Wild New Jersey - Wild Ideas by Karen Siletti

Butterflies of New Jersey

June, 1999

A Day in the Life of a Butterfly Counter

By Karen L. Siletti

For most folks, the Fourth of July conjures up visions of barbecues, parades, and fireworks. But for the North American Butterfly Association (NABA), the Fourth of July means, well, butterflies!
Their annual count has been held nationwide for many years, and covers the United States, Canada, and parts of Mexico. The count takes place in July over a period of a few weeks generally before and after the Fourth.
Why July? Butterfly season begins in March and lasts well into October, with Cabbage Whites one of the first species to appear, and Monarchs one of the last to go. But the prime season for butterfly hunting is in the hot summer months.
In New Jersey, there are ten areas surveyed by teams totaling nearly 200 hardy, determined Lepidoptera lovers: Belleplain, Cape May, Cumberland County, Galloway Township, Greenbrook Sanctuary, Great Swamp, Lakehurst, Raritan Canal, Sandy Hook, Springdale, and West Milford.
I have never deliberately set out to look for butterflies. As most of us do, I noticed butterflies only when they ventured near me. But the spirit moved me, and after a few emails and phone calls, I arranged to meet a group headed up by NABA member Jim Springer at the Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge on a warm Sunday morning.
Pulling into the parking lot off Whitesbridge Road, I immediately knew I was in the right place. On the way in, I passed Ahmet Baytas. He was crouched down, camera-to-eye in that classic I’ve got it! Don’t fly off yet! pose. I waited for him to straighten up before introducing myself. (No point in ruining his shot.)

Ahmet Baytas in the all-to-familiar photographer's crouch.

Farther down in the lot, a young woman wearing a butterfly-patterned T-shirt stepped out of a large green van. A man in comfortable shorts and sturdy shoes followed—Patti Howley and Fred Pfeifer, life partners and butterfly enthusiasts.
Myself, I wore comfortable, well-worn sneakers, long pants (tick prevention), a white shirt, red vest, and a red NJ Devils cap. I’d heard that butterflies like the color red, so this was my lame-brained attempt to attract them to our search party.
An application of sunscreen, a quick spray of insect repellent (a bit of a contradiction, but necessary) and we were ready to head out on foot to—the parking lot.
The large, oval, grassy median in the middle was filled with dogbane and butter-yellow birdfoot trefoil, and proved to be a good site. Pearl Crescents, the first new species I learned that day, were plentiful. Ditto Wood Nymphs, which seemed to be everywhere. Sulphurs, Monarchs, I was quickly becoming hooked on this easy, enjoyable pursuit.
Jim was off in a nearby field, already starting the day’s count. After brief introductions, I explained my knowledge of butterfly identification—Monarchs, Swallowtails, and Cabbage Whites were my entire repertoire. Not to worry. They would point out what they saw, and I would learn.
Another, larger field to the left was less rewarding, and we crossed the road into a restricted area. Jim assured me NABA secures all necessary permissions for their forays on count days, so I follow without reservation, down a path, under a canopy of oak and maple to an open field filled with flowering common milkweed.
Of all plants beneficial and enticing to butterflies, this musky one is the Holy Grail. Wading through tall grasses and stands of milkweed was slow, sticky work but we were well compensated by a wide variety of species to observe, identify and photograph.
Here I learned a surprising fact—the small, colorful moth-like insects I always took for—well, moths—are true butterflies after all. Skippers and Hairstreaks are the family names of these miniature butterflies, and they are plentiful. This area was home to numerous examples.

Outstanding in their field—Ahmet Baytas, Patti Howley, Jim Springer and Fred Pfeifer tread gingerly among the milkweeds.

We spent a great deal of time in this field, carefully maneuvering between stands of tacky milkweed. We were, after all, there to identify and count butterflies, not forge a new trail. And, this plant is a critical food source for our favored quarry, so leaving an area intact and functioning after exploration was the prime directive. Bees were also plentiful, but no matter.
The day began to heat up—and so were our species counts. Trekking back to the lot near our cars, we made a foray up a designated foot path and logged in an Appalachian Brown and Red Admiral. The Admiral was on the ground, engaging in an activity called "puddling." Butterflies need mineral salts, and they seek out ground water sources including puddles or areas where animal urine lingers (big yuck on that one). It’s not uncommon to see groups of butterflies "puddling" together.
Snacks were tailgated or lap-lunched while driving to keep breaks short. This group was on a mission! A quick ride to a new area yielded Commas, a great Spangled Fritillary, and more of the ubiquitous Wood Nymph, which by now was our mascot for the day. Some of the individuals we logged in were worn, with bits of wing missing, perhaps from a near-escape from a bird’s beak, or simply from old age.
Their fragility is belied by the stories of thousand-mile migrations. I’d always heard that Monarchs migrate to Mexico—what I didn’t know was: it’s not the same butterfly leaving our Garden State that arrives in southern climes. It take several generations of Butterflies to make the journey south. It’s amazing they make it at all!
We caravaned to a new spot—expansive fields of grass and wildflowers. Fred and Jim waded into the meadow, Ahmet took photos of Pearly Crescents, and Patti and I walked along the edge of a dirt road, dappled shade making our trek a little easier to bear. However, the shade proved to be a deterrent to our quest.
Cold-blooded, butterflies need warmth to exist, and are active only when there is enough heat to motivate them. We were soon to receive a lesson on this fact.
Patti and I stopped to sit on the wall of a small bridge. Below us flowed a stream choked with pickerel weed. A butterfly floated by us, and instantly disappeared into the vegetation. Was it a Mourning Cloak? It was dark and had white markings—but did it have the unmistakable white band around the edge of each wing? We hadn’t seen it long enough to be sure.
The area was covered in shade, and the clouds were slow-moving, but we decided to wait. This count was about identification, not sheer numbers. If the sun moved in and struck the weeds just right, would it be warm enough for our little friend to give up its hiding place? Five minutes went by, ten minutes. Our patience was rewarded by a beam of sunshine, and the Mourning Cloak (no longer any doubt) popped out and continued on its way in the warmth and brightness of late morning.

Jim Springer has his (camera's) eye on his fluttery quarry.

I made one more stop with this completely dedicated group—a field dotted with black-eyed Susans, another plant favored by butterflies. We were rewarded with sightings of American Coppers, and a few Duskywings. Across the road, a swampy area looked inviting. A sign said, ‘Wildlife Crossing Next Two Miles’ but that was obviously for terrestrial species only. A red-tailed hawk (a striped tail had us guessing, perhaps a hybrid?) sailed by, indifferent to the sign and our activities.
I was exhausted. Time for me to pack it in for the day, but the hardy band continued up the gravel road. Fred was lagging behind. He had a butterfly in his sights, but what was it? Indigo or Horace? "It’s over there," I heard him call, as he disappeared around a curve—and then they were gone, in pursuit of their elusive butterflies.