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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.

A winter bee?

Nearly a case of mistaken identity. I’m glad that got sorted out.
Nearly a case of mistaken identity. I’m glad that got sorted out.

It goes without saying that beekeepers are a weird lot. Still, it’s amazing to what lengths a human being will go to imitate the glorious honey bee. Right. So this morning I received these photos from Ivan in Wisconsin. Ivan has been hanging around Honey Bee Suite long enough for me to recognize both his real name and screen name. In fact, I really felt like I knew him until these came in. I’ll let him explain:

This is what can happen when a person enjoys bees and cross-country skiing. This costume was purchased by my beloved wife as a Christmas gift; she and the kids have a hard time spotting their husband/dad at the end of the race amongst the see of humanity. This race is a 54 km race between Cable and Hayward, Wisconsin. I was mistaken for a bumble bee several times but, all in all, I was referred to as a “bee.” Needless to say it was a blast, but due to the wind resistance factor, I think I’ll just wear the usual attire next year.

Ivan making a beeline for the finish line.
Ivan making a beeline for the finish line.

A personal note to cranky old beekeepers

Sometimes it is hard to be equable when people make ridiculous comments. For the most part I succeed until someone writes, “My grandfather kept healthy bees for 50 years. If that method worked for him, it will work for me.”

Great. Fine. So why are you asking me how to fix your problem?

Based on other things they say, I’m guessing that many of these folks are about 60, give or take. If I add 20 to 25 years per generation, I can assume their grandfathers were born 100 to 110 years ago. Those newborn babes probably started beekeeping 10-20 years later (especially if they did it for 50 years) which means they began in 1910 to 1930.

The numbers don’t have to be exact. The point is that they were beekeeping

    • Before Varroa mites
    • Before CCD
    • Before IAPV
    • Before small hive beetles
    • Before pervasive use of pesticides
    • Before migratory beekeeping
    • Before climate change
    • Before multi-lane highways
    • Before coast-to-coast suburbia
    • Before massive monoculture crops
    • Before genetically modified organisms
    • Before widespread habitat fragmentation
    • Before Africanized honey bees
    • Before polluted air, water, soil, and flowers
    • Before California almonds

Furthermore, if you belong to this group, your grandfather probably heated bathwater on the stove, got the news from a crotchety radio with hot tubes inside, and made calls from a telephone forever attached to the wall. If he had a car at all, he started it with a hand crank. Fast food meant it was running when shot. Heck, your grandfather needed a tool just to open a bottle of Coke.

But hey, if you think the old ways will work for you, knock yourself out. But if you are going to make inane statements about beekeeping, if you have no clue that the world has changed, then you have no business sending digital code to my computer. Write me a letter instead. Use a fountain pen and ink, paper and envelope, and a postage stamp to tell me the old ways are better.

If you think I don’t care about the past, you are wrong. We learn from those who have gone before us. We are inspired by those who have tried and failed and those who have tried and triumphed.

What’s more, “cranky and old” has nothing to do with age and everything to do with attitude. Young people can be dull and prejudiced just as old people can be alert and receptive. It’s got to do with your brain, not the year you were born.

When we study the past, we see that a serious mistake is made by hanging on to a tradition, a belief, or an idea that is no longer sound in a modern world. Yes, things may have been better in a former time, but we are not there, we are here. We have to deal with things the way they are, not the way we would like them to be.

So take care of your bees by remembering that this is not your grandfather’s planet. This is the environment we’ve provided for our bees and ourselves, and it’s often not pretty. But it is what it is. Make the best of it; learn to handle it . . . that’s the better way to bee.

Rusty
HoneyBeeSuite

She’s been framed!

It’s been nearly a year since I ran a post called Searching for humor. In that post I listed phrases that people had typed into search boxes that ultimately landed them on this site. Yesterday, on a whim, I looked back through the last thirty days of searches and came up with the following list. I don’t know if they are as funny as last time—certainly there are no prizes as good as “pollen tramp”—but some are thought-provoking nevertheless.

My posts have been woefully serious in the last few weeks, so I thought I would lighten it up a bit before going back to recipes, winter management, and dead bees. Punctuation was added for clarity.

  • How can I frame a honey bee?
  • Is beehive inhalation good or bad?
  • My bees won’t stand down.
  • How to stop my syrup from decrystallizing?
  • Bee feelers for sale.
  • Need software for my mites.
  • I killed my honey.
  • How to make purple honey without bees?
  • My beekeeping gloves stink.
  • How do you eat a beehive?
  • Is syrup a liquid or solid?
  • Why is honey bee camping wet?
  • Can eating colored paint cause diarrhea?
  • I need a walkaway bee suit.
  • My frames rotated.
  • How should I overwinter dead bees?
  • Need a cream of tartar plant.
  • Can that wax-like thing be eaten whole?
  • Drones don’t sing.
  • Want queen shearing lessons.
  • Honey bee egg rolls.
  • What do honey bees read in winter?
  • Need Warré style sawdust.
  • Why do bees fall in love?
  • My bees are moving their hive.
  • Honey bee settee.
  • I need a demonstration of table manners.
  • My frames are having comb problems.

Rusty
HoneyBeeSuite

The Zen of bees

I sit perched on the hive stand, leaning back against number one. It vibrates like a refrigerator, low and steady. Scent oozes thickly from the entrance. Moist and earthy and sweet, it reminds me of raw meat. I close my eyes and recall the other constant sounds of nature:

  • The waves pound the soft sands of Nauset Beach, coughing up little pieces of green, a shell, a triangle of glass. The roar is constant and deafening. In the dark, we shout to be heard but soon give up. The five of us—sailing instructors with a night off—are content to pass the baguette, the cheddar, the reed-wrapped bottle of Chianti. Somewhere offshore, the clank of metal against metal and the slippery scent of sea life pickled in brine remind me that we are not alone.
  • In the Anza-Borrego desert, the incessant wind shreds itself against prickly saguaros and jagged rocks. This whistle of air rending itself to bits is high-pitched and baleful. I hunch in the shade of one of those rocks, yanking the spines of a cholla cactus from my palm. One drop of blood seeps from each wound and dries in an instant. I wrap my hand in a bandana smelling of fresh cotton and swear. I could keep my sanity, I think, if the wailing wind would stop for one minute. Just one minute.
  • On Route 36 somewhere in Kansas, I can’t hear myself think. Billions of ears of wheat rub together, whispering against themselves like the folds of a million nylon flags. But the tiny noise is amplified—acres and acres of little sounds rising to the blue in an ever-rising crescendo. I look for a tree, a hedge, a sheltered place for my tent, but the place is empty of everything but wind and wheat and sound.
  • The Elwha River flows north through the Olympic Mountains. Stars prick holes through the night sky but the noise doesn’t seep out. The river sorts its way through riffles, around stones, over logs, and under the arching branches of vine maple and red alder. The darkness and the cacophony is a handicap. When I boil some snowmelt for tea and pasta, the scent of the match and the whiff of Coleman fuel overwhelm my remaining senses, but food never tasted so good.

And so it is with bees. Unlike wind and water, bees are living things. But they share a keep-going-ness, a stick-to-it-ness, with the strongest forces of nature. This time of year, I can hear the thrum before I get close to the hive. It is exciting, life-affirming, a testament to Earth. To live your life without experiencing the force we call honey bees would be to come up short. I never miss a chance to just be with the bees. To bee is to be.

Rusty
HoneyBeeSuite

The Zen of bees.
The Zen of bees.