“I arise in the morning torn between a desire to save the world and a desire to savor the world.”

— E. B. White

The Callippe Fritillary (Speyeria callippe) is a breathtaking butterfly species belonging to the family Nymphalidae, found primarily in the western regions of North America, particularly the United States. Known for their vibrant, intricate wing patterns in shades of orange, brown, and black with shimmering iridescent silver or white spots on the underside, these butterflies inhabit grasslands, meadows, and open areas where their larval host plants, typically violets (Viola), are abundant. Adult Callippe Fritillaries feed on nectar from various flowers and are active from late spring to early fall.

I first encountered this magnificent butterfly while volunteering for the Rocky Mountain Butterfly Project, which aims to inventory butterfly species in Rocky Mountain National Park and surrounding areas, monitor and evaluate changes, and understand the impact of outside influences to inform management decisions and policies that protect these beautiful creatures.

At the time, I was living in Estes Park, the gateway town to the national park. I was 23 years old with long hair halfway down my back, working at a beautiful café and paper store downtown. It was there that I met the visionary Gregory, the man who started the project, which was just in its infancy. He was an older man, tall with thick gray hair and blue eyes. With my hippie sentiment and wide-eyed excitement about the world, my enthusiasm for the project was undeniable.

He asked me if I would like to volunteer. I said yes, of course. I mean, I think I actually clapped my hands with excitement.

My assignment was to hike in the higher regions of Rocky Mountain National Park, identify the butterflies I saw, measure their distance from the trail (in meters!), and take inventory. Equipped with a field guide on identifying butterflies, a notebook to record my findings, and a butterfly net, I set off on my own to chase butterflies. It was a dream experience.

It was on one of those unforgettable hikes that I first discovered the Callippe Fritillary and fell irrevocably in love. With the backdrop of wilderness meadows, it stood out with its radiant orange wings, a vivid contrast to the soft, silvery underside. The butterfly seemed to float effortlessly with its light-hearted grace and vibrant beauty. It was a moment of pure enchantment. (Sync Taylor Swift ”I was enchanted to meet you... ooo ooo oo”).

A month into my volunteer research, Gregory invited me to one of the science centers at The University of Colorado in Boulder. Hidden away in one of the basements was an enourmous storage area filled with display cases of pinned butterflies. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. Hundreds of glass display cases lined the walls, each meticulously organized. Inside, butterflies of every imaginable color and pattern were pinned with delicate precision. Under each specimen, a printed name tag detailed the scientific name, common name, gender, location found, and year of capture. The room was a kaleidoscope of iridescent wings, shimmering under the fluorescent lights, transforming the basement into a magical repository of nature’s artistry. The sheer scale and beauty of the collection left me in awe, a treasure trove of knowledge and wonder captured within those glass confines.

On the way home, he asked if I would mind stopping for a short hike to explore some butterflies in an area he was just beginning to investigate. We each hiked separately, planning to share our notes upon our return. It’s here that I was faced with a moral dilemma that forced me to grapple with the nature of scientific inquiry and the spiritual belief in doing no harm.

During the ride home, we were comparing notes when he told me that he had captured and kept one of the butterflies, the Callippe Fritillary. Up until this point, the instruction had always been to catch and release. He mentioned that he had the butterfly in the back seat in a special cardboard case to keep it in perfect condition. He then told me that the most humane way to kill a butterfly for pinning was to put it in the freezer.

My heart sank, and I grew very quiet. I stared out the passenger window, filled with sadness and dread. How could he kill this butterfly after all the talk of catch and release? Yet, I had just marveled at a room filled with display cases of pinned butterflies. I found myself in an existential paradox, wrestling with my feelings.

Sensing my turmoil, he asked if I was upset about the butterfly in the back seat. I struggled to find words, on the verge of tears, feeling both embarrassed and confused. He then asked if I would prefer to release the butterfly. I nodded yes. To my surprise, he immediately pulled over alongside the road, retrieved the box that held the caged butterfly, stepped out of the car, and released it.

As I watched the Callippe Fritillary regain its freedom and float into the open air, I felt an immense sense of relief and gratitude. Yet, even in that moment of liberation, I wrestled with a profound paradox. On one hand, I was grateful for the opportunity to study and understand such a magnificent creature through scientific inquiry.

On the other hand, I was acutely aware of the ethical implications and the need to respect and protect the autonomy of living beings. This internal conflict highlighted the delicate balance between the pursuit of knowledge and the necessity of compassion, reminding me that true understanding requires both scientific rigor and a deep sense of empathy.

If it were a spider, I might be writing a completely different story.