A Little Bug Tale

I’ve been doing quite a bit of work on the house this summer. So what’s new, right? The entrance porch was an awful mess and had to be completely torn down and rebuilt, from the ground up. There was cement to be poured, stone to be laid, carpentry, windows, painting - the works. As with most of our outdoor projects here in Norway, it eventually became a race against time as my pathological hang towards procrastination headed for the inevitable collision with King Winter. This year was no exception, but somehow we managed to pull it off, partially thanks to a long, mild autumn. In fact Winter is still AWOL.

One evening a couple of weeks ago I decided to gather up the last of the scrap wood from the demolished porch so I could drive it to the dump the following morning. Darkness was falling as I yanked decaying planks out of the pile and carried them down to the car. Suddenly I saw a flash in the shadows at my feet, an incongruous splash of orange amidst the drab rotting wood. I had no idea what it could be, and ever the curious fool, I stuck my snout down into the murky half-light to investigate.  Nothing there, just a bunch of musty old boards. Then, a moment later, there was movement and out walked … a little brown butterfly.

 

‘Bit late in the season, isn’t it?’ I said. I’ll talk to anything; cats, trees, stones, butterflies. Not only wrong season, but what was a butterfly doing buried in my rotting woodpile in the first place? Plus, this little fella wasn’t orange at all, but a dark chocolate brown. It closely resembled a piece of bark, so I figured the woodpile made sense after all. The butterfly climbed up on a board and then deliberately, like a flower spreading its pedals in a high speed film, unfolded its wings, revealing a stunning pattern of rust-red, brown, creams, black and blue.  Ah, there was the orange flash. What a startling surprise; a brightly colored gem buried in a pile of dreck. As I watched it flex its wings I realized I had to make photos -the contrast between closed and open was just so amazingly cool. It was like a parable, a living allegory. So, carefully not touching its wings–they could so easily be destroyed–I coaxed the bug onto my finger and then took it inside, trotting up the stairs to my office.

Photographing the butterfly with wings closed was pretty easy; it just stood there and let me knock off a couple of shots. I think it might have been nervous. I would have been. But what I needed was the contrast, the color shot, the cool pattern. Wings open was something else. Every time the butterfly spread its wings, it immediately took off and started flying around the room. I would catch it, put it back on my desk, aim my camera, and then off it would go again. This won’t do, I thought, new plan needed. I nipped down to the kitchen and fetched a plate, put some sugar on it and then topped it off with a couple of drops of water. That Master’s in biology is finally good for something, I snickered to myself. But noooo, the butterfly wouldn’t settle down and drink the sugar water. In fact, it became even more restless and took off again, this time flying out into the hall. Uh-oh, not a smart move, little insect. Diesel, aka Blackie the Cat, heard the flapping of tiny wings and came bolting out of the bedroom, tiger eyes wide open. I nabbed him midair as he lunged for the butterfly and, kicking and squirming under my arm, tossed him into my son’s bedroom. He was not a happy cat and told me so from behind the closed door. Sorry, Dude.

I finally managed to recapture the butterfly as it circled the hall lamp and bring it back into the office. After a couple more flights I realized that, short of mounting it with pins, there was no way I was getting a photo of those open wings. I was going to have to let it go, undocumented. All that work for nothing.

But that’s the thing about beauty, I guess. You don’t have to capture it, what you want to do is experience it. And then let it move on. So I gave up on the photo. I opened the window, let the butterfly climb onto my hand and was about to put it out, when … it turned around and slowly, beautifully, opened its beautiful wings on the edge of my hand.

Have you ever tried to aim a massive, lens-laden Canon 60D in your one hand with a delicate butterfly precariously perched in the palm of your other? With the autofocus turned off? The butterfly; it just sat there, gracefully flexing its wings. Patiently, with insect Zen. When I was finished, I laid my hand out on the window sill and the butterfly made its final exit, bobbing away into the night, orange fade to black.

NB: I read later that the European Peacock (that’s what it was – an Inachis io) don’t die off in the fall like most butterflies, they hide themselves away and hibernate through the winter. Often in old woodpiles …