*013026-Migration Interruptus* 

Migration Interruptus

Late March in Trabuco Canyon, early spring, and I had a fool’s itinerary: Santiago Peak, Modjeska Peak, the Saddleback twins looming like judgmental green-and-brown sentinels. I set off with ambition and the sort of optimism that always overestimates my legs.

Within the first switchback, I noticed them. Not one butterfly. Not a cluster. A flurry of orange, black, and white, a ceaseless air traffic that turned the trail into a tiny, chaotic runway. Painted Ladies. On migration. And I was the unwitting tourist in their endless parade.

They surged north, wings flashing, purpose in motion, while I zigzagged, tripped, and apologized for existing. “Sorry! Excuse me!” I muttered to insects who clearly had better things to do than care about my clumsiness. Slowly, I realized: they weren’t wandering. They were on a mission—to the spring bloom in the foothills of the Santa Ana Mountains. Me? I was just collateral admiration.

By the ridge, the butterflies thinned, a few heroic stragglers pausing on sun-warmed rocks as if to check directions. I sat, chest heaving, pack digging into my shoulders, and watched. Their simplicity was radical: just go. Head north. Find flowers. Don’t worry about the switchbacks.

I laughed. The peaks could wait. In thirty minutes, I’d learned more about spring, persistence, and priorities than in any guidebook. One last flurry spiraled skyward, and I hoisted my pack, adjusted my hat, and started again—slightly humbled, slightly amused, and just slightly terrified I might step on a butterfly on the next switchback.



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