captured was Polaris Fritillary (Boloria polaris). Imagine, if you might, a butterfly in the palm of my hand that the book I grew up with called “one of the most arctic of butterflies.” These fritillaries were everywhere! The list for the day “tells the story”: Grizzled Skipper (Pyrgus centaureae), the arctic form of the Common Branded Skipper (Hesperia comma), Eversmann’s Parnassian (Pamassius eversmanni), Old-World Swallowtail (Papilio machaon), “Arctic” veined whites (Pieris “napi” group), Northern Marble (Euchloe creusa), Canadian Sulphur (Golias canadensisi), Ross’ Alpine (Erebia rossii), Boreal Alpine (Erebia mancinus), Mt. McKinley Alpine (Erebia mackinleyensis), Banded Alpine (Erebia fasciata), Young’s Alpine (Erebia youngi), White-veined Arctic (Oeneis bore), Polaris Fritillary (Boloria polaris), Freija Fritillary (Boloria.freija), Boreal Spring Azure (Celastrina lucia), Silvery Blue (Glaucophsyche lygdamus).

The most astounding creature I saw this day has a name that simply does it no justice. The Mt. McKinley Alpine (Erebia mackinleyensis) is a treasure! Imagine a piece of cold steel, heated to an incipient redness, then allowed to cool. Freeze this vision at the point where that glow is nearly gone. This huge Alpine has a faint ruby-red glow against a blackness rare in the world of creatures. No, it is within the blackness. It is so astounding in appearance, I could not help but stare in wonder as it rested in my hand. This day they we.re only on slopes of treacherous limestone blocks, likely to cut deeply were one to fall against the stone. They were abundant there. In the days following, we found them in dozens along the road, along streams, everywhere! Ken told us later that they were not usually that numerous. Indeed!

I do not mean to denigrate the beauty of the other arctic butterflies.. All Alpines (Erebia) are pretty amazing. Boreal, Ross’, Young’s, McKinley and Banded. All flying in close proximity, yet occupying subtly different habitats. The Lesser Fritillaries (Boloria), in their abundance and variety, are often even more restricted in micro-habitat. Silvery Blues and Boreal Spring Azures, but not like we see in Washington, no, not at all. Every butterfly I saw that day was a novelty to me. I have cherished each new discovery in my life, yet was nearly overwhelmed by so many at once.

It was an astounding day indeed. We climbed mountains, walked the valleys; up, down, back and forth. Lars and I wandered back to camp at about the same time, an early evening “dusk.” We were absolutely exhausted. Joyously tired. It is a day that I will remember as long as I breathe. Even my fish soup tasted pretty good. We had much to talk about, yet, weary as we were, sleep beckoned. We both knew that in the days that followed we would be exhilarated, surprised even. We also knew that this was a rare moment in our lives, a special moment that lives beyond the experience itself. To this day, Lars and I re-live this moment. Now I have shared it with y’all.

Digression Number 1: The Mt. McKinley Alpine is part of a “guild” of butterfly species or subspecies, all very similar in appearance and structure. The oldest name in this group is applied to the Magdalena Alpine (Erebia magdalena), which occurs in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado and adjacent states. In Russia there are four other named populations in this group, and there is much discussion among butterfly taxonomists regarding whether any of these are species distinct from the Magdalena Alpine. The argument is encouraged by the distinctly separate ranges, and diversity of appearance. While Mt. McKinley Alpines have the ruby flush as described, Magdalena Alpines are entirely black. Some Russian populations have even more red; others are more like Magdalena Alpines. The “correct” species placement is a future concern. All of the populations are sporadic. A dot distribution map shows how “disconnected” all of them are. Sometimes the gaps between groups of populations are enormous. It is always a question whether populations separated by such distances are of the same species. No matter where these Black Alpines occur, they are always found associated with scree and block slopes. They are always amazing!

To  Be Continued …

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