There is an eerie quality to books about a biological niche. A book about worms, about arowana fish, or in this case, the monarch butterfly which migrates, much like a bird, across continents. What makes these books so emotive is you know how they all end; we take away their worlds.
It seems like every book like this is a cautionary tale of sorts. It starts the same, there is this fascinating animal for which we routinely overlook, its beautiful, and magical, and children, even us as children love them so. Then, as we get older, we need freeways and affordable apartments and immersive light installations to take pretty girls on dates to. This needs land, and so, we make a trade, our constant need for more shit, over these adorable creatures.
So goes the story of the monarch butterfly. This story, written over twenty years ago now, follows a range of lepidopterists (butterfly scientists?), as they set out to uncover where monarchs exactly go during these mass migrations, and why they do so, in the absence of biological hardware that might allow that to be likely. The story has elements of biologist politics, of naturalist elitism, and adventure. It's a great book in all the ways good biological adventure books are, they make you realise you picked the wrong career, and could be, if you’d just followed your dreams, be wandering around the Mexican countryside at night, sticking tracer tags onto monarch butterflies, and hoping, somewhere, somebody, will find it on the other side of the world and tell you about it.