It doesn’t take many days of 90 degree heat and high humidity to suck the enthusiasm from a man. The simplest of chores are exaggerated and excuses are found to postpone anything that doesn’t come with shade and a mild breeze. On days where the air fairly sizzles and is thick to breathe, all activity is slowed, patience is thinned, and the heat is blamed for every misfortune and inconvenience.
It was on such a morning I decided to check the bees. In my senior year in college I took a beekeeping class as an elective and have tried to keep an active hive or two since. A few years ago we lost thousands of bees on a single day from suspected pesticide poisoning and the colonies never recovered, so we were thrilled to capture a couple wild swarms this spring. It had been about three weeks since the first swarm was hived and was time for inspection.
There are simple pleasures in beekeeping: the sweet smell of the colony, the low hum of contented bees, observing their behaviors, admiring their industry. Such a phenomenal insect. The examination begins with a light puff of smoke at the entrance to disrupt the communication of the sentries on duty. I do it out of habit, but this morning I questioned the necessity, the bees appearing so utterly calm. Working from the top of the hive, a second puff of smoke was directed under the inner cover, driving down and confusing any bees that were gathered on top of the frames. I recently read when bees detect smoke they gorge with honey, an adaptation that assures they will be stocked with nourishment in the event the colony is forced to evacuate during a wildfire. It's just one more fascinating behavioral tidbit. The honeybee has many.
The swarm was initially small, occupying less than four frames, but on this day I was pleased to find more than a full frame solid with capped brood. In a few days the size of the colony would double. The queen is a strong one. She is the heartbeat of the nest, the only member not expendable. If she fails so does the colony, unless she is quickly replaced. She was born of an egg identical to those that gave rise to the workers but she was fed a higher protein diet, a royal jelly, so became a queen. Early in her life she took one or more mating flights, connected with one or more drones, and was fertilized for life. She is an egg laying machine, and can choose between fertile and infertile eggs. A fertile egg becomes a worker bee or another queen, depending on what and how much the developing larva is fed. An unfertilized egg develops into a drone, which means he has no father, but he does have a grandfather who bred the queen. The drones serve no real purpose but to mate with a new queen. If the queen is from another colony, he contributes mightily to genetic diversity, essential to overall bee well being.
The drones live as kings, but not very good ones. They neither forage nor defend (they lack the ability to sting), and are waited on hand and foot by willing workers who provide every need and comfort. In the rare instance a drone is given an opportunity to mate and is successful, he will die, his sole purpose fulfilled. If there are too many drones heading into winter, the workers thin them out. In honeybee society, men are only five percent of the population and largely useless, while the women are the warriors and rulers and defenders. And these responsibilities they satisfy while simultaneously being attentive nannies and impeccable housekeepers. Perhaps their behaviors were the inspiration for early matriarchal societies among humans. Perhaps the world would be a better place if we had all followed suit.
Imagine a nest, full of eggs and developing young, housing potentially tens of thousands of mature bees and a single queen. Imagine the highly organized residents, perfectly skilled in their individual roles, communicating intricate details and satisfying incredible objectives with precision, all in total darkness. Now imagine an alien intruder, dismantling the nest, bathing it with sunlight, removing eggs and brood and possibly the queen herself. What wild animal tolerates this?
With the exception of the drones, all residents are equipped with venom and an effective way to deliver it. They could have driven me away but chose not. Rather, they went about their work humming contentedly and I felt welcomed, wanted to stay, but knew their tolerance was limited. Satisfied that all was welI, I buttoned up the hive.
I’m an uncomplicated beekeeper. They are not my livelihood and I fall well short of knowing all there is to know about them, but I’m aware of some of their many threats (our reckless use of insecticides and loss of habitat being chief among them) and make reasonable efforts to keep them well. When I catch a wild swarm, I’ll offer them solid accommodation with adequate space and protection from rodents. I’ll try to be sure they have enough food to survive the winter and provide additional food if necessary. If their queen is failing I might introduce a new one, unless they beat me to it. I’d like to think their chances with me might be a little better than if I had not intervened when they swarmed.
There are at least three ways to deal with a stifling hot day: One is to do nothing and complain, magnifying the discomfort. Another is to take a good swim in the pond followed by a few laps on a paddle board just as an unexpected and most pleasant breeze drifts in from the north (which actually just happened). A third is to take the cover off the hive of a recently captured wild swarm of honeybees and let their sweetness lull you into their fascinating and mesmerizing world. You’ll be oblivious to the heat and won’t want to leave. It may well be the best option of all.
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