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The iterative method of swarm capture

Part way up the ladder I stopped. The cardboard box I carried kept catching in the branches. The box was too big—I knew that—but I liked it because it was deep. I was hoping it would restrain the swarm longer than a shallow box. Standing on the ladder was not the best place to try new things, but what the heck.

Much to my surprise, the ladder was steady and felt right. As soon as I stepped on it, I knew it would be okay. Engineers pride themselves on designing systems that “barely work,” and my husband, being one, did himself proud: although it barely worked, it worked just fine.

The swarm hung from a branch but was wrapped around the trunk, playing hard to get. Once I got the box under the swarm, I used the hive tool to scrape the bees from the trunk into the box. It was a big swarm, and I felt like I got two-thirds of it before it started to rise out of the box. I closed the lid and climbed down.

My husband had promised to steady the ladder from below, and he had been patient while I struggled with box, bees, and branches. But as I started down the ladder enrobed in a haze of bees, he said, “I’ve got to leave.”

“No!” I said, still worried about the ladder and the now heavy box. “Don’t go!”

“I’ve got to. Bees all over the place!” he said, running toward the creek.

“What the (deleted) did you expect?” I hollered back. “I’m not picking berries up here.”

Once on the ground, I carried the box around to the back of the house and dumped it into the bait hive I set up last week. The mass of bees seemed to orient and examine the surrounds.

I let the remaining part settle for maybe twenty minutes, then I went back up to get it. To make things easier, I took a plastic bag instead of the box. The swarm seemed a lot bigger now, and I began to think I’d captured only half of it. So I swiped as much as possible into the bag and added it to first group.

By the time I went up the third time, I was comfortable on the ladder, but I was still having trouble scraping the bees into the bag because of all the little branches. This time, the weight of the first clump of bees caused the plastic to fold over on itself, so the ensuing clumps missed the bag completely. I dumped what little I got on the third try into the hive and, again, waited for the swarm to settle.

Seeing the trouble I was having, my husband suggested I use the butterfly net.

The butterfly net! Why didn’t I think of that—it was deep, easy to handle, and I could ease it over the swarm before I began to scrape. Excellent suggestion.

The swarm seemed even bigger than before, but I was undaunted. I climbed a fourth time, fit the net over the swarm, and knocked it in. The net was so heavy the handle bent like a bow. I flipped the net over to lock the bees inside and maneuvered it down the ladder. I couldn’t believe the weight.

I dumped the bees into the hive assuming I was done. Bees clouded around the hive, the ladder hadn’t collapsed, and the tree was still standing—all good things. I went to the front yard and sipped a glass of water. But when I looked into the tree, I was amazed: the swarm was still clearly visible. I decided to get more of it.

So for the fifth time, I ascended the ladder and came down with a load of bees. But this time, before dumping them in, I decided to have a look in the hive. I opened the lid and peered down through the frames, and what did I see? A dozen bees, maybe twenty. The rest were gone!

In all my swarm catching days, the swarms always stayed where I put them, but these bees were going right back to their tree, to the very same branch. This was new to me. I decided that I must be missing the queen each time. She must be nestled in a branch and protected from my scraping and swiping. Or maybe I killed her. Bees were dying in this process, and maybe she was a victim. Would the bees go back to their branch without her? I wasn’t sure anymore.

At that point, I remembered there was some queen mandibular pheromone (QMP) in the freezer. QMP can be used to hold a queenless colony together until a queen can be obtained. The stuff was ancient—maybe ten years old—and I can’t even remember why I had it. But I got it out of the freezer, put one of the plastic straws in the bait hive, and went up the ladder for the sixth time.

This time, the clump of bees held. As soon as I dumped them in, they clamored over themselves to get to the lure, smitten by a piece of pheromone-laced plastic. They didn’t try to kill it; they were enthralled by it.

So up I went the seventh time. I got a good load, brought it back, dumped it in. It was like magic, but not the kind I expected. The bees flowed out of the net, but when they hit the top bars, instead of going down between, they bounced as if on a trampoline. In one clean motion, they glanced off the bars, lifted, and flew away. The bees cooing over the QMP were the only ones left in the hive.

If insanity is defined as repeating the same action while expecting a different outcome, I was well on my way. This had to stop. I gave up. Discouraged, I closed up the hive and returned to the front yard.

I stood there, hands on hips, eyes on the swarm when suddenly the noise increased. The swarm expanded, slowly at first, then rose into the air. I stood amidst the chaos, trying to perceive its direction. I was almost sure it was moving toward the house . . . yes . . . over the house and . . . yes, you won’t believe this . . . into the bait hive. The same hive I tried seven times to get them into; the one they flowed from less than five minutes before. Like a mob of teenagers, it had to be their idea, not mine.

So what happened? Had the swarm been considering the bait hive all along? Would it have gone there had I left them alone? Did the QMP have anything to do with it or nothing at all? Why did the bees boomerang back to their branch all the time? Did they have a queen? What made this swarm so different?

I have no answers to these questions. I removed the QMP, gave them a frame of eggs and young larvae, a frame of honey, and two boxes of drawn comb. So far, they are still there, but they haven’t said why.

Rusty
HoneyBeeSuite

My husband made me do it

It was a Sunday morning, exactly nine days after I split my top-bar hive with a Taranov board. I finished answering e-mails before I walked outside and headlong into a frenzy of darting, diving, dipping insects that were coalescing in a tall Leyland cypress.

I wandered into the midst of the chaos, curious why Leylands attract so many swarms. I wondered if I could bottle it.

The bees continued to spill from the top-bar hive for another few seconds. I had recently checked on the split, and it was fine. It ended up with the old queen and, after only a week, displayed a perfect patch of brood. So this was an after-swarm, probably headed by a virgin queen from one of the 24 queen cells I had seen there.

My husband and I agreed the swarm was too dangerous to get. The tree was skinny and we feared the weight of the extension ladder might damage it, or that a slight shift of the trunk might cause the ladder to topple. We decided to leave it.

“Three packages of bees up there,” he kept saying, which made me feel terrible. But I try not to be stupid about bee retrieval, so I did my best to ignore them . . . and him. My three swarm traps had fresh lures and the bait hive behind the house was stocked with used brood comb and a frame of honey. The best I could do was wait.

One day passed, windy and cold. The second day was stormy, and the night was worse. The third day yielded raindrops the size of jelly beans. The fourth day was cloudy, but clearing. I knew the swarm would soon leave.

“I’ve got an idea,” my husband announced while making breakfast. “I will lash a t-post across the top of the extension ladder so it will rest on two trees instead of one. The weight will be divided between trees and the ladder will be more stable.”

“No way,” I said. “The trees aren’t strong enough to support your weight.”

He gave me an odd look. “Not my weight. Yours.”

I felt instantly sick and left my breakfast on the table.

I spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon stewing. He’s not the beekeeper. He’s doesn’t even like bees. He wants nothing to do with my hobby. So why is he telling me how to do it? And why does he think I should risk life and limb on his Rube Goldberg device? Finally, I got so angry I wanted to prove it wouldn’t work. “All right,” I said. “I’ll do it.”

So while he collected extension ladder, t-post, and cable ties, I assembled tools for catching a swarm, none of which I thought I would need. When all was ready, I gave the dog my cold toast and honey as a farewell gift, and ascended the ladder with cardboard box and hive tool in hand. Any moment now, I thought, the tree, the swarm, and the ladder with me on it will smash a crater into the driveway. And as the bees fly away unscathed, my dying words will be, “I told you so.”

Rusty
HoneyBeeSuite

Next time: The iterative method of swarm capture

The quest: a fairly large swarm from the top-bar hive.
The quest: a fairly large swarm from the top-bar hive.
A big ladder for a skinny tree.
A big ladder for a skinny tree.
When life depends on a small block of wood.
When life depends on a small block of wood.
Nylon cable ties connect t-post to extension ladder.
Nylon cable ties connect t-post to extension ladder.
The t-post rests on a neighboring tree.
The t-post rests on a neighboring tree.

A beekeeper’s trip to Corvallis

During the abyss of grade school, through mind-numbing months of long division, spelling, and the names of planets, I scrooched at my desk and stared at a yellowing wall map of the United States. Far to the left, one place captured my imagination and beckoned me to it.

While the scent of brown-bagged peanut butter teased by stomach, the shape of that far-away state fueled my dreams. Perhaps it was the name, or the tales of pioneers, or the stories of a valley so fertile it could grow any crop. It was a mystical, magical, Jack-and-the-beanstalk kind of place.

Oregon. The word was music and I said it aloud. Oregon. So while my friends were off California dreamin’, my imagination was north in that great fertile valley caressed by the Willamette.

From those early fantasies, the dream of Oregon persisted. I ended up living there for a time and graduated from OSU, but my fascination never waned. Work, family, and opportunity eventually led me elsewhere, but my heart still lives in the Willamette Valley.

So last fall when I got an invitation to visit a beekeeper in Eugene, I jumped at the chance. It had been years since I’d been to Oregon and the thought of traveling back through the valley was irresistible. I added the trip to the front end of a busy summer.

Fate has a way of rearranging our plans and, as it turned out, my Eugene contact cancelled. But by then I was determined to visit my favorite place. I hadn’t yet decided how to proceed when I happened to answer a beekeeping question from an “oregonstate.edu” e-mail address. I remembered the name from previous exchanges so, on a whim, I asked if I could stop by for a visit.

The beekeeper, Mark Luterra, not only sent back a welcome but accompanied it with a list of everyone he thought I should visit while in Corvallis. It was a mother lode of names, contact information, websites, and phone numbers. I could not believe my good fortune.

I contacted everyone on the list, and within a few hours I had a five-day schedule of people, places, and events. During my brief stay, I met Karessa Torgerson of Nectar Bee Supply and attended her “Understanding Swarms” class where I met more beekeepers. I was invited to the home of Linda Zielinski, president of the Lynn-Benton Beekeeper’s Association, where we gathered around a cozy outdoor fireplace and “talked bee” over red wine, tasty food, and the fragrant tang of burning wood. During the evening, Karessa and another beekeeper, Greg Long, became interested in hearing about prison beekeeping and are now pursuing plans of their own. And I was honored to meet Amanda, an enchanting teenage beekeeper, who became enthralled with my butterfly net.

I attended a presentation of the pollinator film, Wings of Life, along with the Oregon Master Beekeepers. In succeeding days, I visited more beekeepers and photographed many hives and bees. During a visit to the OSU Honey Bee Lab, I met Ramesh Sagili, Assistant Professor of Horticulture, and Carolyn Breece, Research Assistant. Carolyn walked me through the process of testing for Nosema ceranae and Ramesh showed me samples of Apocephalus borealis adults and larvae. Matt Stratton, a student technician, showed me a hypopharyngeal gland recently removed from a honey bee and explained how it would be examined for its protein content.

Later Carolyn escorted me through the Oak Creek Center for Urban Horticulture where Michael Burgett, Emeritus Professor of Entomology, showed me each of the honey bee hives in his eclectic collection, as well as the many types of native bee housing he has created. From there Carolyn took me to the OSU Experimental Farm where I got to see the 150 pounds of newly installed bees and the honey bee flight cages—enclosures for studying honey bees where they can fly but be restricted to certain diets.

When I wasn’t with beekeepers, I had time to visit the campus, walk by the places I used to live, and drive out to the cropped fields to photograph both honey bees and native bees in action. On one afternoon I drove around to all the places where native bee housing is being established in the community, and on another day I checked out the bees at the Starker Arts Garden for Education.

During my many visits with beekeepers, I learned some creative techniques, saw innovative pieces of equipment, heard fresh takes on beekeeping philosophy, and learned new things about both honey bees and native bees. Everyone I met was cordial, generous, and bubbling with bee enthusiasm. It was a dream trip in a dream place—the valley did not disappoint!

I have already written about a few of the things I learned while in Corvallis and I have dozens of discoveries left to share. But today, I wanted to say a public thank you to the beekeepers and bee researchers I met in Corvallis. Their kindness, knowledge, and willingness to teach were truly extraordinary.

Rusty
HoneyBeeSuite

A bee watering device at the Oak Creek Center for Urban Horticulture.
A bee watering device at the Oak Creek Center for Urban Horticulture.

Mentoring the mentor

Part 1: Bees behind bars

My first opportunity to teach beekeeping occurred at a state prison. I had volunteered at the prison for several years as a farm consultant. The inmates grew much of their own produce, composted their kitchen waste, raised red worms, and maintained an extensive greenhouse. Twice a week I taught them how to test soil fertility, wrap cauliflowers, and control aphids with ladybugs. I enjoyed the work, but when the prison needed a bee advisor, I jumped—turnip seeds paled in comparison to honey bees.

Whereas some of the gardens had been “inside the fence” (a razor-wire frosted chain-link affair) the beehives were outside. Working “outside the fence” meant I was assigned specially selected “short” inmates. Nothing to do with their stature, short meant they were near their release date and less likely to bolt.

Working with the public (me) was part of their preparation for release. For them, learning a skill was secondary to associating with people who were not guards or other prisoners, something these inmates would soon find themselves having to do. I had been trained and retrained on how to work with prisoners and my background had been checked so many times it was wearing thin.

I was waiting at the admin building wearing my bee jacket and security i.d. when my first two “beekeepers” were escorted through the fence and patted down. One, thin with dreadlocks, stared right through me as though I were vapor. The second, an enormous beefy guy, wore a tank top that displayed a lacework of ships, daggers, hearts, snakes, and vines that undulated across his skin.

“My name is Rusty” I said as I unlocked the bee shed.

“So?” said Dreadlocks.

“So what’s yours?” I said.

His face puckered as if he were eating lemons, but he said nothing.

“Bryan,” Tattoos muttered. “That’s Bryan. I’m Clyde.” Then he spat.

Oh effing wonderful, I thought. Bryan and Clyde. How could this happen? I picked out the largest suit we had and gave it to Clyde. I turned to Bryan. “What size?”

“Whatever,” he said, so I selected one and handed it to him.

“Don’t need it,” he snapped. He crossed his arms and refused to touch it.

“Whatever,” I echoed, and tucked it under my arm.

It was a glorious spring day, unseasonably warm, and the bees were in rare form, darting in and out of their hives humming like a track hoe. I was telling my charges that we would open the hives so they could see what was going on in there. We approached the hives from the rear, and as we got closer I could feel them lag behind.

People say guns are equalizers, but there is nothing like a robust bee hive to separate the men from the boys. I turned toward my students. “Well, come on. You can’t see from there,” I said. I could feel the power subtly shift.

Bryan and Clyde stood motionless while I struggled to open the first hive. Weapons of minor destruction are not allowed on prison grounds and no exception is made for hive tools. I had to break open hives sealed with six months’ worth of propolis with my bare hands. Although Tattoos could probably juggle bowling balls, he moved not one of his vine-wrapped muscles to help. With sudden inspiration, I pulled on my veil, put a stone in my glove, and gave the upper box a good whack.

The box broke free and bees erupted from the hive into a sort of mushroom cloud, gray and lethal. This swarm had a marvelous effect on Bryan and Clyde: they ran. Just as they were hightailing it across the yard, a prison guard with a loaded gun and a shiny car rolled up (not too close) and lowered his window a centimeter, not even enough to shoot through. “Any problem here?” he hollered.

I glanced at my cowering charges who were now eagerly yanking on their bee suits. I tried not to grin and spoke so everyone could hear me. “No problem. We got a few cranky bees here, but nothing compared to what’s coming.” A moment later, Clyde shouted for duct tape and the man with the gun left rubber in the driveway.

I returned to the hives and pulled the stone trick three more times. I now had a towering inferno of bees so thick I could hardly see through it, so loud I could barely hear the anguished cries coming from Tattoos as he danced around like a circus bear. “He stung me! He stung me!”

“She,” I said reflexively.

“No really! He did! He did! Look! Ouch! Look at my nose! Oh my god!”

I felt bad for beefy Clyde in a way, but I was also overjoyed. Our first session was going well. We were beginning to understand each other; they had learned their first lesson and I had learned mine. I turned toward the hives and whispered sweetly. “Way to go, girls. Damn if I don’t love ya.”

Mentoring was going to be fun.

Rusty
HoneyBeeSuite

Honey bee in willow tree by Bob Peterson.
Honey bee in willow tree by Bob Peterson.

A sting in winter

The pain began slowly but rose to a searing crescendo. The heat was furious, like someone holding a flame to my thumb. I knew what it was of course. I’d felt it a hundred times before.

It was cold outside—mid 20s with a light dusting of snow. I had decided to slip some hard candy into each of the hives because it was too cold to move frames around. I was wearing a heavy jacket and a pair of winter gloves with elastic around the wrists.

The job went quickly and only two or three bees escaped to die in the snow. I was finished and walking toward home when the pain hit.

Now, here’s the problem. I come from a family of researchers, doctors, and dentists—all of whom taught me that science can supply the answers to nearly all questions. I firmly believe that if you are armed with a solid background in chemistry, physics, and biology you should be able to explain most phenomena. But much to my dismay, the whole system breaks down when you’re talking bees.

You see, there was no bee on my glove, but I could hear her. When I pulled off the glove, I found the stinger planted firmly in the tip of my thumb and I could still hear her. I knew she couldn’t be inside the glove, but I turned it inside out anyway. And there she was—squished against the fabric, nearly dead but looking mighty proud.

But the glove was snug and the elastic was tight. For the life of me I can’t see how she dug under the elastic, squirmed along my hand, and tunneled the length of my thumb before burying her stinger in the very tip. There was just no room for all that nonsense.

I put the glove back on and stood in the snow conducting scientific inquiry. I scrooched my wrist all around trying to see if I could make a gap in the elastic large enough for a bee. No chance. I inspected it for holes, split seams, or other points of entry. No chance. I even went back to the hive as if the answer might be written there but, of course, no chance.

So I conclude what I always do when the bees pull one over on me—simply that you’ve got to love ‘em.

Rusty
HoneyBeeSuite

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