Hiving the Bees II

The package is opened

After hanging the queen cage, we jostle, as gently as possible, the bees into the opened hive. They fall out in great clumps and masses but seem calm nonetheless.

The bees in their new home

After most bees are in the hive, we replace the top bars and let them orient themselves to their new world. They will mark this location in their collective conscienceness and always return here, despite foraging up to four miles away.

Two entrances plugged with grass, the main entrance already guarded

Even now, moments after their disorderly arrival, the bees begin their ceaseless working. We hold our breath and are greeted by the softest humming sound - a gentle whirring that could lull even a seasoned insomniac to dreams. The bees are buzzing - vibrating their wings like thousands of hummingbirds - to circulate the queen's pheromones throughout their new home which gives each individual her place in the colony. The work will end only when she -the worker -is worked to death - about 30 days. By the time these workers die, the queen will have (hopefully) mated, laid new workers, and the hive will be well on its way to permanent establishment.

Sarah demonstrating the calm of a beekeeper

Hiving the Bees

The chill is in the air, the snow is on the ground, the bees are mellow, we're all set... then... WOOSH! The wind begins to blow... and blow... and BLOW. The biting wind will not give up and we are forced to hold off on the hiving. My yard looks like a logging operation came through and forgot the mop up. No trees were felled, but enough branches, needles and cones were scattered about, I wondered. The bees cannot keep waiting in their cage for this weather to cooperate. The anxiety of the last two days is reminiscent of the days before birthing a baby - will my babies survive? can they be safely born into this new world with so much chaos raging around them? When will it finally be the right time?

Then this evening, just as furiously as they arrived, the winds receded, and we all knew the time is now.

Sarah and I prepare the hive for the honeybee package

(the small box on top of the hive)

The honeybees are delivered in a three pound caged package. There are thousands of bees in the package - mostly female workers, a few male drones, and one precious queen in her own special queencage. The queen is the focus that binds the colony together, without her, the colony would cease to be a working unit.

The queencage hanging from a topbar

We inspect the queen, take out the cork to her cage opening, then fill it with "candy" the workers will eventually eat through to free her. In the meantime, her cage is hung from a topbar and her sweet pheromones are released, chemically bonding the colony together in one of the most miraculous displays of organization in nature.

The Top Bar Hive

Jarrod's masterpiece

So here we are, the top bar hive is completed (the roof is on the ground to the left), and my husband is proud of his carpentry skills. The journey from the here to now -the day the bees arrive- has been both exciting and nerve-wracking. To step into the world of the apiarist fills me with butterflies, but here we go, bees.

Jarrod holds one top bar with the strip of beeswax in place, ready for the comb building to begin

The decision to begin this journey hiving the bees top bar vice the traditional "white box" langstroth was an easy one for me. Having never raised bees, but learning of the many diseases, parasites and problems they now face - ever heard of colony collapse disorder? - I felt letting the bees create their own comb and essentially their own hive was a style best suited to my ideals. It is all a grand experiment, will take time, and may not always be successful. Over time, however, I hope to learn the subtle expressions of the colony, to enable the best suited bees to strengthen naturally, and one day have several healthy bee colonies that may just share with me some of their hard earned honey. Cut comb honey anyone?

A hive with a view

We positioned the top bar hive with its three entrances facing southeast, allowing the warm, early sun to motivate the bees first thing in the morning. To the north, a steep, rocky slope protects the hive from bitter northeasterlies. To the west, a large twisted serviceberry provides protection from the southwesterlies that pummel us with the occasional thunderstorm. The legs of the hive are partially buried in the rocks to stabilize and level the hive. Bees naturally build comb according to gravity, so if I want straight comb, the hive needs to be level. The hive is elevated off the ground, so mice/skunks/etc. shouldn't be a problem. I'll watch for ants, but my biggest concern is bears. Winnie the Pooh is a real problem here in Montana... I'll share some honey, Pooh, just be gentle on my bees.

serviceberry in the spring

After finishing the dishes and packing tomorrow's lunches, I was offered the rare chance to wander solo (well, not completely solo... my thrilled dog accompanied me) outside this evening. With the kids happily curled up with Daddy inside, I meandered down the trail to check on our lower river property. What beauty there is even now! At first glance, the woods appeared the same weary, bleak branches I've watched all winter. Then something catches the eye... like a haze or a faint smoke... a tinge of green that makes one look twice. Suddenly, the whole forest is speckled with tiny green buds... the most gentle green the woods will ever sport. But that's not all. Dusting the green buds and the bare branches is a mist of white snow so minimal it deceives the mind into thinking the forest is just a shade brighter, despite the swirling darkness of the evening clouds. Its a teasing preview to the white show of serviceberry and mock orange blooms to come... There is so much to be seen when I just look twice.

The river is running high now. The snow from the mountains obviously melted quickly during the recent warm days and has now created an angry brown force that threatens to take down any weakened tree daring too close to the banks. I'll keep my distance. I check the old rhubarb my dad gave me two years ago before the house was built. I planted it down near the river under some large cottonwoods that seemed stable and protecting. That rhubarb has been cultivated for probably 80 years - it came from my Norweigen great-grandparents' North Dakota farm - and now its finally growing free and wild in the woods... and it is thriving! I wasn't sure after something (a deer?) tore it up last summer right before I was going to put it in a pie, but now I know it is a survivor. Its amazing how life clings and comes back year after year.

I am awed by what I have seen this evening. I hope everyone has the chance to go outside solo and look twice...

The Promise of Spring

I Begin in April

I have to thank my friend Sarah for this foray into blogging. Actually, I have to thank Sarah for many inspirations - beekeeping, local Montana living, a partner in running. Its so comforting to have friends who hold dear the same things as me, who inspire me with their genuine kindness, encouragement and grace. These people are invaluable and add that sprinkle of happiness to the world -they make us better people.

It is late April. My cheeks still sport a slight pink tinge from my first sunburn of the season - Monday was actually high 70s hot! The sunburn is keeping me warm on this cold, low 30s SNOWY Montana spring Thursday. Yes, springtime is a fickle thing here in the Flathead. It teases us with its elusive warm sun... the nurseries and gardens are bustling on those rare days... only to find themselves lonely and windswept the next, possibly even with another dusting of snow. I can recall living in Southern California and longing for the inclement weather of my childhood, longing to long for the sun. Now - the longing is strong and pulsing and gets me as giddy as a schoolgirl at the prospect of another nice day. That's what makes life so wonderful, right? The longing, the anticipation, the appreciation for the new.

And new is coming! My spring garden was planted 10 days ago. Already mesclun, mustard, onions, garlic and radishs emerge. Every time its like a miracle - the miraculous emergence! I don't really believe it can happen, then - look kids! - there's a seedling! Somehow life begins again all on its own, and our collective breath is taken away. I look around outside the garden at the new irises and serviceberry leaves, the dandelions and lilacs and even the greening lawn, and I want to shout out in amazement, I want to drag anyone I can find outside and say, "Look! How can it be?! The green has actually returned!"

Ah, so much promise and optimism. It is a good time, and I am invigorated. Now, we finish the top bar bee hive and await our Monday arrival of bees, all the while checking in on the strawberry and asparagus transplants and the many new seedlings of this early Montana spring.