You see, I don’t know what you mean by “natural beekeeper.” I don’t know your definition. I don’t even know [...]]]> Wow. I hate that question. When I hear it I want to snap, “No. I’m not natural. I’m a fake. It’s all smoke and mirrors.” But I’m too polite (well, usually) to go there.

You see, I don’t know what you mean by “natural beekeeper.” I don’t know your definition. I don’t even know what you call an unnatural one.

The way I see it, all beekeepers fall on a bell curve. The x-axis measures “naturalness” from zero to infinity. The y-axis measures the number of beekeepers. Like anything else that falls on a bell curve, you will have a very small number of beekeepers at each end of the curve (the very unnatural and the very natural) while most are going to fall somewhere in the middle.

Bell curve

The real problem is in the definition. On this website, I’ve deliberately avoided calling my style of beekeeping natural, although it is much closer to natural than unnatural. If I call what I do natural, it will just elicit argument from those whose definition is different from my own. Does that follow?

It’s similar to politics. On some issues you could call me left (liberal) and on other issues you could call me right (conservative). So I don’t bother with a label because it just confuses people. Labels come with a host of expectations which are different depending on who’s listening.

So what is a natural beekeeper? As Phillip over at Mudsongs recently pointed out, the phrase “natural beekeeper” is an oxymoron. Bees don’t naturally live under the care of humans; they would rather do it their own way. So if you are keeping bees in a manmade structure and you try to prevent them from leaving (swarming), you’ve created an unnatural situation—one that does not exist in nature.

Some aspects of beekeeping engender more argument than others. For example, most beekeepers agree that using chemical pesticides precludes one from being natural. But what about organic acids or essential oils for mite control? Some say it is okay, some say it is not.

Where else might you draw the line? Well, like I said, it depends on who you talk to, but here are a few ideas. The following things are definitely unnatural, at least from the bees’ perspective:

• Hive inspections

• Re-queening

• Any type of swarm prevention

• Artificial feed, including sugar and pollen substitutes

• Making the bees build up when the want to build down or vice versa (brood nest management)

• Artificial insemination

• Preformed foundation

• Drone management

• Plastic parts in the hive

• Queen marking or clipping

• Harvesting honey, pollen, propolis, or wax

My point is that naturalness is a relative thing. And if you are keeping bees—managing bees—you have already crossed the line into unnaturalness. If you are a beginner, I think it is important to find your own place on the continuum. Don’t let people intimidate you into a definition of naturalness that doesn’t fit with your own goals, beliefs, experience, or financial means.

I would argue that even those beekeepers on the extreme natural end of the curve—those that consider themselves super natural beekeepers—aren’t really. Natural beekeeping is something you can aspire to, strive for, but you’ll never actually achieve. If you asked the bees their opinion of human interlopers, I’m sure it wouldn’t be good—no matter what techniques they ascribe to.

Rusty
HoneyBeeSuite

I [...]]]> First and foremost, we miss our bees. That must sound silly to a non-beekeeper, but the rest of you know. It’s lonely out there, not having to duck and run, not sporting red welts on your hands. It’s eerily quiet. And like returning home from summer camp, the separation anxiety can kill you.

I worry about my bees. Do they have enough to eat? Are they warm? Do they have sufficient books and board games to keep them occupied? Will I ever see them again?

Cooking with honey whenever I can

But for direct physical contact with stinging insects, I’m just as bee busy in winter as in summer. On cold rainy nights, bee reading beckons. A pile of books, like that tower in Pisa, tilts from my desk. Columns of reading material rise stalagmite-like from the carpet. Bits and bytes clog up my Kindle. I think about reading more than I actually do it, but it is pleasurable all the same. Like a new cookbook, a new bee book is more about anticipation than substance.

All of which reminds me of the plethora of recipes I want to try. Honey cakes and honey muffins, honey jams and honey mustards. And while I’m still in the kitchen there is wax to melt, candles to mold, and soap to wrap into gifts.

Bee-pollinated peach pie

When I don’t feel like cooking or melting, I scan the seed catalogs for bee friendly plants, for flowers with blue pollen, for blooms with scads of nectar, and petals that look great in bee portraits. I imagine intricate bee gardens where something is always in bloom. In my mind’s eye I see honey bees, mason bees, and bumble bees vying for the sweetest meal. I see cheerful blossoms bending under their weight, happy to donate their burden of nectar.

Winter is the time when I draw sketches of new equipment or variations on the old. I dream up new ways of feeding, of catching swarms, of raising queens. I build supers, wire frames, and paint and repair whatever equipment is not in the field. I peruse the bee catalogs while jotting down lists and ideas for the year ahead. I think about the perfect bee suit, about a veil that doesn’t collapse against my face, a suit with pockets aplenty for hive tools, notebooks, cameras, voice recorders, dog treats, and duct tape.

A dusting of snow

The best part is preparing for the biggest honey crop ever. That crop is on its way. It’s coming next year. Always next year. I think about designing a new label for my boxes of comb honey—in fact, designing a whole new box. I think about inventing a new candy called a HoneyBeeSuiteSweet. Or a HoneyBeeSuite². I discover, much to my horror, that I’ve spelled “trophallaxis” wrong in no fewer than six posts—for all the world to smirk over.

And while all this is going on, the calendar flips by. There are all those holidays to plan for and, before you know it, it’s time for adding candy boards, mixing up pollen patties, and checking on the queens. Suddenly the buds start to swell on those bigleaf maples and a five-eyed furry creature is peeking up at you from the safety of her hive. Her antennae sample the air. She doesn’t quite take off, but you can see her thinking about it. You relax. Life begins anew.

Rusty

HoneyBeeSuite.com

A maple in winter

The husband [...]]]> I‘ve been feeling guilty about something for over a year. The truth is this: I completely scared off a new beekeeper . . . or rather her husband. While I normally go out of my way to encourage new beekeepers, in this case, I snuffed one out before she even got started.

The husband in question runs a local packing and shipping business where I have a private mailbox. For years he has been fascinated by the things that arrive in my name: multiple big and heavy boxes–some with bees printed on the outside, catalogs with bees on the cover, and journals containing color photos of bees and hives and flowers. Even queens have made an occasional appearance. Time after time he has offered to carry these things to my truck, plying me with questions the entire time.

He has asked a zillion things and I have answered. I have given him honey three or four different times. He has told me that his wife wants to keep bees and that he was going to buy her a beginner kit for Christmas, then her birthday, then her anniversary . . . but the occasion never quite arrived.

Then came the day it all ended. I had given him a number of bee catalogs and on this particular day he had one opened to a page of bee suits. He said, “Do they stay white like that? Can you wash them?”

I laughed and said something to the effect that you could wash them till kingdom come but they never come clean. In fact, I said, mine looks really disgusting.

And that was it. He never asked another question. He never again mentioned getting bees for his wife. He stopped asking what flowers the bees were pollinating, and never again asked for honey. I killed all desire for bees by saying my bee suit was disgusting.

I feel really, really bad about this, but is it my fault? He is one of those people who is immaculately groomed with a spotlessly clean white truck, a perfectly ironed shirt, and impeccably cut hair. So should I have known this was the wrong thing to say? Should I have seen the writing on the wall? I can’t imagine keeping bees without getting a tad messy now and again, but that’s one reason for a bee suit, is it not?

I still have my private mailbox, and I still see this man about once a week. I sign for my boxes and he hands them over without a word. I’ve often wished his wife would show up at the store so I could invite her to the apiary. But she doesn’t, and I have never even met her. Too bad.

I’ve tried to forget the whole thing, but I’m reminded of it every time I climb into my bee suit which is, by the way, truly disgusting.

Rusty

HoneyBeeSuite.com

Oddly, it doesn’t seem to matter where the bees are or what they forage on. The odor is singular and [...]]]> What is the odor that so defines an industrious hive? It has to be a blend of beeswax, nectar, larvae, and pheromones–a mix overlaid with pollen, propolis, and wood. But the combination is unique.

Oddly, it doesn’t seem to matter where the bees are or what they forage on. The odor is singular and unforgettable. If you smelled it once when you were five, you would recognize it fifty years later.

It’s also one of those odors that can be conjured up by association. If I just hear a busy hive, I can imagine the scent. Or if I only see bees darting and soaring overhead, I smell the aroma. Although the odor is pleasant to beekeepers, I can imagine others finding it somewhat unsettling. A bit feral, perhaps, or gamey.

I was reminded of it several weeks ago when my husband and I were pouring over some unrelated project–broken dishwasher or the like–when he suddenly said, “You smell like a beehive.”  Well, jeese, I hardly knew how to respond. So I settled on, “Thank you.”

But when I try to describe beehive smell, I come up blank. To me, it has earthy notes. And hints of salt. Mysterious, musky, balmy. It is not sharp, tangy, or acrid but soft and round like cotton and nebulous like sea foam. It’s an odor you could stuff a pillow with.

So the next time you inhale “busy beehive” think of all the folks who never have. Think how lucky you are. Think how much fuller your life has become now that others think you smell like bugs.

Rusty

This is a heartwarming [...]]]> Last year a beekeeper told me that his bees were getting used to him. He said that as the summer progressed they had “accepted” him as their keeper and they “realized” he was only trying to help. Furthermore, he claimed they became more docile every time he opened the hive.

This is a heartwarming story. It is also totally ridiculous. Although bees are heavy into consensus-building, they do not normally include the welfare of humans in their agenda. And even if an individual bee perceived a human as a non-threatening organism, that bee is only going to live four weeks or so. By the time the beekeeper re-opens the hive he is faced with a completely different cohort. These bees have never seen the beekeeper before—and I doubt they leave messages for each other taped to the refrigerator.

A colony of bees varies in its aggressiveness depending on a number of factors. Colonies that have gone queenless, have been pestered by animals, or are exposed to high levels of noise may be skittish and temperamental. Colonies at the end of winter, in the midst of a nectar flow, or in the act of swarming may seem unnaturally calm. These fluctuations in behavior can be helpful clues as to what is taking place inside the hive.

My point here is that a good beekeeper is constantly assessing clues to colony health and making decisions based on the information he has. Changing temperament is a clue to things that are happening within the colony. A good beekeeper should make use of this information instead of deluding himself into thinking he has become one with his bees.

Of course, that said, this past weekend I delivered a nuc of bees to a friend. In the course of inspecting the hives, her bees stung me . . . and my bees walked across my hands as if we were pals (which, perhaps, we were!) Soooo, what is going on here?

Rusty

My engineer husband has a skinny little book–about a half-inch thick–that explains everything you need to know about building a rocket. It has charts, tables, and graphs about things like nozzle sizes and thrust. It’s a cookbook. If you [...]]]> No, beekeeping is not rocket science. It would be nice if it were that easy.

My engineer husband has a skinny little book–about a half-inch thick–that explains everything you need to know about building a rocket. It has charts, tables, and graphs about things like nozzle sizes and thrust. It’s a cookbook. If you can read the book, you can build a rocket.

Nothing about beekeeping is nearly that simple. You can have six dozen books and fifty years of experience and still lose half your bees . . . or all of them. It happens.

My point here is not to discourage you, but to remind you that beekeeping is not simple. I have read many e-mails this year from beekeepers who lost some, most, or all their bees. I can often hear despair in the words they write and sense the disappointment they feel. But don’t beat yourself up! Remember, the entire planet is conspiring against honey bees and it’s your job to help them.

The challenges for beekeepers are legion. You know what they are. Dozens of diseases, hundreds of pesticides, along with habitat destruction, urbanization, climate change, invasive species, land fragmentation, inbred bees, genetically modified organisms, monoculture crops, and industrial farming to name a few. Each in its own way affects honey bees, often in ways we don’t understand.

Beekeeping is evolving with the times, but the environmental changes are occurring even faster. As a result, colony failure is commonplace.

You cannot afford to become discouraged. If you lose your bees, start again. Try something different. Hone your skills. I truly believe that every beekeeper, whether he has fifty days or fifty years of experience, has the opportunity to offer something to the rest of us.

Beekeeping is a mysterious and magical endeavor, but there is much to learn. And the actual keeping of bees is just the tip of the iceberg–a good beekeeper knows something about plant biology, pollination, bloom times, insecticides, herbicides, nutrition, weather patterns, disease organisms, crop production, heat gain/loss in outdoor spaces, moisture control, reproductive strategies of various pests, carpentry, and even candy making.

The many aspects of beekeeping provide endless opportunities for innovation. And remember, we don’t know where the next breakthrough will come from . . . but it could come from you.

Rusty

Hives in spring.