“The bees have been declared the most important living beings on this planet, the Earthwatch Institute concluded in the last meeting of the Royal Geographical Society of London.” — “The Science Times” (2019).
One thing about living in the midst of a deadly pandemic, it puts things into perspective — especially any risky activities.
So in November, when my friend Susan Riparetti, a Santa Barbara beekeeper, told me she might be looking for people to help capture bee swarms for hives, I thought that might make a good story.
“Sign me up,” I told her.
Almost immediately, I had some misgivings about my bold offer, but Susan said the bees usually don’t start swarming until January or February, so I figured I had plenty of time to bail.
I’d pretty much forgotten about the whole thing until late last month, when I received a text and photo from Susan:
“Here they are, Marcia, eye level in my oak tree. If you are inclined to write that story about bees, it would be all the more interesting for you to catch this swarm with me there to assist. We can cut the branch it is on and lower the bees into a swarm box. I have a suit you can wear, and you will have a story to tell.”
Right, too late to bug out now. But, wait — she wants me to assist her? We’ll talk about that.
“I’ll call you in the morning,” Susan texted. “We may have to do it before 11 a.m., so they don’t fly away.”
Tuesday morning it was windy where Susan lives, above Foothill Road near the 154, so there was some concern the swarm might take off before we could catch it. Better to get started sooner rather than later.
When I arrived it wasn’t hard to spot the swarm — a giant humming knot of bees (at least 2,000-3,000 by Susan’s estimate) had wrapped itself around the branch of an old live oak along a narrow dirt path just beyond her driveway.
I donned a spanking new, blinding-white bee suit with long sleeves, long pants, lots of zippers, Velcro, and a few strips of duct tape that Susan slapped on me in a couple of vulnerable places to be sure no little buggers could burrow their way in and sting me.
Most importantly, in my opinion, the bee suit had an attached hat and veil, which made me look a bit like an astronaut. Oh, and white gloves that went over the sleeves of the suit and extended above my elbows.
Before we went into capture mode, Susan explained a little about what was going on with the swarm.
Just like humans, she said, bees like a change of scenery now and then. Their old hives get dirty and messy from all that honey-making, so every year, around this time, the bees set out to make a fresh start.
They clean out their hive, pack up their queen, and start looking for new digs. Generally, though, bees don’t stray too far from their old home, Susan said.
And, true to form, the swarm we were rounding up came from one of her own hives just a couple of yards away from the oak tree. The colony had moved into that hive, all on its own, almost exactly a year ago.
For our mission, two ladders were set up under the oak tree — a six-footer and a kitchen step-ladder with a couple of rungs.
A big white swarm box (think size 13 Air Jordans shoebox), which would be used to hold the bees, rested on a platform that jutted out from the top of the larger ladder. The step-stool was there for me to stand on while I reached up to brush the bees into the box.
Easy peasy …
The wind was picking up again, so we got to work. I climbed up on the step-ladder, Susan held the swarm box open, and I started gingerly pushing bees into it with my gloved fingers.
Of course, since bees can fly — and apparently think for themselves — they didn’t all just fall in line and tumble into the box at my urging. A lot of them buzzed around us, some landing on our bee suits, while others continued to cling to the tree branch.
The key to luring them in, Susan said, was to make sure the queen had made it into the box. Once that happened, all the other bees would follow her. Of course, finding the queen in the buzzing chaos is nearly impossible, so we had to count on the bees themselves for a little assistance:
At one end of the swarm box is a small hole, similar to the entry to a bird house. If the monarch is present, a group of forager bees will gather at the opening, turn their tiny bums to the outside, and emit pheromones that let other bees know the queen is in the building, so to speak.
We watched the hole carefully, and it took a while, but first one, then another of the bees did an about face and signaled to the rest to come on in. The remainder of the swarm headed for the box until the tree branch was practically empty.
After delicately placing the lid down over the swarm, Susan left the covered box on the ladder for the rest of the day in case any stragglers wanted in. That evening, she set the swarm box on top of the new hive that she had cleaned out. The box remained there overnight.
When I returned in the morning, we slid back the lid and tipped the humming colony into the hive.
Naturally, there were a few confused foragers who made a beeline (sorry) back to the oak branch instead of diving into their new abode, but by Thursday afternoon, Susan happily assured me all the lost bees had found their way into the hive.
Mission accomplished.
While our work was done, the new hive was just beginning to buzz with activity. If you’d like to know more about what goes on in the colony, here’s a little of what I learned from Susan:
Once the hive is established, the first order of business is to prepare the queen to lay eggs (how many she is able to lay appears up for debate, but it could be up to 1,000 or more a day). When the eggs are hatched, the growing brood will have plenty of adult bees assigned to care for them.
Everyone in the colony, in fact, has its work cut out.
The all-female team of worker bees is sent out to gather nectar and pollen for making honey for the colony’s food; others are designated to bring back water. The water-gatherers also act as mini-AC units, flapping their little wings to lower the hive’s interior temperature, and keep the water droplets cool in the summer’s heat.
“So, they all have little duties they have to perform,” Susan said.
The queen essentially manages the hive and gives off various pheromones that tell the colony where things are. She has bees that attend to her as well, keeping track of her whereabouts and watching out for her health.
Looking to the future, the colony also sets about creating new queens to take over when the old queen dies. The queens-in-waiting are kept in a sort of incubator where they are looked after and packed with plenty of royal jelly.
The current queen is kept away from the new queens because if they came in contact, she most likely would kill them.
What happens to all that honey the bees are producing?
While beekeepers safely harvest honey from their hives, Susan said she doesn’t take any unless a hive has been abandoned and the bees have left honey behind. In addition to the fact that honey is sustenance for the bees themselves, the act of removing combs to collect that golden syrup can be bit tricky, and Susan is concerned about the possibility of harming any bees in the process.
That said, if a hive produces too much honey (a condition called honey-bound), removing the extra can actually be helpful to the colony.
So, there you have it — the buzz about bees. To learn more, here are a couple of local beekeeping organizations to check out:
Beekeepers Guild of Santa Barbara and Santa Barbara Beekeepers Association.
— Marcia Heller is a Noozhawk copy editor and occasional columnist. The opinions expressed are her own.