I wanted to say more about the mining bees I discovered last week. According to my sources at BugGuide.net this bee is in the genus Anthophora, but that is all they could say based on my photo. So I looked up Anthophora in A Field Guide to the Common Bees of California and learned that “you often hear these bees before you see them.” This was encouraging news because that is exactly what happened.
On that day I was walking the trails at Mima prairie looking for bees to photograph, but other than a few Bombus vosnesenskii, which are as common as dandelions, I wasn’t finding anything. I was giving up when I heard a noise that sounded like a honey bee swarm. I stood stone still for several moments before I could pinpoint the direction. What I found was a patch of kinnickinnick (Arctostaphylos uva-ursi), a low-growing shrub in the Ericaceae family, clouded over by a mass of bees.
These bees were fast. I tried to photograph them for a half hour before I realized they were never landing on the blossoms, they were only hovering over them and milling about. That behavior, coupled with their white faces, lead me to believe they were all males. They weren’t foraging—they were waiting for females to stop by their fully-guarded kinnickinnick. “How about a nice meal at my place, sweetie?” Smooch, smooch.
The bees moved so fast that I could barely see them, let alone photograph them, but I got the impression they were very hairy, about the size of a honey bee, but blocky rather than tapered at the abdomen. They seemed grayish, but it was hard to tell. I finally went for my butterfly net and scooped a few into a test tube.
A few minutes in the test tube subdued them, at least momentarily. The one I finally photographed walked out of the tube and across a sweatshirt. “Gotcha!” I whispered, pressing the shutter. Not a great shot, but something.
Later on, I read that you can sometimes see groups of males in the early morning, clustering on nearby plants and hanging by their mandibles while the females sleep in their underground tunnels. Not all species do this, apparently, and I don’t know about this one. Nevertheless, I headed back to the prairie the next day before sunrise.
I didn’t know where to look, but it seemed like a worthwhile effort. The idea of multiple males, soaked in morning dew and hanging by their jaws, was a satisfying thought.
But, alas, nothing. However, the prairie was eerily beautiful at that hour, and peaceful. No birds, no bees, no hush of wind, and it smelled like the produce aisle of a grocery store—wet, cold, and green.
Subsequent trips to the prairie have revealed no more mining bees, but I’m on a mission to find the ladies. Next in line to bloom is camas, so I will take a look at those.