Having just finished Bob Pyle’s Mariposa Road, I can identify with the sting of missing “grail” species, those that we most hope to see. Fortunately, I’m not on a time limit to find my grails. I have been traveling to Las Vegas every spring break for the past few years to visit my in-laws, and have made it a priority to get at least one day of butterflying out in the desert. In doing so, I have developed a list of desert grail species, which includes the Desert Elfin (Callophrys fotis). With Washington State hosting four species of elfins, I have grown rather fond of them, and wished to discover the desert counterpart for myself. The search for this species has led me to several other desert specialities, including the Desert Sheridan’s Hairstreak (Callophrys sheridanii comstocki), Desert Swallowtail (Papilio polyxenes coloro), Ceranus Blues (Hemiargus ceraunus), Southwestern Orangetips (Anthocharis sara thoosa), and many others.

However, my grail has eluded me for several years. I mostly attributed the elfin’s absence to my early season searches. According to guides, this species is supposed to be a spring flier, but my searches are more often in mid-March, and I feel as if I am two or three weeks too early. My trips also have had the annoying habit of coinciding with less than favorable weather. George T. Austin’s “Definitive Destinations” guide to the Spring Mountains states that this butterfly is common, and may be superabundant at times, which made my failure to find it even more perplexing and frustrating. How could I not find a superabundant butterfly?

Returning to Mt. Potosi Canyon Road along Highway 160 (one of my favorite haunts) this March, I checked once more for this elusive, yet supposedly common, elf of the desert. I checked the usual spots that I was recommend to look; perched on host shrubs, tapping junipers to startle roosting individuals, and nectaring on sumac flowers. I have usually had time restraints, only able to search the roadsides, lying in the bottom of a canyon. This time, I had the advantage of the whole day. So seeing not one butterfly, I decided to climb to the canyon ridge for the first time, where hilltopping spring emergents may be hanging out. Sure enough, when I reached the top, the butterflies made themselves known. A Desert Swallowtail circled the top, while darkly-marked Spring Whites partolled the edges.

But still I waited, and no small dark shapes took form. As I walked the ridge, I tapped the occasional shrub with the end of my net. Out of a juniper fluttered a whisp of a wing, but enough for me to notice. Alighting back on the juniper was a gray and brown butterfly, one that will not likely make the commercial butterfly calendars. Sawing its hindwings of different shades of grays and browns, they hinted sheens of sage green and deep turquoise in the sun. Had this camouflage master been in my sight all these years? I determined not, as about a dozen more were encountered within an hour, all mint-fresh males (indicating that I had indeed been a tad early in previous years), perching and showing off their frosted hindwing edges. After years of searching, I had finally found the Desert Elfin, the pleasure of doing so amplified by the prolonged anticipation.

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