A small, disposable camera. A National Audobon Society Field Guide to the Butterflies of North America. A white linen butterfly net. The net lay on the ground, spotted with clinging grass seeds, blackberry juice and mud. The rim of the net held the field guide to North American butterflies, open to the Lycanidae pages, where each one of the eight color photographs showed a small, delicate, brilliantly blue butterfly.

One of these, Glaucopsyche lygdamus, or the silvery blue, was currently perched on my 10-year-old finger. It held its wings open, absorbing the maximum amount of sun, as I struggled to keep one hand still while the other contorted to reach the shutter button of a disposable camera. I clicked two frames before it lifted gently from my finger, drifting away like a small blue leaf before I even knew it was gone.

The two resulting prints show my hand with a small, completely blurry blue spot on one finger. It was the beginning of two passions that now exist hand-in-hand within me: photography and Lepidoptera (butterflies and moths).

With net in hand I began roaming the streets, fields and forests of my neighborhood in search of butterflies, plants and the best places to find different species; I recorded sightings, and compiled records showing yearly patterns of adult flight periods. When I began to seriously photograph “leps,” I discovered my entire repertoire of techniques shifting. I now relied not on a net, but on a camera to capture the insects.

I soon found that “capturing” on film was more challenging to accomplish than by net. Sulphur butterflies are, by far, one of the most difficult families of butterflies to photograph. They are generally yellow to orange in coloration, large and occasionally shaped like leaves.

With a net, the best technique for capture is to approach a landed insect quietly and then chase, net swinging, when they take flight. With a camera as the tool, the technique is quite different.

I lay on my stomach, crept forward with two elbow movements, and sighed heavily. The yellow butterfly had taken off while I was still over four feet away. I got up once again, stretched my back, and readjusted the camera strap, taking a moment to observe the march of looming clouds over a nearby Alaskan peak and towards the sun.

Walking for a third time around the perimeter of the lichen patch, I soon disturbed another, and stood stock-still as I watched the sulphur circle lazily back down to the ground. I began my approach from where I stood, at least 12 feet away.

Painstakingly, I lifted one foot off the ground, moved it forward, and set it down again. Another step and I could see I was approaching the butterfly from behind — the best angle for flighty leps. Two more steps, in just as many minutes, and I began lowering myself to the ground: elbows first, then legs. I breathed gently and inched ahead. About a foot away, and I moved the camera into position, ready to move the last inches while looking through the viewfinder.

At last, I could see the fuzzy yellow shape through the macro lens, becoming clearer as the lens neared the wings. As soon as the gray-green, marbled eyes and pink-tipped, yellow antennae were in focus, I clicked the first frame.

My cheek digging into the white lichen, I managed to shoot two more frames before the vibration from a slipped hand shot the butterfly back into the air.

I have found butterfly photography to be my way of showing others the beauty, diversity and personality of these creatures that so often go unnoticed. The challenge is unbeatable; the knowledge gained is incomparable.

To successfully shoot a species, I have found the necessity in taking time to observe their habits, test their approachability, watch for their favorite nectar plants or places to rest. I feel exceptionally lucky to have found two passions that so well complement each other and that can effectively influence awareness and conservation.

I take my love for butterflies and photography everywhere I go and often appreciate each independently from the other. However, thus far, the joy, satisfaction and peace I feel when working with the two together, elbows in the dirt and sweaty cheek pressed against the back of my camera, has been unparalleled.

— Moira Robinson is a freshman at Middlebury College in Vermont.