Monarch butterflies on common milkweed
The milk of milkweed is a strong drug. Members of the genus Asclepias — named for the Greek god of medicine — contain “powerful heart poisons that can be used to treat congestive heart failure and atrial fibrillation,” according to this article. Crab spiders that feed on milkweed aphids spin erratic webs, turn pink, grow fat to match the flowers. Monarchs, whose caterpillars eat nothing but milkweed leaves, are said to be immune to the effects of the drug, but I wonder. Would you call a three-thousand-mile mass migration normal behavior? And they’re not alone: the large milkweed bug (Oncopeltus fasciatus), too, is a long-distance traveler, migrating hundreds of miles south each fall to escape the frosts, and returning in the spring.
Tiger swallowtail butterfly and Italian honeybee
But the nectar is the main attraction. The globular clusters of flowers emit a fragrance that most humans find a little cloying, but insects find irresistible. Common milkweed has pollinators innumerable that arrive by day and by night: honeybees and bumblebees, wasps, flies, butterflies, moths, and skippers. Many who come to drink, of course, are freeloaders, but the pink cups overflow — there’s enough for all.
Milkweed longhorn beetles mating
A large milkweed patch on a sunny day makes me think of a street of saloons in Hollywood’s version of the Old West. The air is electric with danger and desire. While a pair of monarchs circles in graceful courtship, beetles copulate, and sinister assassins lie in wait for their victims. I found a moth swinging dead from a flower by its proboscis, the victim either of an assassin bug — which tends to dispose of its prey in this fashion, after sucking out the juices — or of the milkweed flower itself, which frequently traps insects in the too-narrow grooves of its sexual parts. The milkweed, let’s remember, has its own agenda: by late fall, to begin to release thousands of seeds into the wind on silk parachutes. So right now, it wants to be pollinated. It wants it bad.
dead moth, species unknown (to me, at least)
Once established, a milkweed colony can expand rapidly through rhizomes, growing from just a few plants to half an acre in a few years. Then, too, it can dwindle over the course of a decade, finally disappearing altogether. Currently, our largest patch of common milkweed is at the end of the old field where it extends up to the ridgetop, which therefore — presuming that migrating monarchs ride the wind currents along the ridges to some extent — may be ideally situated to attract the first monarchs north in early summer. This year, I spotted my first monarch on June 17. This particular patch is only a few years old, and seems still to be in the expansion mode, filling in a strip of field between the edge of a maturing deciduous forest and a 30-year-old grove of Norway spruce. A couple of vernal ponds, which can collect water from heavy rains throughout the year, lie a short distance away through the woods, which is also littered with abundant fallen and standing dead trees of several species and in all states of decomposition. In short, the place is a hotspot of local invertebrate biodiversity — an insect Mecca.
A net-winged beetle orgy
I’ve barely begun to explore the teeming life of the milkweed patch, assembling the better photos into a photo set on flickr. As time and light conditions permit, I hope to augment it. In the meantime, here’s a small selection. As usual, my focus is more on aesthetics than science, but I urge anyone with an interest in natural history to read the article I quoted from above, In a Milkweed Patch, by Marcia Bonta (Hi, Mom!). She — unlike me — has done her research.
I have also scrutinized list after list by scientists that are fascinated by all the insects that live, eat, nectar and/or die on common milkweed and each differs in species’ numbers and kinds. So even though scientists have been studying the common milkweed and its visitors for as long as 113 years–beginning with Illinois naturalist Charles Robertson’s pioneering, 25-year study–there is still much more to be learned about these intriguing wildflowers and their inhabitants.
tawny-edged skipper (I think)
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the down was used
by some Middlewestern pioneering types
as pillow and quilt filler
I have naturally
spun some
short fiber as it is
it must be spun with fleece
I collected a bag of it
set the bag next to my wheel
and as I’d reach in for a handful
some would float right up
out of the bag
and into the room
one of my favorite
plants
fyi – Asclepius is the demigod, Asclepias is the milkweed genus. very interesting, thanks
anon – Omigosh, you’re right! I’ll make the change.
suzanne – I didn’t know one could spin it – great comment! Adds a whole new dimension to the post. Thank you.
I’m not sure anyone else has, Dave
or for any reason other than
the one that impelled me:
I see fluff
I just have to give it a twist . . .
Heh. I’ll bet the editor of the National Enquirer says that too!
Lovely, Dave, all those beuatiful flowers and insects! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a milkweed plant, maybe they don’t grow around here. I do have a gorgeous pod that someone gave me that I think is milkweed – it came from the hotter drier interior of BC. It looks rather erotic.
Fascinating information, Dave. You are so interestingly encyclopedic. Being your particular mother’s son helps, I guess, giving you a headstart over most people. Though I’m shockingly lacking in natural history knowledge, I love such personal journeys into the heart of the miniature world beneath our feet. A favourite book of mine is Fabre’s “The Secret Life of Insects”. Do you know it?
Great post! Églantine and I spend a lot of time checking out our Milkweed patches for insect photo ops. We are often rewarded. I like your idea of a Flickr set re milkweed. Perhaps I should gather my photos in a new set.
marja-leena – I haven’t checked on the web, but with close to dozen native species of milkweed in North America, I’m sure you must have some out in British Columbia. And yes, they too tend to make very cool pods! We have two different Christmas tree ornaments fashioned from the pods of common milkweed.
Natalie – Fabre is one of my favorite natural histroy authors of all-time, even if my ignorance of French forces me to read him in translation. See here.
I’m glad to hear you enjoy these kinds of posts. When I started blogging, I didn’t intend to write about nature at all — that’s my mom’s beat — but I couldn’t keep it out! And I very much appreciate hearing that these sorts of posts are reaching a wide variety of readers, not just my fellow nature-nerds.
Ontario Wanderer – Thanks! I’ve just started using Flickr – it’s more time-consuming to retrieve code from than Photobucket, which I had been using, but I like the ability to group pictures into sets and share photos more easily. I’ll check out your own flickr page as soon as I get the chance.
this entry has inspired me, Dave
I loked through my milweed photos
(some blooms but mainly those wonderfully
erotic pods)
and I just happen to have
{still] that bag of down and I’m spinning
a little skein with deep purple fleece
so the down shows
and I’ll send you a photo
when I have some done
I’m also finding that spinning is great
rehabilitative activity
for my reattached torn ligament thumb
always great to accomplish
more than one thing
in doing something for which
one has a passion
That sounds great, suzanne. I’ll look forward to that photo.
The mere thought of a torn thumb ligament gives me the heebie-jeebies. Glad to hear you’re recovering. And it’s gratifying to think that my post might have helped in some small way.
Circus of the Spineless XI…
Welcome to the 11th edition of Circus of the Spineless. This is the first time I’ve ever hosted a blog carnival. Putting it together has been an interesting experience – I just hope I haven’t left anything out! I couldn’t…
[...] Yesterday afternoon, I stopped by the milkweed patch on the way back from a walk to the Far Field. A few monarchs still sailed back and forth, no doubt looking for places to lay their eggs, and a tiger swallowtail and great-spangled fritillary patronized the few remaining blossoms. The clusters of gray-green pods poking out from under the big, flat milkweed leaves almost suggested a miniature banana plantation. [...]
[...] The last blossoms have faded and fallen at the milkweed patch, so things aren’t quite as frantic there now as they were a month ago. But it’s a still a pretty happening place. Whereas in July the patch was like a saloon, serving everyone who came, now it’s more like a walled garden, unapproachable to all but the few species that are adapted to feed on milkweed — and the things that feed on them. When I stopped by on Sunday, every other plant seemed to host a monarch caterpillar. [...]