Gangster Butterflies

The other day I went to the botanical garden with high hopes and expectations that I was going to get the best photos that I had ever taken. Before I went, I looked online and found that the botanical garden that I was visiting possessed 120 acres of specialized gardens. I planned my floral safari carefully.  My goal was to hit the Chinese garden through the Japanese garden, then end up at the Rose garden in search of beautiful and peaceful butterflies.

Let me make this very clear, I have the directional sense of a blind pigeon in a tornado.  Further, I abhor maps almost as much as I abhor giant cockroaches. I began my outing as planned, following the signs to the Chinese garden and somehow I ended up in the Shakespeare garden leaning over a fountain to get a close up of a Lilly pad. Realizing that I was in the wrong garden and not one butterfly was to be found, I decided to back track and make my way back through the Chinese garden. I was bound and determined to get my butterfly pictures.

Despite the fact that the sun made me feel like I had stepped into an oven, I trekked on like a good sport with a positive spirit. I am not sure how, but after two hours of searching for the rose garden, I found myself in the middle of nowhere sweating out of areas I didn’t know could sweat.

It was around 1:00 pm in the middle of blazing California heat with hardly any shade in sight. This is when I realized I was on the far end of the desert garden. How I ended up there remains a mystery to this day and I was feeling my positive spirit slowly wither and die with the rest of my body in the sweltering furnace of the afternoon sun.  This was the day that I learned exactly how big 120 acres really is and at one point I found myself dramatically collapsed in the dirt by a palm tree, trying in vain to lower my boiling body temperature by hiding in the tiny scrap of shade that it provided.

“I wonder if anyone has died out here?” I thought to myself as I fantasized about drinking water and sorely regretting that I hadn’t brought any.  I imagined how my funeral would be as people cried over my mummified body (still clutching my camera for effect). I knew that I was foolish not to look at a map in the first place.  Now that I was baking in the heat like a thanksgiving turkey with the very real temptation to baste myself with butter and sage, I saw exactly how deep my madness went.

Finally I found the strength to push myself off of the ground and keep walking until I ended up at the Japanese garden. After asking several people the same question, I finally stumbled upon the Rose garden and once again begin my search for the elusive butterfly. Although I didn’t find any there, I did find a nearby section in the herb garden seemed to swarm with the fluttering of their delicate wings. I pulled out my camera, ready to take photos of these beautiful creatures but quickly realized exactly how fast they can fly.  I had never really thought about it before but butterflies can move very quickly when you want them to remain still and elegantly posed. I don’t know if I just happened to stumble upon ADHD butterflies on crack but those suckers would not stay still. I found myself running from one end of the garden to the other, chasing them like a mad woman with my camera held high in the air.

In a moment when a few of them decided to stay still for a split second, probably to laugh at my sweating and swearing, I realized something very interesting.  Aside from being sadistic pranksters to photographers, butterflies are like vicious gangsters when it comes to their flowers. Every time one butterfly would land, another butterfly would swoop down and attack the butterfly trying to eat, and it wasn’t just butterflies assaulting each other, it was yellow jackets too.  I felt like I was walking into a mall full of women on Black Friday; you never know who will strike next. 

When I finally got in a few shots and gave up on my chase, I went home and began to do a little research trying to figure out if the apocalypse came early or if butterflies attacking each other was natural. As I was reading the studies done on butterfly behavior, I not only discovered that certain breeds of butterflies are territorial but that my favorite butterfly, the monarch, can become cannibalistic when there is a lack of food. HOLY GOD! I feel like a child who just found out that Santa isn’t real, yet I find it ironic that true butterfly reality is more akin to The Hills Have Eyes or Hannibal but we view them as peaceful symbols of hope and renewal. Oh reality! Why must you be so cruel?