Every October, we look forward to the monarch butterfly migration. Two weekends ago, I spent a couple of hours in one of the gardens, ripping out the overgrown mass of foot-high grass and weeds, as well as the dried brown coreopsis and black-eyed Susan stems that were now wrapped tightly by a white morning glory-type vine.
In the midst of the mess were giant goldenrods and bunches of a woody-stemmed, white baby’s breath-looking flowers, all lassoed and pulled to the ground by the little white trumpet vines. A few bug bites and a lot of sweat later, the undergrowth was cleared away and the nectar-bearing goldenrods and white mystery flowers freed and staked to stand tall as a way station for the monarchs’ annual southward migration.
Today, they came to the mountain.