Monarchs arrive and lay on milkweed
June 25, 2026
Common milkweed is in full leaf near Brigham right now, the broad flat leaves catching the long light of early summer. The plants stand waist-high in open areas, clusters of them in disturbed ground along roadsides and field edges, their pink-purple flower heads just beginning to form. This is the moment monarchs have been moving toward since they left their overwintering sites in central Mexico.Monarchs are arriving here as part of the second generation working northward through the season. The adults that reach southern Wisconsin in early summer are not the same individuals that left Mexico. That first generation hatched in Texas and the Gulf states, developed, and pushed the range northward. The butterflies reaching Brigham now are the offspring of that generation, and they are here specifically because common milkweed is here. The female lands on a leaf, drums the surface briefly with her forelegs, and detects the chemical signature of the plant. If it registers correctly, she curves her abdomen and deposits a single egg on the underside of the leaf, pale green and ridged, about the size of a pinhead. She will lay hundreds of eggs over her lifetime, but never in clusters. One egg per leaf, often one per plant, spread across a patch.The reason for this is the plant itself. Common milkweed produces cardenolides, compounds that disrupt the heart function of most animals that eat it. The monarch caterpillar has proteins in its cell membranes that are shaped differently from those of other insects, so the toxin passes through without binding. The caterpillar sequesters the cardenolides in its own tissue, and that chemical defense carries through metamorphosis into the adult butterfly. A blue jay that catches and eats a monarch will vomit within minutes. After one or two such experiences, most jays avoid the orange-and-black pattern entirely. The egg on the underside of a milkweed leaf is already committed to this system before it hatches.The milkweed supports more than monarchs. Red milkweed beetles are present on these plants right now, their bright red wing covers making them easy to spot against the green leaves. They feed on the plant and sequester the same cardenolides by the same mechanism, a separate lineage that arrived at the same solution. Two-spotted bumble bees work the flower heads when they open, collecting both pollen and nectar. The flowers have a complex structure that traps visiting insects momentarily, coating their legs with pollen masses called pollinia before releasing them. The bees carry these pollinia to the next plant. Common milkweed depends almost entirely on bees of sufficient size to trigger that mechanism, and bumble bees are among the most reliable visitors.The monarch egg will hatch in three to five days, depending on temperature. The caterpillar that emerges feeds only on milkweed, moving through five growth stages over roughly two weeks. It pupates on or near the plant, forming the green chrysalis with its row of gold dots, and emerges as an adult after about ten days. The adults from this generation will feed on nectar from whatever flowers are available, including wild quinine and the invasive oxeye daisy and red clover that are blooming across open ground near Brigham right now. They will mate, lay eggs, and die before the season turns. It is their offspring, the generation that hatches in late summer, that will make the migration south.If you're near any open ground or a field edge, look for the milkweed. The leaves are broad, slightly waxy, and if you pinch one it bleeds white latex immediately. Turn a few leaves over and look at the undersides near the midrib. The eggs are small enough to miss if you're moving, but they are there. Somewhere nearby, a monarch is working the patch, pausing on each plant long enough to assess it, then moving on or stopping to lay. The wings open and close slowly in the heat.
Stewart Lake carries an official designation now: impaired water that will require a cleanup plan under the Clean Water Act. The numerical breakdown is stark — nearly 70 percent of the surrounding watershed is devoted to hay and pasture or row crops, while less than one percent remains as wetland. That narrow margin matters enormously.Wisconsin's glacial lakes were shaped by a very different landscape. Centuries ago, wetlands rimmed these water bodies in dense abundance, filtering runoff and anchoring aquatic food webs before that water ever reached open lake. Systematic drainage — the tiling and dike-building of the 19th and 20th centuries — removed most of that buffer. What we see now is the ecological inheritance of that choice: runoff moves directly from agricultural land into open water, carrying nutrients that fuel algae blooms and degrade water quality.The impairment listing is not a surprise; it is the inevitable result of treating upland and aquatic systems as separate problems to be solved in isolation. Restoring this lake will require restoring connectivity — bringing back the wetlands, slowing the water, giving the land time to work.
Scarlet beebalm opens for its pollinators
June 4, 2026
The morning air holds the last coolness before another long summer day near Brigham. Dew clings to the broad leaves of scarlet beebalm as they unfurl in patches along the woodland edge. The plants have spent weeks building their foundation of serrated leaves, each one positioned to catch the filtered light that reaches the forest floor. Now, in these longest days, the first flower buds begin to swell at the tips of square stems.Scarlet beebalm belongs to the mint family, and everything about its construction announces this relationship. The stems rise in rigid angles, the leaves grow in perfect pairs across from each other, and the flowers will cluster in dense heads that seem designed for landing. Each bloom opens as a tubular red trumpet, its petals curved back to expose the nectar deep inside. The color signals specifically to creatures that can see red clearly: hummingbirds and some butterflies, but especially the longer-tongued bees that can reach the nectar hidden at the base of each flower.The golden northern bumble bee arrives as the first flowers open. This threatened species depends on plants like beebalm that offer concentrated nectar sources during the peak breeding season. The bee's fuzzy body, nearly an inch long, carries electrostatic charge that pulls pollen from the flower's exposed stamens as it probes for nectar. Its tongue can extend nearly half the length of its body, reaching the nectar that shorter-tongued insects cannot access. The bee works methodically, visiting dozens of flowers in a morning, each visit transferring pollen between plants and ensuring the next generation of beebalm seeds.This exchange happens at a moment when both species face their highest energy demands. The bumble bee colony has reached its summer peak, with workers supporting hundreds of developing larvae back in the underground nest. Each foraging trip must yield maximum calories to feed the growing colony and produce the new queens that will survive winter. The beebalm, meanwhile, has invested months of growth into this flowering moment. The plant concentrates its resources into nectar production, trading sugar for the pollination services that will allow it to set seed before the growing season ends. Other native plants like wild bergamot and the threatened hill's thistle will follow in succession, but right now, scarlet beebalm provides one of the richest nectar sources in the woodland edge community.Listen for the low hum that moves between the flower clusters. The sound carries a different quality than the higher buzz of smaller bees, deeper and more deliberate. If you're standing near a patch of blooming plants, you might hear the brief pause as a bumble bee settles onto a flower head, then the resumed buzzing as it moves to the next cluster. The morning light catches the pollen dust that coats the bee's body, golden against the deep red of the flowers that bend slightly under its weight.
