Saving the Admiral

Pearl Lake - June 2025

I push off from the dock, my board sliding through the quiet reflection of still-grey clouds and sky. I dip my paddle carefully, not wanting to disturb the calm, and settle into the rhythm of my circumnavigation of Pearl Lake. Neoprene booties keep my cold feet from freezing, and I’m glad of my warm lined pants, thick gloves, and soft knitted burgundy hat. When autumn hits I’ll be adding a down coat to my current jacket, so I’m grateful now for the relatively warm temperature. 

I move out of the quiet cove in the direction of muted golden light, shyly peaking over the mountain tops, not quite sure of committing to the full brightness of a new day. Grass, the rich green of deep summer, and July wildflowers - yellows, whites and purples - spread across the meadows and spill over into the water, as if the land can not quite contain them all. Little crawdads skitter across the lake bottom as I move by, and mama duck urges her little ducklings from their hiding place amongst the shore grasses into the open water, keeping plenty of distance between themselves and me.

I recall the one morning a duckling, with better things to do, didn’t immediately follow the family away from the shore. Suddenly realizing how far off the others were, the little one sprint-paddle-flapped to catch up, and rejoined its siblings while mama delivered a serious earful to her recalcitrant offspring.

Tucked away in several cove-edges, curls of steam hover a foot or two above the water’s surface, lending a touch of atmosphere to the whole scene. Eventually the sun comes fully over the mountain, bringing out the blue of the lake. I absorb the warmth, breathe in the pungent pine wafting across the open water, the gentle breeze fresh and cool on my face.

In the midst of this stillness, I notice a disturbance: frantic ripples from something in the water. It is a butterfly, mostly black with white stripes and markings, who has danced too close and whose wet wings will not lift her above the blue surface. I swing around to go back, to rescue her. I try scooping her up with my paddle, but can’t get the right angle. She is weakening: her wings becoming more sodden, her struggle less frequent and lacking the conviction that she’d succeed. I maneuver forward and back, then sideways, starting to panic as I try again and again, worried I’m going to drown her rather than save her. I get the paddle under her body but then she slides off, back into the depths of the smooth dark water. 

I try once more and I succeed, gently placing her on the front of my board where she can bask in the full sunlight. She doesn’t move. I still have about half of my morning paddle to go, and I keep watch over her. Eventually there’s a tiny movement, then a pause, then more movement. I glide into the final cove, feeling confident she’s going to make it.

But as I coast my board onto the sand near the dock, she seems reluctant to lift off from her comfy platform - or maybe her wings are still not dry enough. I carry my board to the foliage at the edge of the dirt lot, then lift her with the lightest touch I can manage and deposit her onto a large, white, many-petaled flower I hope she’ll like. I wish her well and slowly back away, feeling hesitant to relinquish my watch over her. My last glimpse is of her calmly resting on that cloud of a flower, surrounded by many other blooming wildflowers, with the aspen leaves above filtering the sunlight to a green-gold.

Later, I do some research and learn that she is a Weidemeyer’s Admiral, named for John William Weidemeyer, a 19th-century entomologist whose specimen from the Rocky Mountains was used to describe the species. (Wikipedia: Limenitis weidemeyerii)
I also learn that one of their preferred flowers is cow parsnip (Heracleum) - which is the flower I set her upon.