October 12, 2009

            Our first livestock experiment was with bees. Four years ago, I took bee classes, bought and set up a hive and got a “nuk” full of bees. We loved having them over that summer of ’05. As my husband said, No matter how lazy we were being, the bees were always hard at work. My gardens flourished. I watched the bees work the creeping thyme, goldenrod, sedum and milkweed for nectar and pollen, sat watching them dancing or hurrying out of the hive to a new nectar source. When they came back laden with pollen, their little saddlebags on their legs loaded with gold, they fairly waddled.

            Then on Columbus Day weekend a bear tore apart our hive. We came home from a party to ravaged frames strewn about, their queenless survivors flying around dazed. It wasn’t long before they all died off. We hadn’t finished putting up the electric fence, and had been lulled into complacency by the fact we hadn’t seen bear anywhere near our house.

            It had been a bad summer for nuts and fruit, and the bear was hungry. Its superb sense had led it straight to our little hive. I’ve since read that bear can smell a sunflower seed a mile away. How was that test set up, I wonder? I also read that it’s the grubs, they’re after, not the honey, although that Columbus Day the bear made a pretty thorough job of both.

            We repopulated the hives the next spring, only this time, I got two hives and they went into an unused tennis court. There they have thrived for three years. There’s even goldenrod growing right in the courts for their delectation.

           

            Last week I started the process of buttoning up the beehives for the winter. I’ve named the hives. The Amazons are very strong and warlike, having, I think, raised their own queen, who was not exactly bred for docility. These girls are tough, and they like to sting me just to show who’s boss. The other, newer hive I call Uffizi. These bees are sweet, love having me visit-- probably because they don’t associate me with taking honey-- since I haven’t, yet. In fact they mostly associate me with bringing them sugar water. What’s not to like? Their hive is not yet a year old. They are industrious, and have a tendency to build burr comb all over the place, in little Gaudi like towers.

            It was a warmish day, with a good wind. I started with Uffizi, watching the girls fly to the lip of the hive, many with their little saddlebags stuffed with pollen, even at this late date. The sight never fails to melt me; they are so cute, trundling in. I gave them their third quart of sugar water laced with Honey Bee Healthy, a mix of essential oils that smells wonderful and purportedly build up their immunities for the trials ahead. They love it. I’d give it to them even if it weren’t so good for them, just to see their excited buzz-dancing outside the hive entrance.

            Next came the Amazons. For them I relit the smoker, which had gone out, as usual. I opened the top of the hive to find the super, which usually would be filled with honey in September, empty, the comb not even drawn out and a few bees exploring it it. I took it off, replaced the inner cover so I could give them their first dose of HBH medicated syrup.

No honey raid on the Amazons this year. Their hive was three stacked deep hive bodies. I should have taken the hive apart, reduced the stack to two, and then placed the super on for honey --in July, maybe.

But to tell you the truth, I am still a bit afraid of them. They’ve always been quick on the draw. It was this hive that prompted me to spend $100 on a head-to-toe white beekeeping suit. For a while I felt safe tending them wearing it. I’d take the frames out and examine them, slowly and carefully looking for the queen and newly laid eggs, almost oblivious to their furious buzzing around my head encased in its mesh helmet.

Then one day, I had an awful run-in with them in which they stung me through the bee net on my ears, because the  often-laundered helmet didn’t hold the mesh far enough away from me anymore. Not only that, my hair came undone, so I couldn’t see. If I opened the helmet there to corral the hair, I’d let in another 200 raging Kamikaze bees. Finally I managed to put the hive back together and stagger out of the bee yard. Bees followed me a quarter mile to the house.

People often ask me if I’m worried about Africanized, so called “killer bees”. I figure the Amazons will have me so tough I won’t mind the African strains, should they continue to move north. Maybe the Amazons will beat them up. Who knows? It could be that the bears are afraid of the Amazons too; that’s why they’ve kept their distance --so far. In any case, I have plenty to worry about now, thanks.

As few days after the swelling went down in my face, I detached the built-in helmet in favor of a separate pith helmet style with netting that ties around the chest. I’m about as safe as I can get.

But this summer, it was raining almost non stop-and I just didn’t have the gumption to mess with the Amazons. Besides, I’m on a low-carb diet, I reasoned, and we’re still working on last year’s honey.

I had an extra hive body set up nearby. They’re very handy for holding frames you’ve inspected, causing the least amount of disruption to the bees. I had this body sealed up pretty well, I thought, on a bottom, with an entrance reducer to keep out mice, and a top.

I pulled off the top. There was a small pile of chewed up leaves, and five frightened, bright-eyed stares. The entrance reducer had been carefully pushed aside enough to let these small Beatrix Potter characters come and go.

“Appley Dapply, a little brown mouse, Goes to the cupboard in somebody’s house” begins the Potter Nursery rhyme. “In somebody’s cupboard There’s everything nice,/ Cake, cheese, jam, biscuits,--All charming for mice!”

These mice were also very cute, even without Potter’s little blue apron and shopping basket. Unlike Appley-Dapply, my story contained an evil giant who had no intention of letting uninvited guests stick around. I pulled the empty frames out to see some had been chewed, the wax flakes mingled with the leaves to make fluffy, dry bedding. When I removed the walls, the mice scattered. I set the hive body on top of the Amazons to shelter the sugar syrup, replaced the top, and shook the leaves off the extra base.

I’ve had mice make nests in weak hives, maybe after the bees have left or died, or maybe causing the bees to swarm or just leave--I don’t know. But I couldn’t encourage the mice to stay. Peaceable Kingdom fantasies don’t work very well out here. The best I can hope for is stand-offs. For the time being, bears don’t climb ten foot chain link to get to the bees, but I’ve heard they’ll learn.

Next year, I’ll run two electric wires around the outside, one at the top and one about two feet off the ground. My bee mentor, Denny, one of the gentlest people I know, whom I’ve never seen in a bee suit, who wears a t-shirt and shorts to work with the Amazons, and is not stung, drapes pieces of bacon on his electric fence to tempt and train bears that the bee yard is off limits.

It seems pretty mean. I may try it.