Plans for the morning were interrupted when I heard the Silver Hand Meadery in Williamsburg was filling glasses for all-comers this morning. And why? It’s World Honeybee Day on the third Saturday in August. The calendar event has gone international since 2009 for celebrating the benefits of pollinators and the only kind that manufactures sweet liquid gold.
There was more to attract attention than the chink of glasses in a small crowd gathering to start the weekend with “Cheers!” A beautiful mural stretching yards along a wall leading to the front door was unveiled by the meadery’s owners. It is as colorful as a children’s picture book, full of bright flowers, bees, and butterflies under a blue sky. The artist Emma Zahren-Newman titled it: “The Flight of the Honeybee, circa 1622.” Why the date? It is reckoned to be the year when the Virginia Company of London shipped honeybees to the Jamestown colony, then only 15 years old and barely hanging on after starvation and a fractious relationship with local Native Americans.
Although many native bee species exist here, they were probably the first honeybees introduced to North America. Evidently, they didn’t do well in this climate at first, but they followed the westward march of the frontier as European settlers grew new crops that depended on the services of Old World insects then and ever since.
It was one of those throw-away remarks that stick in the mind. I was at Middlebury College in June when somebody at dinner said, “Funny, I saw more deer on the journey here than insects splattered on my windshield.” He had driven 200 miles through farmlands to Vermont.
It reminded me of a 75% decline of insect populations over the past thirty years in German nature reserves. The news might be welcome if they were only the biting and stinging kinds, but the list included butterflies, wild bees, and dragonflies. The survey was more striking for being in nature reserves! Unfortunately, they are not strictly reserved for nature because pesticides drift from nearby fields, and climate is shifting everywhere. There are also reports that insects are less common in Spain and Britain, and that reminds me of struggles to keep honey bees here in Virginia.
Mountain mint
Discouraged by the loss of two colonies last year, I put my labor into growing more pollinator-friendly plants instead. Mountain mint is currently my favorite. I am happy to see this native plant gradually invade fallow areas of garden because it competes against Japanese stiltgrass that smothers the ground and is inedible to browsing rabbits and deer. The mint has a pleasing odor to attract hundreds of pollinators of many kinds, including bee visitors from an unknown apiary.
I doubt there are many homeowners in the district who are trying to attract bugs. If neighbors knew they might restock their sprays and give their chemical lawns and flower borders an extra coating of toxins to ensure they are sterile. Bugs have few friends, although we make exceptions of butterflies, bees and a few others.
On May 28 the city of Williamsburg recommended a service to residents for fogging their yards, and encouraged the battle by playing up the risk of Zika, malaria, West Nile virus, and Yellow Fever. You might imagine from the announcement we live in a tropical swamp! Meanwhile the US military conducts aerial spraying of its land, sending local beekeepers scurrying to cover their hives. Sprays are no respecters of species; they kill beneficial insects along with mosquitoes.
And yet I hear people ask why friendly insects are less common than in the past. And they wonder about fewer garden birds, bats, and frogs too. Perhaps we can’t have the good without the bad. I will tolerate some bites and stings for the sake of biodiversity, but then what are they to a beekeeper?
It matters if we are facing ‘Insectageddon’ because, at halfway down the food pyramid, many insects provide pollination services. Others eat invertebrates below and/ or provide food for animals and birds above. The environmental writer-activist at the Guardian George Monbiot believes the disappearance of insects caused by modern farming practices and the industrial vacuuming of marine life pose the two greatest existential threats to life on the planet, greater even than climate warming. An alarming warning by Harvard ecologist E.O. Wilson has gone viral: “If all mankind were to disappear, the world would regenerate back to the rich state of equilibrium that existed ten thousand years ago. If insects were to vanish, the environment would collapse into chaos.”
Getting public attention on bugs is an uphill struggle, except to eliminate them. Since people left farming in droves in the last century for sterile condominiums in cities there are fewer people who notice a difference in the air. And even professional ecologists are more detached from nature if they spend time nerdishly in front of screens. That’s why we need more citizen scientists in the community, those amateurs whose passion takes them outdoors to record observations like naturalists of yore.
For my part, I only have anecdotal stories as a gardener-naturalist, not the quantitative data needed to monitor historical changes in insect populations. I notice fewer fireflies and butterflies in my backyard than 17 years ago. What was then semi-rural is now semi-urban, with all that implies.
But when I took an evening drive last month along country roads in the Allegheny Mountains of West Virginia I had an experience I used to take for granted, and the memory came back as a jolt. It was like driving through lightly falling snow. The landscape was filled with moths. Is it a coincidence that the area is thinly populated and old farms that fell on hard times have become fallow meadows? By the time I reached home my car was splattered, and I realized it was something to celebrate instead of grumble. It suggested a new project for amateur naturalists to monitor insects from the comfort of their driving seat. The only effort required will be to wipe license plates clean of corpses after recording data in mph (moths per hour).
Honey is almost emblematic of New Zealand, like surf beaches, kiwis and hobbits, and Winnie the Pooh would drool thinking about it. I leaped at the chance to spend a day with a professional beekeeper whose hives are in the bush for making Manuka honey.
We left home in the dark at 6 AM for a short drive to Steve’s depot where he picked up a portable incubator containing several dozen queen bee cells. He is passionate about the industry in which he has worked for over a decade, learning the ways of honey bees on the job. There is a Honey Research Center at the University of Waikato in Hamilton, but there are no professional qualifications for beekeeping, which is surprising for an industry so vital to New Zealand’s agriculture.
His firm has six fulltime staff plus a few students who are hired during the busy summer months, and that is how Steve got involved. Cambridge Bee Products currently manages around 5,300 bee colonies, and expanding. As a backyard beekeeper in Virginia I gasped at the scale, but evidently his company is far from the largest in the country. The industry is thriving and, compared with other sectors of agriculture including dairy, it has never suffered a recession. His company barely meets demand for its finest product—Manuka, the most highly prized honey in the world (see previous post) which, in good years, is more than 70% of his harvest, and 95% of which is exported.
The roads were wet from overnight rain when our truck pulled into his depot. Parking space was limited beside a forklift truck and the neat piles of Langstroth hive boxes and barrels containing 300 kg of honey when full. In the dim light I couldn’t see an alarm system, but the property had to be secure because I had seen the firm’s honey for sale in a local health food shop at over NZ$100 per kg. A quick calculation estimated that each barrel of the best grade is worth tens of thousands of dollars, though middlemen and retailers take a large bite of the raw value.
The honey harvest is brought to the premises from remote parts of the North Island. Manuka honey is certified by the UMF Honey Association to guarantee authenticity and grade it for quality because many brands contain only a fraction of the active product while others are fraudulently adulterated with cheap honey or syrup.
Barrels of honey, hive boxes and ingots of beewax
Inside the warehouse ranks of orange barrels and colorful hive boxes rose to the roof. The boxes were made by the staff from pine boards treated with a non-toxic preservative and paint; they have a lifespan of around 20 years in the field. In front of them large yellow bars were neatly stacked like gold ingots at Fort Knox, but weighing a mere 6 kg. They were pure beeswax extracted from old honeycomb for making candles and other molded products.
Honey is the company’s main business compared with big bee firms in America who make most of their income from pollination services for farmers by migrating thousands of hives around the country to crops as they blossom in turn. Only for a few weeks do some of Steve’s hives stand in fields for pollinating kiwi fruit, avocados and blueberries, and none of those crops produce quality honey.
Comb decapper and two honey extractors
I followed Steve into the honey production plant through a series of adjoining rooms to admire his automated equipment. Backyard beekeepers extract honey with heated knives to decap comb, but it’s a slow and messy process. His first machine decaps in seconds by piercing the comb with arrays of short spikes mounted on a metal plate that precisely match the centers of cells across the frame. Afterwards in groups of eight, frames are loaded into stainless steel extractors to centrifuge the honey to the sides where it drains for collection. The honey is then heated in a large vessel to kill yeast or other cells that might be present before filtration and storage in barrels. At the final stage a machine automatically fills bottles with 250 or 500 or 1,000 g of honey, and even puts on lids and labels.
I liked the clean facilities and that nothing was wasted. Frames were recycled about every five years with a fresh plastic base coated in wax for the bees to draw. Honey residues were collected as sticky molasses for farm animal food, the wax was extracted in a larger melter, and any comb that remained was used as fertilizer.
After the tour I was eager to meet the rest of the team who live in bush country north of Lake Taupo. It was getting light outside when we hopped back in the truck for a two-hour ride.
Hive-ho in a bee yard
The hives were stationed in groups of two or three dozen in glades that he called “yards,” and out of sight from thieving eyes on country roads. Hive robbing and vandalizing happens. He lamented that at one time there was an unspoken gentleman’s agreement not to place hives within a kilometer or two of a competitor, but as profit attracts courtesy retreats. ‘tis often so.
The bee yards were chosen for local abundance of tea trees which provide the nectar for bees to convert into Manuka. Steve groaned that too many trees are torn down by landowners who think they are eyesores and don’t realize or care that bees make a precious product from them, like turning base metal into gold. Of course, they never feed exclusively from tea trees, and the grade of Manuka depends on the location and season. The coconut-scented yellow blossom of gorse attracts insects in early spring, and purple heather feeds them at the end of the summer. A long blooming season offers a wide menu in the bush, but the rewa trees stand out for their fabulous red flowers for bees to drink from deeply.
When we arrived at the first yard, the hives looked pint-sized with only a brood box or no more than one super on top. Had I come before the honey harvest in January they would have been piled shoulder high with supers heavy in comb. A super full of honey can weigh 35 kg, enough to coin a name for a medical syndrome, “Apiarist’s Back.” I was too mortified to describe our tiny harvests.
We donned bee suits and started inspecting each hive in turn. Removing the galvanized roof and inner cover exposed the ends of nine full-sized frames, and encouraged a few guard bees to fly out to inspect us. The brood boxes had a couple of small entrances the size of a ten cent coin and stood on stout wooden frames with a wire mesh floor which was left uncovered year round.
Nice frame
As I probed Steve for statistics I wondered how kiwi apiaries can be so productive and colony losses so slight, rarely exceeding 10% a year. Could weather and climate be partly responsible? I was surprised that the climatic zone was not much different to ours in Tidewater Virginia (8 cf. 7b), because our summers are hotter and more humid, while our winters are longer and colder. Since his winters are almost frost-free, nectar flows for much longer and colonies only need feeding for 2-4 weeks if at all. Another factor I considered was the advantage that his colonies have out of range of sprays and other hazards in gardens and farmers’ fields. Then I thought about the lower load of parasites and diseases in a clean environment, although I was surprised how many of them have already reached New Zealand. American (though not European) foulbrood is there, I saw silken evidence of wax moths in some boxes, and that great foe the vampire mite, Varroa destructor, arrived in New Zealand over 15 years ago. Australia is the only country with a major honey industry free of mites, although it had a close call last year when dock officials in Brisbane found bees infested with them in a shipment of goods from Malaysia. It’s only a matter of time before Aussies share our woes. But we saw very few mites that day, which he credits to formic acid pads laid under inner covers and oxalic acid which he sprays through entrance holes. Both of these treatments are considered natural, and they don’t persist in honey or wax. Hive beetles were absent, but robbing bees and wasps sometimes stripped a hive, but that’s a universal problem. When I asked him about colony collapse disorder and killer bees, he nodded to acknowledge that it is a big issue in other countries.
I came away with the impression that no single reason explained the health and productivity of bees in New Zealand. There were additive advantages of a better climate, fewer parasites and less pollution. He didn’t and couldn’t make frequent inspections like we do, but was anxious to breed beneficial traits, by which he meant productive queens and docile worker bees.
His hives are re-queened annually and the company buys genetically superior queens every year from a specialist breeder who uses artificial insemination to guarantee the character of their progeny rather than leaving fertilization to the vagaries of a nuptial flight. In the field, bees hybridize with unknown drones, but he like to see more Carniolan character: “The blacker the better.”
We visited the yards not for mere inspection but to re-queen and split hives to make nucs for new colonies. Delicate queen cells that had been warming in an incubator plugged in the truck and protected inside conical plastic jackets were now placed inside hives, one or two per frame. “Sometimes by chance I see a resident queen,” he told me, “but I can’t go through every hive so they all get a potential heir or two to fight it out until the fittest survives.” Weak colonies were ruthlessly culled, much like a farmer might eliminate animals too sick for veterinary care. I reflected on the pains we take to save a colony from fading away until I remembered the number in his care.
It seemed odd to split hives in late summer when we schedule it for springtime to avoid the risk of swarming and in time for nucs to establish while nectar flows. But he used a familiar procedure, transferring four frames from active colonies to each nuc box, including eggs, nectar and pollen, plus a shower of worker bees. He worked fast, watching the sun’s arc because he wouldn’t return to the yards for months.
End of the day
This work quickly filled the air with thousands of angry bees that a smoker didn’t pacify. I took the precaution of wearing gloves, but Steve had bare hands. He worked more nimbly with uncovered fingers, even if they were crawling with bees. On the ride home I mentioned I had seen him rubbing his wrist. “Did you get stung?” I asked. “Na. Maybe only ten today.” That reply reminded me of another plucky New Zealand beekeeper, and who first scaled Everest.
After we returned home to Cambridge I had much to think about. How to apply some of the practices I had to our modest endeavors? What is the future for bees in a changing world, and will they hold out longer in New Zealand and Australia? And I was also thinking about the remote Blue Duck Station close to the pristine Whanganui National Park. That is where he keeps the most productive hives, and some of those yards are accessed by helicopter. I am already savoring that visit for next time.
