DIARY OF AN EXPERT BEEKEEPER

As regular readers are aware, my articles usually take the form of rebuttals aimed at exposing the emotive, non-sequitur and often offensive claims of those opposed to the legal activities of ethical hunters. 

Hunting, however, is not the only traditional activity I'm interested in. I engage in many other sustainable harvest activities and this can be said of many, if not the majority of hunters. 

It is not hunting alone, but a combination of pursuits including crafts, natural harvest and traditional husbandry techniques and so-on, that we hunters refer to as our culture.

I have recently been seduced by one such activity commonly practiced among hunters and homesteaders, which the likes of PETA would doubtless refer to as, "the wanton manipulation and unethical exploitation of another sentient species", to wit, beekeeping.

Since first succumbing to the Human Apivirus some six months ago, I have read every conceivable (and otherwise) beekeeping publication and I’ve purchased or cobbled together all the requisite beekeeping gear.  Thus, I am now an expert in the apiarists’ art.

The sound you hear in the background is that of pigs attempting to achieve launch velocity.

It’s relatively easy to become a honeybee expert, due largely to the fact bees evoke such all-pervading and irrational terror in 99.99% of the human population, that few are motivated to study them sufficient even to attain novice status.

Of course I aspire someday to become a guru, but it appears this venerable status is bestowed only upon those boasting more than one hive. This estate is known in the trade as an 'apiary', from the Latin ‘apiarium’ meaning beehive, and to everyone outside the trade as a, “Holy shit! Let’s get outa here!!”  

This is of course a loose translation from the Latin, but it nonetheless conveys a general working theme.

It also appears quite important that a proportion of the aspirational guru’s apiary should comprise hives of imaginative colour-schemes, highly unlikely shapes and questionable efficiencies.

Further, it would appear to be rather important that at least some of one’s hives contain actual bees and while expert owner of a shiny new, three-tier, ten-frame, full depth Langstroth bee hive I may be, it is, as yet, sadly untenanted.

There are two means by which one might seek to address such a fundamental dearth;

1. via purchase of a nucleus colony from a reliable purveyor of healthy, placid stock, or

2. by way of the relocation of ten-thousand or so members of a heavily armed vagrant army (AKA a swarm), which is motivated to protect its sovereign (the Queen) with the sort of implacable resolve of purpose that has been known to down light aircraft.

I chose option 2, which itself offers two possibilities;

a)  One can gather the swarm from a place it has chosen to temporarily take its ease before moving to permanent accommodation, thus relying on the dear little buzzers being too fagged-out after a long flap to mind being dumped unceremoniously into a box in preparation for the long journey home in a car boot, or 

b)  One can attempt to convince said angry bundle to take up residence, voluntarily, in a small temporary hive or ‘trap’ by means of a lure, later re-accommodating them in the hive proper.

It is largely for reasons of abject poverty that I chose option 2 b) – henceforth referred to, for the sake of brevity if not practicality, as the Cunning Lure Methodology or CLM. 

Claims the CLM is named for the Crazed Lunatic Minds likely to employ such a random technique, are spurious and offensive to some.

To accomplish the CLM, one needs an assortment of basic items, including a box of approximately 40-litres capacity, some frames fitted with a little beeswax to act as a foundation and guide, and of course the magical lure itself, commonly known as lemongrass oil.

Apparently, to the humble honeybee, lemongrass oil smells just like a Queen bee...or perhaps a pub...I confess the authoritative tomes are a little vague in that regard. Anyway, having all key components save the wondrous eau de Queen/boozer, I sallied forth in search.

As luck would have it, I discovered a 13mil bottle of this wondrous extract on a shelf in my local health-food store, where, as fate would have it, I was also tasked with my first test of commitment as a beekeeper.

The sole remaining bottle of lemongrass oil sat on a shelf right next to not less than two-dozen tiny bottles of Patchouli oil. Decisions-decisions!

On the one hand the prospect of attracting thousands of bees to my garden, who, in the fullness of time, would provide me with the glorious bounty of their labours, or, on the other hand, the Patchouli oil and the opportunity to attract thousands of people who’d ask me if I wanted to “pull a few cones, ma’an”  and eat all my choky bickies?

Resolve and advancing years prevailed and so I left the store with...well, that would be telling!

Some weeks earlier I’d let a friend in on the news I’d recently become an expert beekeeper and he’d announced, with some excitement, that he had a beehive in his shed I was welcome to have.  Oh joy! 

Next day he dropped by with a single eight-frame box that was so old the carpenter's mark was barely distinguishable as being that of one Jesus of Nazareth. 

Not to worry, battered, horribly split and separating at the dovetails though it was, it would nonetheless serve as a bee trap. 

So I dodgied-up a serviceable lid, bored entry and ventilation ports of the recommended sizes in the requisite locations, popped in some frames and put a small plastic bag in the bottom, into which I had placed a little tissue carrying a few drops of the precious.....yes, I bought the lemongrass oil. 

On August 20, 2015, I set the whole apparatus atop a two-metre(ish) post in my suburban backyard, taking care to face it north-east, while close-by I set an earthenware dish filled with water into which stones had been placed so’s to ensure access would not result in mass drownings and the predictable media frenzy that's apt to follow such tragedies. 

At this point I stood back to survey my efforts and await my quarry. 

My efforts were rewarded within hours...528 of ‘em to be precise, hours that is, not bees.

After just three-weeks of dogged observation, prayer and incantation, interspersed with bouts of despair and heavy drinking during which my cat requested a formal separation, the first signs of action occurred late in the afternoon of September 13th.

This action took the form of three bees, which began to ‘buzz’ the entrance of my cunning trap. After much frenetic attention that resulted in seemingly endless aborted approaches, one of the three entered my trap, while the other two continued to fly about the outside in ever decreasing clockwise circles.

After some time, the second of the three also landed on the entrance, but rather than going inside, she lingered a while just outside, clearly communicating with Bee-1 within.

Now, though I am not yet a guru, I do have a basic understanding of bee language and associated dialects as befits my expert status. Hence I was able to interpret the aforementioned initial communications thus; 

Bee-2: “So what’s it like in there anyway?” 

Bee-1: “Buggered if I know. Looks like the power’s out!” 

Bee-2 then took flight to convey this advice to Bee-3, who responded with the unmistakable contraclockwise concentric aerobatics which, in the patios common to bees, translates as, “Well that’s just typical!”

After some time inside the box, apparently bumping her head and stubbing her toes, to which I ascribe the occasional cries of “Oh bugga” and “Stupid place to put a bloody frame”, which could be heard clearly from outside, Bee-1 emerged from the darkness, with a slight limp, to communicate the results of her recce to Bee-2, before heading inside once more, no-doubt in hope of making some sense of the fuse-box.

Bee-2 then alighted from the entrance and began a heated conversation with Bee-3, which, I’m sorry to report, took place just out of earshot.

However, judging by her frenzied aerobatics and wild gesticulations, it wasn’t hard to tell Bee-3 was not a happy little prospective tenant.  She soon headed due-south (in a beeline as it were), I suspect in search of mobile-phone connectivity so she could call Essential Energy about having the power reconnected. Though it must be said, this much is sheer speculation on my part.

Soon after, Bee-2 joined Bee-1 inside the box, where the two lingered for some time. This fact may be cause to reassess the reason for Bee-3’s frantic gesticulations and huffy departure, but frankly, in this day and age, who am I to judge.

The scenario outlined above was repeated for three days, in more or less exactly the same form. I cannot recall reading in the literature any reference to such behaviour as a standard precursor to colonisation and I admit to feeling a tad resentful that my expert efforts to capture a swarm may have been wrongly interpreted as an invitation to frequent an apicultural bordello.

Nonetheless, I am resolved to leaving things as they are for a few more days at least, during which time, gentle reader, you may rest assured I will seek an opportunity to pull Bee-3 quietly aside for a little chat about the bees and the bees. 

I will do this not only due to my profound personal moral sense, but because it’s bad enough I’m not getting any bloody honey out of these hussies, without having to live with the fact at least two of them appear to be gettin' more action than I am!

Anyway, I'll get outaya way now...

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