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Bee sweet and don’t ask me such things!

I was hoping no one would ask the unanswerable question, but it just arrived . . . from my daughter, of all people. She wrote, “Why do the bees hang on the outside of the swarm trap? I always envisioned them going inside.” Hmm.

When I discovered a swarm hanging from the bottom of trap #1, another swarm was occupying the inside. It seemed to me that both swarms had decided on that trap as a place to live, and both had arrived there at more or less the same time. I imagined that the first swarm took the inside and the second was forced to remain outside.

However, days later when I found a swarm on the outside of trap #2, no one else was living inside. It was completely empty. So now I’m confused.

Both swarm traps have pheromone lures mounted on the inside. The lures are attached near the entrance holes so the scent can escape from the hole and attract homeless bees. The lures are new but the traps are old. I don’t know how many seasons they’ve been hanging out there, but I’m guessing at least five. They’ve been wet and dry so many times that they became warped, and the two sections (the base and the cone) no longer fit tightly together.

My current theory is that more scent is leaking from the intersection of the two parts than is emitting from the entrance hole. The bees were clinging to that exact spot in both cases. On the other hand, I would think that when the bees were close to the trap it would be hard for them to tell which end the odor was coming from. Then again, I’m not a bee.

Another possibility is that the bees were using the trap as a temporary resting spot while they looked for a new home. In other words, they had no intention of staying there, only to use it as a staging area the way swarms do. The traps are not particularly far from the hives, so I suppose that is possible. But swarms usually settle very close to their original hive while they house hunt, and these were little far away for that. I’m just not sure.

Rusty

Are the pheromones leaking out the back?
Are the pheromones leaking out the back?

A perfect swarm

A week after the flurry of swarms abated and the summer solstice passed, I decided swarm season was over. As in other years, the swarms happened all at once—a storm of swarms—and now all was quiet.

Although it was late in the day and beginning to get dark, my husband suggested we walk to the upper hives. This was more for exercise than anything else. At first I hesitated, but then I agreed to go.

It was a beauteous evening, warm and peaceful. We trekked up the hill, passing bait hives and swarm traps. We stopped briefly at the top of the hill and then retraced our path.

My husband was ahead of me on the way home. Suddenly I heard an “Ohmygod!” Based on his tone, I assumed he stepped on a slug.

But when I caught up, he was staring at the swarm trap we had passed minutes earlier. Hanging beneath it was a picture-perfect swarm—huge, symmetrical, and so quiet we had missed it earlier. We were amazed.

Because it was getting dark fast, we literally ran down the hill, loaded the pickup with a bait hive, an eight-foot ladder, and a few tools. We drove up the gravel road to a spot not far from the swarm.

I prepared the hive as my husband erected the ladder. When he lifted the trap from the nail, the swarm remained all of a piece except for a few dozen bees that clung to the tree. With military precision, the bees were all parallel with heads towards the sky.

With a solid thump against the hive, I dumped the entire swarm into the top box. It dropped like lead. I have never handled such a docile swarm. It stayed put with very few fly-ups. Maybe it was the time of day or the rapidly dropping temperature. I don’t know for sure, but it was cool.

Early the next morning, I found no bees at the entrance but many bees ringing the outside of the hive near the top. A few had migrated back their former spot beneath the swarm trap. I thought perhaps they wanted an upper entrance, so I made one.

Within minutes, the bees were fanning madly at the new entrance. Within two hours everyone was inside the new hive, including the group from the swarm trap. Now, a week later, the bottom entrance is bustling and the inhabitants are as busy as . . . well . . . bees.

Rusty

A perfect swarm. The eight-foot ladder in the foreground gives an idea of the height.
A perfect swarm. The eight-foot ladder in the foreground gives an idea of the height.

One trap catches two swarms . . . at the same time

The next morning everything was the same, that is, one swarm in the alder, one in the cypress, and one in each of the two swarm traps. I had other things to do, so I didn’t look again until noon when—you guessed it—more surprises.

The cypress swarm was still in place, but very active. The huge swarm in the alder was gone. Vanished. The uppermost swarm trap seemed to be empty as well—I saw only scouts. But the second swarm trap was overflowing with bees at the opening plus there was a humongous swarm hanging from the bottom.

Was this outer swarm the one from the alder? Or was it an entirely different swarm? I have no clue. I put a hive together and, standing beneath the swarm trap, dropped the bees into a cardboard box with a rake. I had to do this several times but, ultimately, the swarm covered all ten frames of the new box. Do I have a queen? I’ll have to wait to know for sure.

By the time I went down to the house for a break, the cypress swarm was gone. I felt bad for it because it was kind of small and wouldn’t last long. I think it was a secondary or tertiary swarm, just based on its size.

With my husband’s help, I prepared another hive and he took down the occupied swarm trap. I couldn’t believe it: the trap was level full of bees. I don’t see how they got in or out. Three small combs had been started, but I didn’t see any eggs.

Here’s my question: did one swarm decide on that bait hive after the other swarm already moved in? Or had they decided earlier, waited too long, and then arrived only to find it full? How did this all happen? The unusual stuff is never in the books . . . and almost everything bees do is unusual.

Although I have one virgin queen and two old queens in reserve, I’m going to rear some more since I just don’t know how many I’m going to need. Anyway, that’s the end of the swarm story for now. I hope it slows down because I’m flat out of bee boxes.

Rusty

The other large swarm is on the inside of this trap.
The other large swarm is on the inside of this trap.
About ten minutes after raking, bees start to gather again.
About ten minutes after raking, bees start to gather again.
Much later, my husband retrieves the second swarm.
Much later, my husband retrieves the second swarm.

“A swarm in June . . .” No, make that two

The noise got louder as I walked up the hill. It was coming from the vicinity of the middle hive stand, which is on a steep incline. At first I thought the swarm was down the hill from where I stood, so for a few moments I thrashed through the underbrush looking for it. But as I listened more carefully, I realized it was overhead. My fleeting hope of catching it was dashed.

It took a long time to pinpoint the swarm because the racket from the other hives was confusing. But I finally spotted it, high in a red alder.

If you know anything at all about the Pacific Northwest coast, you know we grow trees like nobody’s business. They go up and up—nothing like those cute little saplings they have back east.

Now, nearly any bee book will tell you that a newly issued swarm will land within a few yards of the parent hive while it re-groups and decides where to live. Well, this is true if you’re talking about the horizontal direction. But while these bees landed about three yards east of the hive, they were many yards away in the vertical direction. Books never tell you that.

This was a huge swarm, much bigger than the one in the cypress. But even with a telephoto lens, I could barely see the thing. I examined the three hives below it and, of course, I couldn’t figure out where it came from. They all looked just as busy as before, although I’m sure it came from one of the three.

So, with two swarms treed within minutes of each other, I decided to check my bait hives. Three of them already had looky-loos—bees flying in, then out, examining the exterior, going back in. House hunting, I suppose, then checking out the local schools, shopping, parks, and freeway access. The swarm traps, as usual, showed no activity.

I watched the bait hives now and again till nightfall, but the swarms were quiet. It was clear they would spend the night in the trees, discussing moving companies, home inspections, and financing terms.

To be continued . . .

Rusty

You can barely see the swarm in the alder tree.
You can barely see the swarm in the alder tree.

Honey bees ignore swarm traps

Several years ago I bought two swarm traps, hoping to catch runaway honey bees. They look like giant paper-mache flower pots with lids. Now swarm trap hanging, baiting, and storing are rituals I repeat every year. So far, however, they have yielded nothing.

Before I purchased the traps I bought the DVD from Brushy Mountain Bee Farm that explains in slow southern detail all the in-and-outs of swarm trapping. It describes where to hang them, how high to hang them, and which direction they should face. It shows how to install the pheromone lure and explains how often to replace it. The DVD features beekeepers who have populated whole apiaries by catching swarms—hundreds of swarms. By the end of the DVD I was sure I could add dozens of hives to my collection.

As it turns out, swarm traps are little more than a storage problem for me. Because western Washington winters are so wet, I take them down in the fall and store them in a shed. In the spring, I buy new lures and hang them up again. I suppose I will keep doing this until they wear out . . . or I do. Something about a fragrant spring morning after a long, dank winter always compels me to try again.

The answer to why they don’t work for me is also in the DVD. For one thing, they are mounted too close to my own apiary. I tried to put them as far away as possible, but that isn’t very far. Honey bees like to move away from a crowded area when they swarm, so I’m highly unlikely to catch my own swarms with traps mounted so nearby.

The other reason is that there are not a lot of beekeepers in my area—at least none that I know about. Swarm traps are really good for catching your neighbor’s honey bees, but if your neighbors don’t have honey bees then you’re left trying to catch feral swarms. But, again, those bees are not going to want to move into a crowded area.

The one swarm I did catch this summer flew right past my swarm traps loaded with fresh pheromones and into an empty top-bar hive that was sitting beside the driveway. That was definitely more convenient for me than moving them from a trap into the hive, but how often is that going to happen?

So for now, up the hill I go. It’s time to bring the swarm traps in for another long, wet winter.

Rusty

Swarm trap in a tree. Photo by the author.
Swarm trap in a tree. Photo by the author.