It is said that there is a "traveling rodent" in North America. When over-proliferation causes a shortage of food, which could kill off the whole-competing colony, excess creatures (lemmings) will rush to the seashore, jump into the sea, and drown themselves.
A similar phenomenon is found in the butterfly world on Taiwan, according to Chen Wei-shou, a veteran island entomologist. Papilio polytes pasikrates, the white-strip butterfly, can be found in low-altitude habitats such as citrus orchards. Around Manchow village in Pingtung County, citrus trees grow naturally in a wilderness area where the population of white-strip butterflies multiplies so rapidly over a summer season, July in particular, that in a short one or two weeks, countless hundreds of the thousands of butterflies come into being.
A "homebody" species, white-strip butterflies hate to leave their birthplace. They lay their eggs and die in the vicinity of their hometowns. But in July, incredibly, a small colony of the butterflies flies out to sea. No one knows for certain the destination or final direction. One year, Chen hired a small fishing boat to follow the trail of the butterflies, only to discover that, bound westward out to sea, against the wind, they gradually scattered and vanished. There was no sign of any butterfly when he was about 20 kilometers from shore. Where could they be? On his way back to land, Chen found them, at least some; he picked up corpses of butterflies floating on the surface of the waves. No one knows if they all commit suicide, or if some reach the Chinese mainland, Hainan Island, or the Philippines archipelago? Why do they choose this particular time, when the butterfly population has grown too big? Do they, like the lemmings, sacrifice themselves in order to extend the lifeline of the whole race?
In parallel with the mountainous fir forests of Mexico's Transvolcanic Belt, Taiwan boasts several "butterfly valleys" or corridors in both the northern and southern parts of the island. And as a "theater of butterflies," the island features different breeds of the flower insects year round.
After the Lunar New Year season, the yellowish blossoms of the rape plant spread in the plains area of central Taiwan, and swarms of white pieridae, the powder butterflies, hover around the rape thickets—from a distance, like the foamy crests of wind-waves dancing above a yellow sea.
In March, the creeks around Chipen in Taitung County turn into "flight channels" for butterflies. White lines dancing down the narrow emerald valley create a rare sensation.
April is the best month for butterflies in southern Taiwan. Valleys of yellow butterflies come then into their prime time.
And in May, as the goddess of spring grows old, the major concentration of butterflies arises in north to central Taiwan.
The northern part of the island is butterfly land in June and July. In season, butterfly corridors can be found in Puli, Wulai, and Mts. Miantien and Tatun in the suburbs of Taipei.
When it comes to the scorching Taiwan summer, the number of butterfly colonies in the plains area wane as the wings of the butterflies disintegrate. Now it is the time of the highland butterflies, which busily gather nectar along the Jade green river near Lishan, a station along the east-west cross-island highway.
Finally, late autumn proves fatal to many butterflies. Together with the tree leaves, the butterflies wither amid the chilly winds. Even so, amid a now-phantom butterfly world, a spectacular biological phenomenon is fermenting stealthily in the valleys of the purple butterfly in southern Taiwan.
In the depths of winter, millions of purple butterflies congregate in the small valleys scattered around the Taiwu and Laiyi village areas of Pingtung County; here they overwinter, hibernating. Off the beaten track, the high valleys are densely clad in primitive forest. And there is no running water in their bottom lands. When the cold fronts attack in winter, the mountainous region of southern Taiwan, rising in tropic latitudes, is freezing cold.
According to Chen, once you step into a butterfly valley in that area, not a single sound is audible. The air is dead still; not even a blade of grass is moving. The valley, somehow, is as warm as springtime. And millions of butterflies cling to the trees in semi-hibernation. Velvet carpets, marked in the gorgeous splendor of flowered wings, fell all the way from heaven to shroud each tree. Without eating or drinking, the butterflies bide their time, waiting for the snail's pace of winter to pass them by.
Then a warmer sunlight penetrates the dense foliage to the tree trunks and limbs, and millions of sleeping beauties awake to Appolo's amiable kiss, then to feed on the nectars and dews of early spring. And with only a slight tremor of innumerable wings, the hordes of butterflies erupt like a volcanic explosion, filling the sky, each seemingly off to his own destination.
Chen recalled a butterfly fantasy in the autumn of 1944; he witnessed a huge migration of butterflies at Green Lake in the suburban hills of Taipei. From the deep recesses of the mountains on the opposite side of the lake, swarms of purple-dark butterflies flew towards Hsintien for three consecutive days.
To the back of Chen's home stands a primary school with many trees on its grounds. At night, their trunks were a shimmering mantle constantly trembling with the opening and closing of tiny wings. The branches were laden with such great clusters of butterflies, that they nodded like heads in the gentlest breeze: According to Chen, you could catch a handful anytime you liked. But like snowmen, the butterflies, flying westward, vanished as the sun shone over the great earth. Residents of the lake area were awestruck by the immense and majestic sight.
The fate of butterfly habitats is a matter of concern and discussion
An old man recounted a tale explaining the rare phenomenon—the tragic story of Liang Shan-po and Chu Ying-tai. The couple died tragic deaths due to unrequited love, then metamorphosed into a pair of butterflies and started their second cycle of life. Now fitted with wings, they combed for an ideal honeymoon resort. Their tiring wings took them from northern China south, a chill north wind at their tails. Finally arriving above the coastal areas of Fukien Province, exhausted, they still couldn't find the ideal place and rest their tiring wings. When they were about to give up, they suddenly caught sight of a beautiful island, and using their final strength to cross the Taiwan Straits, reached their utopia in a tranquil Taiwan valley. These grand ancestors began a line of millions of descendants which constantly leave their new hometown to establish new homes in every corner of the island.
But the butterfly clans have a tacit agreement that in winter, they must return to their valley for a grand ceremony honoring their ancestors. According to the old man, the butterflies now hovering above Green Lake were hastening on this annual mission. Spellbound by the story, young Chen made up his mind to locate the ancestral butterfly valley during his lifetime. Once in a while in his quest, he would run into major butterfly flight channels. But he did not catch sight of the legendary valley. And as he grew up, he had to force himself to admit that it was only a myth, an erewhon.
Around 1969, when Chen was 38 years old, he met an unusual butterfly collector in a mountain village of Pingtung County—strange in that the man never sold butterflies in spring or summer. But in winter he had millions of butterfly corpses to sell to the handicraft shops. In order to continue his monopoly of the winter business, he refused to divulge his secret. Nevertheless, now, Chen's dream of locating an "ancestral" butterfly homeland was rekindled.
He decided to spend his winter vacation in Pingtung County and scout the hilly areas, first, obtaining the assistance of students and teachers at schools in the county's mountainous regions. In early December, a primary school aborigine boy gave him exciting news: He had just spoiled a thin "creek" of black granules flowing eastward, high in the sky. And each tiny black spot was a butterfly. Chen hastened to the spot and followed the butterflies to a valley on Mt. Wanluan. Though the valley was only three kilometers from the first view of flying butterflies, it took them three hours to overcome the wild bush, tangled trees, and rugged mountain path on the way to their destination.
And there they were, among millions of butterflies, all motionless. The trees now resembled a gallery of tall and narrow Chinese classical pagodas. Chen reached out his hand towards a tree and took a handful of butterflies with purple or green spots.
Later, when the sun broke through at midday, the thin cold air warmed quickly, and the trees stirred with a veritable sigh of relief as millions of butterflies took wing—a huge colored tornado—a releasing of sound like raindrops pattering on a tile roof.
Chen conducted several experiments to trace the origins of the butterflies in the valley. He caught butterflies in autumn and marked their wings, hoping to find them if they reached the valley. Chen recalls one period in which he released more than 5,000 butterflies from every part of the island. A small hole was punched in a particular place on the wing of each butterfly—a code to indicate the release spot. With the assistance of some students and local tribesmen, he gathered more than 100 of his marked butterflies in the valleys of purple butterflies in the Taiwu village area. The experiments showed that some butterflies near Chiayi in the south travel some 200 kilometers to overwinter in the valley. (To Chen's regret, none of the butterflies he released in the northern parts of the island reached the valley.)
Through long-term observation and experiments, Chen determined that the butterflies travel either via a sea lane or a mountain route to reach the valley. Those originating in the plains or other low altitude regions, first fly out to sea then turn to land again near Chaochou, and from there, fly directly to butterfly valley. The highland butterflies fly lower with each approach of a cold front, until they finally descend into the valley.
Looking back, Chen feels that he was somehow born, and certainly grew up, attached to butterflies. "Taiwan is worthy of the name 'kingdom of butterflies,' particularly so around 40 years ago. At that time, downtown Hsimenting and Shuanlien Railway Station in Taipei were nothing but paddy fields. All kinds of butterflies shuttled amid the wild flowers and grasses to provide a luxuriant feast for our eyes. I was a loner, and I always carried a handmade butterfly-net to gather the beautiful dancers. I collected some 100 species of butterflies in 'downtown' Taipei. Can you imagine that bustling Chunghsan North Road was then all paddy fields! On a mid-summer night, hundreds of thousands of fireflies, carrying green lanterns, tacked here and there, slowly. It was a fantastic scene," Chen was drawn back into his dream. He is an incorrigibly romantic butterfly expert.
His love for the butterfly first sprouted when he was just a tot and witnessed a butterfly emerging from its pupa. When it headed skyward, "It was like a winged flower;" Chen was still excited thinking of it. His youthful hobby of gathering butterflies was suspended during the Sino-Japanese War; instead, he took time out to study the habits, living environments, and physical structures of butterflies. He discovered as one oddity, that beautiful as they are, chrysanthemums and their relatives, the daisies, are abhorred by butterflies. The insects prefer nectars, dews, sticky tree saps, fragrant fruit or wine, or even the excrement of animals.
Among the butterfly's favorite food is a tropical tree called, in the Chinese, "regrets of a mountain lass;" it is a flowering tree growing four to six meters high. Kenting on the southern tip of Taiwan has the greatest concentration. And it is said that once the trees' red flowers bloom, the butterflies ignore all other delicacies to feed on the plants' "tearful" nectar.
A tragic legend lies behind the flowering tree. In the far past, great congregations of butterflies earned Kenting the reputation as a butterfly village. A little girl in the area was crazy about butterflies and vice versa, so much so that butterflies always rested on her head. People called her "Butterfly Lass."
As she matured, she fell in love with an honest but poor youth named Tire. Her foster mother, however, wished her to marry Fu-hua, the son of a chieftain, the richest person in the village. Though knowing very well that Fu-hua was a feckless playboy, the foster mother accepted his generous betrothal gifts and worked out a way to gel rid of Tire. She told the unfortunate youth, "If you want to marry Butterfly Lass, you will have to send me ten heads each of hogs and sheep, plus ten urns of wine. Otherwise, you will have to hunt down a pure white bear." Tire was so poor that it was impossible for him to other the hogs and sheep, so he decided to try his luck and hunt a fabled thousand-year-old bear living near Ghost Lake. He went with his bow, arrows, and knives into the deep recesses of the mountain forests.
As soon as Tire left, the foster mother forced Butterfly Lass to marry Fu-hua, and in the first year, the couple actually got along pretty well. But from the following year, Fu-hua started to fool around with other women. He decided to take a new wife and decoyed Butterfly Lass to a remote area, where he killed and buried her.
Chen's students learn from his specimens
Another year passed, and Tire found the white bear and killed and skinned it. But there was no Butterfly Lass waiting, and grief-stricken, he went back to the forest to nurse memories of happier days, when all of a sudden, a small group of butterflies circled him five times, then flew off to the south. He found himself unconsciously following the butterflies, scaling mountains and fording streams; they finally stopped by a luxuriant tree beside a small stream. Crimson-red flowers were blooming in profusion on the tree and hordes of butterflies were dining on the nectar. Then he saw a small group of butterflies circle the tree five times, and all of a sudden, the most beautiful one suddenly make her way into the roots of the tree and vanish. Tire dug into the roots of the tree after the butterfly and discovered the body of Butterfly Lass. Fu-hua was later to pay with his own life for the murder. People called the tree, "regrets of a mountain lass."
While collecting butterflies and butterfly legends, Chen Wei-shou has several times put his life at risk. In the summer of 1957, he decided to collect highland butterflies in the Central Taiwan Malapana aborigine area, 3,000 meters above sea level. Early in the morning, he put on a light T-shirt and with a butterfly-net, went off for his research work.
He was struck to see an unexpected and unusual Nymphalidae specimen feeding on tree sap. He was so tense that he fell perspiration oozing from his palms. He stole close, only to see his butterfly chased off by an ordinary Polyura. "I didn't want to give up my pursuit, and the butterfly led me far off the mountain path before I was aware. I couldn't find my way back to the village; I was in panic and finally decided to give up at 5 p.m. as the sun was setting rapidly. I dodged into a small cave and paved its floor with dry leaves.
"After I finished, the sun had set. I was exhausted and fell asleep on the dried leaves only later to be awakened by the biting cold; the world was pitch dark. Shivering with cold, I had to keep rubbing my body to warm it up. But the mercury continued to plummet, and the dead cold bit to the bone like millions of needles. I snatched the butterfly-net and filled it with dry leaves inside to press upon my chest, but it was no use.
"It suddenly occurred to me that off to the right of the cave, I had seen wild sweet potatoes growing. Their huge leaves are about 30 cm. wide and 60 cm. long, and I fumbled for them in the darkness. Ghostly moonlight and freezing wind sent cold shivers down my spine. It took me a century to reach the sweet potatoes and cut off a dozen huge leaves. I retreated to the cave, wiped the dew from their surface with my handkerchief, then took off my shirt and inserted the leaves between my undershirt and the T-shirt. I couldn't help gasping when the first leaf pressed on my chest like an ice bag. But I clenched my teeth until I had finished padding myself completely in a layer of the huge leaves. Before long, my body started to warm up, and I fell asleep again.
"When I was again roused from sleep, I started to really panic. My hands were numb with cold, heavy, with no feeling, not even of coldness. I desperately rubbed my hands to get the blood to run to the fingertips. My feet had also started to get numb, and I had to keep stomping to warm them. The darkness and biting cold seemed endless. I was so tired, and so drowsy. But throughout the rest of the night, in order to keep awake, keep moving, and keep the shadow of death off, I used my knife point to stab my leg, to send wakeful pain through my body. When the first sunrays cascaded across the cave and the temperatures started to rise, I couldn't hold on longer. I fell down and slept like a log. I was awakened by dogs barking. The aborigines had come to find me."
But that was only the beginning of the story. After all that, Chen still couldn't forget the rare butterfly. He organized a search with the help of the aborigines and was able to capture a pair of a new Nymphalidae form; he named them Euthalia malapana Sherozu et Chen.
On another occasion, in July 1974, he took along a camera to record the ecology of the purple Nymphalidae at Mt. Lala. The mountain was so much out of the way that he had to hitch a ride on a special cargo tractor, customized by the aborigines, to get to its peak. On a U curve in the trail along the belly of the mountain, the tractor fell from the cliff and down to the valley.
"I was thrown out—it seemed into the sky. Before I lost consciousness, I saw the faces of my family and relatives, and innumerable butterflies flashed before my eyes. I saw myself plunging into a green sea of trees. I rammed into a tree and was knocked out. Ribs were broken, and my lungs were bleeding, and I required a month's hospitalization. Several of my co-riders on the tractor died in the accident."
Today, Chen is a teacher at Cheng-kung Senior High School in Taipei, where he has set up a museum to house more than 400 specimens of butterflies for the purposes of study and research.
Chen has walked through millions upon millions of congregating butterflies on his quests. "Sometimes, approaching butterflies in the evening, they would take me to be a tree and would even come and rest on my body," Chen laughed.
While leading us around the museum, Chen noted that the rich butterfly population serves Taiwan both as good academic and tourism assets. He illustrated his point, pointing at a display window, "For instance, this is an abnormal butterfly with both male and female sex symbols. When I first made public this rare portion of the collection in Japan about 30 years ago, it rocked academic circles. Some entomologists there even came to doubt they were real. It was after I took the sample to Japan for exhibition that the Japanese entomologists admitted they had been wrong."
Chen warns everyone who will listen, against unlimited exploitation of land for construction, farming, gardening, and lumbering, any activity damaging to the butterflies' natural habitats. "Rare species here could quickly face extinction. We should have well-thought-out plans to protect such species."
One after another of his display windows treated us to grand feasts of butterfly wings—wings like emperors' robes, silky and glossy. The realm of butterflies is one of beauty, complete with king, queen, nobility, hard-working campesinos, and even witches, adorable pearls, and manifestations of other professions. Some butterflies are rascals, alcoholics, unable to resist the temptation of fermented fruit or flowers. "A drunken butterfly is just like a drunk human, bouncing here and there, not knowing where it is heading," Chen chuckled.
Who is to say, as the legends hold, that they are not another cycle of "human" experience.