Bees Do Sting The Heart So

A very real, very primitive kind of ice fills the veins when the sound of a beehive changes from a droning, even peaceful thrum, to a hive on alert and livid. I have gone up the learning curve with hobbies plenty of times before but keeping bees was a steep mountain for sure!

Methodic and calm, move slow, relax, and breathe.

             ‘Mass Honeybee Deaths: Getting Worse, Not Better’, ’Better Planet: Beepocalypse’, ‘Colony Collapse: 10 Years After the Crisis Began, What Is Happening To Bees’. Headline after headline ran on the imminent death of the honeybee and the doom of our planet.

Alright, I can do bees. I was decided that I was ready to do my part in adding to the planet instead of taking away.

             “Let’s save the bees!” I announced to my partner, at dinner one night. His eyes got big as he uncontrollably put a hand to his forehead.  He did not like bees.

             Backyard beehives were becoming a thing and a hive specifically tailored for the average schmo just came on the market revolutionizing beekeeping.  The hive was less intrusive, engineered to siphon the honey out instead of breaking comb off frames.  With this hive, the bees did not even know I was taking their honey!

             Next was finding some bees. From all the types of honeybees I could have chosen, I chose the Russian bees. Living in Tennessee at the time, I knew that mites and beetles were going to be a problem. Russians were mite resistant, dainty eaters over winter, and aggressive enough to fight off the beetles—as well as me.

             In my brand spanking new diesel Jetta, bought used, I drove three hours to pick them out.  The beekeeper looked me up and down. Clearly, I was new to this.

             “You want me to put them in your trunk?”

             “Yes, thank you.” I was timid to touch the nuc at first (nuc: frames filled with honey, brood, pollen, drones, worker bees). The beekeeper was not wearing any gloves even though there were some curious bees flying around the little box. What courage!

             “Now it’s going to get hot in there so make sure you crank the AC.  This here is the queen.”  He lifted a tiny little box with a single bee inside. On the side of the box was a piece of candy that plugged up the entrance.  “You keep her in your cup holder up front.  When you get home and put the nuc in the hive boxes, put her at the bottom and the workers will chew through this here candy to free her. By then the bees will have decided whether they want to stay.”

             “Where would they go if they don’t like my hive?”

             “Somewhere better I suppose, but don’t worry about it, these ones will stay.” He winked at me. “Just call if you need any help, or your local beekeeping association.  They all pretty much know what they’re doing.”

             I was glad for the advice, asked some more questions, handed him the money, and was on my way home with a box of bees in my trunk.  I laid down the backseats to get the AC circulating through to the trunk. My excitement quickly changed to panic. Not even thirty minutes in, a bee came buzzing into the windshield on my side of the glass. Oh great…and another, and another, and another! This was bad, there were bees flying all over my little Volkswagen and I did not bring an apiarist suit with me.

Methodic and calm, move slow, relax, and breathe.

A bee hit my face. I gripped the steering wheel.

Methodic and calm, move slow, relax, and breathe.

             It was a rough start, but I learned to be comfortable with bees flying around me quickly. They showed no interest in getting into a fight with me; at least that was reassuring. 

Very soon, we were enamored with each other. They are staggeringly complex and amazing creatures!

             Recently back in the United States from West Africa, I first experienced and learned beekeeping through the incredibly destructive bushcraft of Hunter Foragers who followed the kind of beekeeping their primitive ancestors practiced.  One of the villagers knocked on my door late one night. I figured I was needed to patch someone up or remove another deadly gecko from someone’s hut. It was my friend, the local carpenter, Amadou.

             “Isaa, come with us!” He was clearly excited.

             Us? I wondered looking around the side of my hut at a man wearing a black tank top, military camo pants, gun slung over one shoulder, machete in one hand, torch in the other.  Hmmm, this did not seem like a good idea.

             Amadou was insistent.  “He is a hunter and has found something very special for us in the woods.”

             I looked at the man again. Pulling my boots on, I grabbed my knife, a machete, a lamp, my trusty guard dog, and followed the two men into the darkness of night.  Now, not many villagers go into the bush after dark for good reason. There are a lot of critters, some large, some small, who would gladly poison, bite, or try to maime unsuspecting trespassers. I would not have believed this had I not encountered packs of angry baboons on my bike, or sharp tusked boars the size of mini coopers. The night here belonged to the animals. We all walked on alert, perceptive of every sound and every ear raise or growl from my dog, Wylie.  Twenty minutes into the bush we picked our way through till the air was filled with the humdrum of buzzing.  The moon was just bright enough to make out the white comb clinging to the canopy above us.

             “You know what that is!” Amadou whispered pointing excitedly up in the trees.  I was about to raise my light when the hunter—who had not said anything this whole time—pushed my lamp down shaking his head.

             “The bees,” Amadou explained, “They like the light, best not point it at them. Bzzzzzz, bzzzzz!”

             The hunter handed Amadou his rifle.  Stuffing his mouth with at least thirty cigarettes, the hunter took off his flip flops, held the torch in one hand, and shimmied up the three-story tree, the machete clanging in his belt. Reaching the hive, he lit all the cigarettes in his mouth blowing them all into billowing clouds of smoke aimed at the bees. They buzzed with every puff.

             Naturally, I was curious to know if this was a death-defying act by the hunter. All the tales of African Killer Bees! I heard as a child growing up in the United States.  Ignorant, I assumed all bees in Africa were Killer Bees, this of course is false.  There are several types of bees in West Africa, most of which probably have never been studied or discovered.

             “Is he getting stung?” I asked.

             “No.” Amadou smiled knowingly. “The bees do not sting the black man, but you Isaa with your white skin…I think they will sting you.”

             I wondered if this was a joke, or really something to it.

             After a fair amount of time, the hunter used the torch to get rid of the rest of the bees. With the wax now softened he sawed the top of the comb dropping the chunks down to Amadou who caught them in a cloth.

             “Isaa, your knife please.” 

             I switched open my knife handing him the hilt.  Burned in places the comb was no longer white and smelled of hand-rolled cigarettes.  Amadou cut off a piece of comb.

             “Here try this!” He smiled handing me a piece while shoving another piece into his mouth. 

My brain exploded with a golden ambrosia I never knew could exist.  It was like butter mixed with the local fruity flavored wonjo flower. Granted, I could still taste the cigarette and torch smoke, but mmmm best honey I ever tasted to this day.  I was elated finally understanding Amadou’s excitement…then, my lamplight illuminated the hundreds of fire poached bees at our feet. My heart dropped down next to their lifeless little bodies.

             I was never really interested in bees before, and yet I could not help feeling this was all wrong. As a kid, bees were the enemy on the school playgrounds or while splashing around in the pool. Kids would step on them, drown them in Gatorade, or smash them with books. The fear was of the bees’ sting and for some anaphylactic shock that possibly led to death. Bees sustained a bad reputation for most folks.

             I decided to do a little investigating on my own. Bees were just beginning to make a splash in the mainstream Agricultural and Environmental circles. How important they were to ecosystems, food pollination, etc. Books, magazines, scientific articles, I soaked them all in. I learned about the little community they run in the beehive and how the Queen does not run the hive like a monarchy at all but as a cooperative, well organized collective.  The more I read, the more I realized that bees were fascinating and really quite amazing!

             I love my bees and it took a long time to foster a trusting relationship. Yes! A relationship with bees. Over time, they came to know me, and I diligently came to know them. Neither of us were threatened by the other anymore. We went through a lot: hive beetle infestations, moves, disastrous environments, long winters, wasp attacks, and the infamous honey filching. I received plenty of reminders that bees do in fact sting, but never anything a knife and an ice pack could not fix. Bee drama is really a thing though… 

             In the fall of 2019, we were all comfortably nestled in the Rocky Mountains. The bees were thriving and stronger than they ever were in Tennessee. Their population was getting out of control and their honey production exploded. The spring and summer seasons were short and adding another box was risky, so we did not. My partner is military and we were in the habit of moving every 2-3 years. We deliberated in anguish of whether or not to take the colony with us.  Because we were living on a hoity-toity golf course, the HOA did not allow backyard beekeeping so we were housing them ten minutes away at a friend’s place in the valley.  That friend's house went on the market and sold just about the same time we got news that we were relocating again.  The bees needed to move regardless, thus the decision was made to spirit them away at night to our new six-month location hoping for the best when we were required to move to our new home.  Moving the bees is always a gamble. I knew they tolerated and survived a lot already. They were strong enough to do it again.

             We slunk to their hive in the middle of the night, stapled mesh over the entrance, and ratcheted the boxes together. Having recently been operated on, my wrist was weak healing from a ski injury, so my partner insisted on carrying the hive himself.  The hive was incredibly heavy with honey and thousands of bees, the terrain a slick hill, and it was dark.  He tottered and swayed down to the truck, me yipping all the while.

             “Let me help you please!”

“No, stay out of the way. It’s harder to do with two people anyway.”

             My partner made it to the truck trying to stabilize himself and the hive before setting the boxes down. I was dancing around nervously without anything else to do but guide him. Instead of a soft, controlled landing, I winced as the hive boxes hit the ground hard and the bees inside buzzed at the impact. The hive did not tip, nothing looked broken on the outside. I looked through the mesh trying to see if any of the frames were broken, but there did not seem to be a leak.

             We got the hive up into the bed of the truck, strapped it down, and drove down the mountains.  Every jostle, every bump in the road was agonizing. Finally, at our temporary dwelling we unpacked the bees with the help of a dolly.  We settled them down in a space beneath the trees that I personally picked out especially for them near the garden.  It was a long, tiring, worrisome night and I was glad it was at an end.  There was a little honey coming out of the back of the hive, nothing to be concerned about I hoped, just a little trickle.  I was not sure if I should unblock the hive till morning since it was dark. So, I kept the wire mesh in place. Exhausted, I would check on them again in the morning.

             I was delighted to find in the morning the bees were doing great, angry, and confused about their new location.  Deciding that the dog was a pooping priority in need of a walk right away, I resigned myself to dedicating the rest of my day to the bees. Gunter and I got carried away hiking one of our favorite thirty-acre off-leash parks. The sun swelled overhead delivering a record-breaking heatwave that morning.

             Eager to release the bees, I ran out to find honey cascading out of the front of the hive. Bees were drowning! I quickly removed the mesh blocking the entryway, geared up, and tried to save my bees.  Honey full of bees came gushing out, the cracked frame had melted all the way in the heat! I tried to take stock of how much of the hive was still alive, maybe a quarter of them. Other hives caught wind of the honey and the massacre began. Wasps, hornets, neighboring bees of all kinds. I watched frantically as my partially honey drowned hive was murdered by a host of flying honey hungry insects.

I realized that I could not save them. The last quarter of bees left were attacked, and the honey robbing of the entire beehive commenced.

“The HONEY!”

I made a mad dash to grab a bunch of large glass jars. Fighting wasps and yellow jackets I started siphoning the honey out of the hive. Come hell or what may, I was going to enjoy the labor of my poor bees!

By the end of it all, I was a sticky mess suffering from shock, dismay, and loss.  Mounds of bees lay dead and dying around me. Shuffling inside still killing hornets attached to my gear, My partner took one look at me. His face went from a smile to his heart dropping out of his mouth. He strode over folding me into an embrace. I blinked hard and just bawled. Bees were already having a hard go of it around the world, now I was responsible for the death of my hive.  The weight of it hit me, crushing, painful loss. What had we done!

“I”—(sob)—“killed”—powering through now (sob)—“them all!”

Methodic and calm, move slow, relax, and breathe.

I talked about it with friends, family, and strangers trying to process the ordeal and a broken heart. I was in mourning. I agonized over all the ‘should haves’ and the ‘what ifs’. We should have emptied out at least three of the frames of honey to lighten the load, but we chose not to because I thought the bees were going to need the honey in the long haul with the double move coming and a cold long winter ahead. We should have bribed a strong friend to help my partner carry the hive gently to the truck, but we chose not to because it was a late night and we did not want to inconvenience anyone. I should have insisted, but I did not. I should have unstapled the entrance that night we got to our new destination. Or, I should have made it a priority early in the morning, but I chose taking the dog on a walk instead. Choice after choice led to the devastation of my bees.  My fault completely. My heart stung more than a bee sting ever could.

The bee drama and adventure continues. We moved again, and this time were staying in one place for some time. I decided in the end, I needed to honor my hive, I needed to persevere.

Methodic and calm, move slow, relax, and breathe.