The period between the end of winter and the beginning of spring is exceptionally hard on the bees. As temperatures warm during the day, the cluster breaks and the bees begin taking cleansing flights as well as the first foraging flights of the season. Unfortunately, these are The Barren Weeks where pollen and nectar are in short supply. Many keepers have to make emergency feedings to keep the bees alive and sometimes, no matter what you do, it doesn’t work.
Few things are as disheartening as the loss of a hive. Last year, the bees died from a suspected combination of mites and starvation. Despite battling the varrora and ensuring the bees had more than enough honey for the winter, the girls did not survive. It’s maddening to open a hive and see the cluster frozen on a frame, heads buried in empty cells, while frames of fresh honey sit neglected only one super above them. For whatever reason, they refused to access the food and died inside an empty larder.
Yesterday, the Fiancée and I discovered that the “new” bees were not only still alive, but ready to rock and roll. Hundreds of girls spilled from a gap in the inner cover caused by several large chunks of bee candy and many foragers were returning with overflowing pollen buckets. We added some pollen patties to the top (to give them a protein boost), removed the mouse-guard at the entrance, relocated the remaining candy to the bottom of the hive (to encourage the girls to use the landing strip), and sealed the top of the hive tight. For a while, the bees struggled with the change in entry points, but eventually they figured out where the entry point was located.
Watching them reassess the situation was an education in the intelligence of these insects. Most of the bees were either survivors from the last crop going into the winter or freshly hatched over the chilly months. The cluster broke maybe two weeks ago, so the majority of foragers only knew about the “gap” entrance up top. When it went away, they began inspecting the rest of the hive for access and, once a few discovered the landing strip, started re-orienting themselves. They’d take off, immediately turn to face the hive, and arc back and forth. Then they’d land and repeat the process again from a farther distance. Within minutes, a large number of bees had not only figured things out, but communicated the knowledge with their sisters.
We left them to their re-education with a feeling of optimism. Having opted to let these bees deal with the varrora on their own and only feed them in an emergency, it was exhilarating to know they survived. Better yet, they seemed healthy and eager to get back to work.
Losses are a part of life when keeping bees, but those that make it through the difficult months come out stronger on the other side. As spring approaches, it’s my hope that these battle-tested girls pass their knowledge on to the next generation. But it’s nice to know that, for now, they beat the odds.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The War Between Fear and Common Sense
Phobias, by their nature, are stupid. They are effectively emotion overriding common sense. Compared to the number of automobile accidents in a given year, airplanes have a much higher safety record, yet people are still terrified to fly. Others cannot stand heights, even if there are numerous precautions that prevent you from going over the side of the Empire State Building.
No matter how much you show yourself or others the numbers, be they statistics or simple facts, a phobia will almost always win the fight.
But sometimes you can learn to live with and eventually overcome them.
My first recollection of bees wasn't a positive one. According to my mother, a neighborhood pal convinced me that bee stings would kill me. Being 3 or 4 at the time, her words were the Gospel. Never mind the fact that I wasn't allergic to stings, the seed was planted.
Soon after my friend altered my perception I stepped on a bee in my front yard. My reaction was nothing short of horrified.
Thus began my fear of bees.
The terror of stings continued over the course of my life. There was the time when I was ten and a friend and I were walking in the woods of my family home. We disturbed a ground-bees nest and attacked immediately. We were stung several times and raced to the safety of the indoors. While standing in the kitchen, sobbing and shaking and being consoled by my mother, I noticed a ground bee (aka: yellow jacket) circling my feet. With a scream, I ran upstairs and barricaded myself in my room to include shoving a towel in the crack under to door to prevent the bee from following me. I spent the rest of the day locked in my room, stricken with fear.
There are other stories. Our Husky getting into a ground bees nest while walking the property that became the future family homestead. Disturbing a nest while inspecting a tree house at a home my parents were thinking of buying inAlaska
As I grew older, my outward reaction decreased, but the internal reaction remained the same: uncontrollable fear. A fear based on a childhood conversation long lost in the file-cabinets of my mind, but remembered on a sub-conscious, instinctive level. Common sense dictated that stings, while painful, were not fatal, yet there was no convincing my conscious mind of that fact.
Why then, was there any desire to get into beekeeping? I wish it was based on an initial desire to overcome my fear, but the reality is far less impressive: I was wooed by the science of honeybees. That fascination grew into education and the more I learned, less intimidating they became.
But educating myself did not completely cure my fear and even now, after years of keeping bees, I occasionally feel the rise of panic when things get busy in the hive. That being said, the fact that the hive and it's 60,000 some-odd inhabitants does not terrify me anymore is a personal milestone. Having spent time with honeybees up close, I now understand their nature more than I did when I was 4 and that, more than anything, is reason enough not to fear their sting.
One caveat: as of this posting, I've yet to be stung by my girls. I am still fearful of the day when, not if, it happens, but experience has helped me overcome the irrational fears and follow a road I would never have taken years ago.
Lessons learned from experience:
Honeybees, unlike hornets, wasps, and yellow jackets, are not aggressive. Unless you threaten the hive or attempt to squash one in your hand, they won't normally attack. There may be times when they get extra defensive (i.e. late summer as the nectar flow winds to a close, evening when more bees are in the hive, rainy days, etc), but by and large, the hive usually has more important things on its mind. Mine barely notices me when I work it.
Honeybees are curious. Pop the top on a hive and you'll have hundreds of girls come out to see what's going on. If it's chilly, they'll take a break on your suit to warm up. They like to investigate, will bump your veil to say "hello" and will wiggle into cuffs, under shirts, or up your sleeves if able. Slow movements and a keen eye for where they are keeps everyone happy.
Stings kill the bee, therefore it is a last-ditch option. Given a choice, their natural reaction in "the wild" (aka more than 20 or so feet from the hive) is to run. Foragers are usually more concerned with getting the nectar or pollen they've harvested back to the hive than they are trying to sting you.
In the end, it's hard to explain a fear to yourself. Rational thought and common sense usually take a back seat to inexplicable emotions. But with a little education and a willingness to take a risk, you may open the door to a fascinating new hobby.
No matter how much you show yourself or others the numbers, be they statistics or simple facts, a phobia will almost always win the fight.
But sometimes you can learn to live with and eventually overcome them.
My first recollection of bees wasn't a positive one. According to my mother, a neighborhood pal convinced me that bee stings would kill me. Being 3 or 4 at the time, her words were the Gospel. Never mind the fact that I wasn't allergic to stings, the seed was planted.
Soon after my friend altered my perception I stepped on a bee in my front yard. My reaction was nothing short of horrified.
Thus began my fear of bees.
The terror of stings continued over the course of my life. There was the time when I was ten and a friend and I were walking in the woods of my family home. We disturbed a ground-bees nest and attacked immediately. We were stung several times and raced to the safety of the indoors. While standing in the kitchen, sobbing and shaking and being consoled by my mother, I noticed a ground bee (aka: yellow jacket) circling my feet. With a scream, I ran upstairs and barricaded myself in my room to include shoving a towel in the crack under to door to prevent the bee from following me. I spent the rest of the day locked in my room, stricken with fear.
There are other stories. Our Husky getting into a ground bees nest while walking the property that became the future family homestead. Disturbing a nest while inspecting a tree house at a home my parents were thinking of buying in
As I grew older, my outward reaction decreased, but the internal reaction remained the same: uncontrollable fear. A fear based on a childhood conversation long lost in the file-cabinets of my mind, but remembered on a sub-conscious, instinctive level. Common sense dictated that stings, while painful, were not fatal, yet there was no convincing my conscious mind of that fact.
Why then, was there any desire to get into beekeeping? I wish it was based on an initial desire to overcome my fear, but the reality is far less impressive: I was wooed by the science of honeybees. That fascination grew into education and the more I learned, less intimidating they became.
But educating myself did not completely cure my fear and even now, after years of keeping bees, I occasionally feel the rise of panic when things get busy in the hive. That being said, the fact that the hive and it's 60,000 some-odd inhabitants does not terrify me anymore is a personal milestone. Having spent time with honeybees up close, I now understand their nature more than I did when I was 4 and that, more than anything, is reason enough not to fear their sting.
One caveat: as of this posting, I've yet to be stung by my girls. I am still fearful of the day when, not if, it happens, but experience has helped me overcome the irrational fears and follow a road I would never have taken years ago.
Lessons learned from experience:
Honeybees, unlike hornets, wasps, and yellow jackets, are not aggressive. Unless you threaten the hive or attempt to squash one in your hand, they won't normally attack. There may be times when they get extra defensive (i.e. late summer as the nectar flow winds to a close, evening when more bees are in the hive, rainy days, etc), but by and large, the hive usually has more important things on its mind. Mine barely notices me when I work it.
Honeybees are curious. Pop the top on a hive and you'll have hundreds of girls come out to see what's going on. If it's chilly, they'll take a break on your suit to warm up. They like to investigate, will bump your veil to say "hello" and will wiggle into cuffs, under shirts, or up your sleeves if able. Slow movements and a keen eye for where they are keeps everyone happy.
Stings kill the bee, therefore it is a last-ditch option. Given a choice, their natural reaction in "the wild" (aka more than 20 or so feet from the hive) is to run. Foragers are usually more concerned with getting the nectar or pollen they've harvested back to the hive than they are trying to sting you.
In the end, it's hard to explain a fear to yourself. Rational thought and common sense usually take a back seat to inexplicable emotions. But with a little education and a willingness to take a risk, you may open the door to a fascinating new hobby.
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