Straightforward. Yeah, right.

"WHY would I use the word 'straightforward' in ANY sentence involving beehive removal work??"

I stared at the wall, hoping solutions would appear.  Solutions failed to appear.  I stared some more.  Solutions persisted in their absence.

The job was supposed to be relatively straightforward.  My boss at the Corps had a hive that had shown up at his house, and had taken up occupancy as unwanted guests.  He had asked me to go and take a look.  I looked.  The house had shiplap siding, and the bees were coming and going in an interior corner in the building. 

I looked under the house in the crawlspace, and there was no evidence that the bees had any access to the space under the house.  No sound, no motion, no dead bees at the entrance. 


And no comb to be seen anywhere.

My proposed approach, then, was,

1. Remove shiplap siding, cutting away just enough to expose the comb,
2. Remove the comb, brushing away bees into prepared boxes, 
3. Place any recently laid brood comb in the boxes, 
4. Vacuum any remaining bees, 
5. Clean up, 
6. Claim my check.



It was a hot day, but the work should be pretty easy.  My only concern was how to minimize the damage to the siding.  "This appears to be a pretty straightforward job," were the words that came out of my mouth.

I arrived on Sunday afternoon, all smiles and selfies.



Happy beekeeper.  It would not last.

First step: remove shiplap siding.  Since I had not actually tried to remove any of the siding before I got the contract signed (it is considered bad form, apparently, to start demo before you get approval),  I was worried that the siding was HardiePlank - the concrete siding.  If so, I was in for a rough go of it on the demo.  That stuff is tough to cut.

Turns out, it was the masonite variety - much easier to break/remove/cut.  I breathed a premature sigh of relief.

And got to work.  First obstacle was the presence of a moisture barrier (easily dealt with) and a layer of waferboard (OSB) under the siding.  Not completely unexpected, but it made the job a little tougher.  So instead of just prying the boards loose, I was going to have to cut them out. 

Reciprocating saw to the rescue!

After I had cut deeper than I had thought was necessary, I pried up a section of the OSB, and found wood underneath.  I cut a wider swath through the OSB, and uncovered more wood.  And then more. 

And more.

Finally, I had pried and cut and uncovered as much as I possibly could.  I was staring at a 2x12 pine board - a floor joist that bore the weight of the house on it.

  

That's right.  A load-bearing floor joist.  Not the thing you want to cut.  Bees were just on the other side of it.  And on top of the pine boards was the subflooring - another layer of OSB.  Immediately on top of that was the wall studs.

Rough diagram of the Cutaway of the corner

I now had a full inventory of what was there.  What I did not have, apparently, was a way in.

Can't cut away the brick.  Can't cut away the load-bearing joist.  Can't cut away the subfloor that the wall sits atop.  Cutting the wall does not do any good - it won't get me into the void.

I sat on my bucket, wondering why I had decided that this was a good way to make some extra money.

And here we join again where we started the blog entry. I stared at the wall, hoping solutions would appear.  Solutions failed to appear.  I stared some more. Solutions persisted in their absence.

I went back under the house, intent on doing more than just a spot check.  Sure enough, there was a tiny, two-inch crack between the joist and the brick. Maybe enough to get my hand between the boards.  And in that crack, there be bees - bright, beautiful comb clearly visible.

As I backed out of the crawlspace under the house, my hand rested on something papery.  My flashlight identified it as an 8-foot snakeskin. 

Now, friends, my option is to go under the house, sharing tight quarters with what might be a snake, focusing on the removal of bees from a remote location where I only have a 2" access crack, on a 95-degree, 100% humidity day in August.  Or I could go home and drink cheap beer.

Beer never sounded so good.

With a lot of grunting and maybe some swearwords, I folded myself into the space and started cutting out the comb.  After the second piece of comb, the nectar and honey began to flow downward.  Onto me.  I got coated in dripping honey and nectar for the next hour, and then needed a break.

I shared the wealth with the Bodrons, who looked suspiciously at the pieces of honeycomb with bees still attached.  "How do you eat it?"  A couple of bites of pure, unadulterated honeycomb later, and they both were convinced that fresh honey was something special.

"One thing to know", I explained.  "This is not honey.  It is only honey after it gets to a certain humidity level, and we stopped the bees from getting there.  As it is, it will ferment, so you will need to screen it and keep it in the fridge - it simply won't last very long."

One sip of water later, it was time to go back in.  I cut away more comb, finally beginning to see brood comb.  There was absolutely no way to keep the comb intact, because it all had to be compressed (read: squished) to get it out of the gap between the board and the brick.

Another hour later, and I am dripping honey from every spot on me.  I finish up the cutting out of the comb, and brush the cluster of bees into a bucket, before hauling them out and transferring them into a box that is waiting on them.

Each time I come out of the crawlspace, it gets harder to convince myself to go back in.  But several more trips, and I have cleaned the areas out as well as I can, I have dosed the area liberally with poison to discourage the bees from coming back, and I have sealed up as much as I can with expanding foam sealer.  I have vacuumed up, cleaned up, and treated as much as I can.

I slide myself out from under the house, gather up the stuff I need, and trudge to the truck. 

It ends up taking two more trips out to complete the tasks associated with the removal, and every time I get in my truck I find a new spot that has honey residue still sticking around. 

But the bees have been deposited in their new home, and were last seen happily buzzing around all of the nectar-honey that I had fed back to them.  Hopefully making a new home where they were wanted.

And I headed for that beer.  Straightforwards.

Reputation

Sometimes, it is a good thing to be known for your work.  When I was first trying to get into beekeeping, I talked to anyone I could find, trying to get the word out that I would pick up swarms and re-home them. I gave out my phone number, I made up cards and handed them out, I talked to officials and wrote blog entries and tried everything I could.

My phone insisted on not ringing.

As I have done more jobs, I have had word of mouth spread a little.  More people know that I remove bees from houses, as people who have had bees removed start to tell others.  It is a slow process, but one removal at a time, the word gets out.

Sometimes, it is a good thing to be known for your work.  And then, there are the times that you build a reputation without meaning to.

I was in a meeting today with some folks from the Vicksburg District, whom I have known by reputation, but had never met.  We are talking through the different parts of the water resource problem they are trying to solve, and we get to the end of the conversation.

I casually ask if he has a side hustle as a pest control guy.

He was.  Is no longer.

Someone else brings up that as long as he doesn't spray the bees, I will be happy.  They explain that I keep bees.

(Side note - I have a self-imposed rule that I am no longer allowed to provide unsolicited bee facts - my colleagues have been patient so far, but there is only so much listening-to-the-five-year-old-reciting-dinosaur-facts that should ever be allowed in the workplace.  I have, therefore, given myself a bit of a stick...)

Now that I have been prompted, I start to explain.  And we talk about bees for a while - he was a hobbiest beekeeper and enjoyed the process...   and sudden-like, Johnny leans back in his chair a little and says,

"You know, it was the craziest thing.  I live over in Belle Meade (my neighborhood), and one day I was out in my yard and I saw a guy in a truck in a bee suit."

There was no way to change the topic of conversation at this point.  And there was no way that I was going to get out of this story unscathed.  I knew the event he was referring to before he told the story.

"All of a sudden, the guy jumps out of his truck and starts swinging his arms around, swatting at bees.  It was the dangdest thing.  After a while, he had shucked the suit off, slung it in the bed of the truck, hopped in the cab and took off."

All of my co-workers were staring directly at me.  I avoided eye contact through the whole story.

Finally, my shoulders slumped ever so slightly. "It was me."

That day, I had opened my most successful hive, with the intent of stealing a single frame of brood to help out a struggling hive down the road. The girls were in a bad mood that afternoon, and no sooner had I opened the hive than they boiled out, intent on my destruction.

It just so happened that I had not done a full inspection of my gear before suiting up to rob the hive.  And I had failed to notice a small tear in the mesh covering my face.  The boiling-mad bees stung my unprotected hands a number of times, and I take my frame of brood and flee.  They follow with the fury of a toy-deprived two-year-old, screaming at me and hitting any soft spot they could.

I brush as many off as I could, and I hop in the truck.  Too many bees still occupy my space, and they are still mad.  I have no opportunity to unmask, so I start driving, window cracked, and the bees are STILL furious.  Still intent on our mutually assured destruction.

A block down the road, a bunch of them have worked their way through the slit in my veil, and start congregating on my face.  Hitting me, sitting on me, pointy side down. Every one of them taking great delight in the pain that they can inflict.  I took a few stings in stride.  I never think of it as the fault of the bee:  I was too rushed;  I was clumsy;  I moved them into a place they didn't want to be.

But these girls?  These girls were hot.  And they hunted me down, and made me pay.

The sixth sting on my face convinced me that whatever it was I was hoping for was not going to happen.  They were not going to calm down.  They were not going to leave me alone.  They were not going to fly peacefully out of the window.  I slammed on the brakes in the middle of the intersection, and jumped out of the truck.  It was at this point that I was observed by Johnny, flailing and swatting and screaming curses to the sky.

In the words of Mark Twain, Let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of this scene.

Years I have spent, trying to gain a reputation.  I have even invited coworkers to work with me, to see how a calm demeanor really makes all the difference with working with bees.  I have done careful work, making sure to clean up after every job, taking the stings in stride, learning to work with the bees, trusting the bees, understanding the bees....

Now the only mental image that anyone in my office will have of me is of a cartoon - the guy whose bully bees beat him up in his own truck.

Love on the Battlefield

The setting of the National Cemetery at the Vicksburg National Military Park is one of the most peaceful ones imaginable.  The rolling loess hillside, graves in neat rows, each section terraced to provide a continuity among the gathered dead.  Oak trees, expanded to their full canopied width.  Magnificent magnolia trees, filled with heady blossoms.  Ancient crape myrtles and ginkgoes filling in the space.

And one very large downed tree, two terraces distant from the road.

Captain Dan Harder, a friend of mine from my time in Puerto Rico, texted me just before Memorial Day.  "Was at the national cemetery this morning putting flags out; apparently they have a giant tree that fell during the storm they can't remove because it's full of honeybees."

I had a quick conversation with the Superintendent of the park, and confirmed that they were interested in having my help.

Turns out that the giant tree was really a bigger job than I was able to do solo.  Everything I have worked to date has been able to be cut through with a reciprocating saw.  This sucker was far bigger than that.  Fortunately, Aaron Matthews, a friend of mine from work, is looking to get into bees, and offered his chainsaw prowess to the task.

Chainsaw work on the fallen tree stopped where the bees began.

Recon visit didn't tell me much, other than the size of the tree and the size of the entrance.  This is where it gets interesting.  If the bees are only in the very front of the entrance, and fill a space a little bigger than a breadbox, then I don't need to have a chainsaw.  But if it extends back further, I will need the help.

I veiled and reached in to pull out some of the debris in the entrance.

The bees, not unexpectedly, were more attached to their debris than I had anticipated.  Several expressed their displeasure in a very firm manner.

Signs of aggression, check.


Who could blame them?  The opening that they had was a knothole 20' up in a tree.  Now it is basketball- sized hole at a level that any passer-by could reach in easily.  That kind of situation would put any of us on edge.

I returned a week later to try again.  By now, the numbers had increased, and they had covered over some of the external comb with propolis, and they were even more ready to take swift action than before.

Bees covering the full entrance to the hive.

The wood has started to deteriorate, and is soft and crumbly.  They won't be able to stay here much longer anyway.  And as soon as the National Park Service can get the honeybees out, they can take away the tree and dispose of it, and straighten up the graves that were knocked around when the tree fell.

The interior of the log is covered with bees on every surface, and I did not have a way to figure out how deep it goes. 

Only one way to find out.  Reach the hand in and start cutting comb out.  And keep reaching in until there is no comb left.  The hope, of course, is that I don't run out of reach before I run out of comb. As soon as I have cut comb as far as I can reach, we have to move to using the chainsaw.

If the bees do not like people messing with the debris at the entrance to the hive, they REALLY don't appreciate solid chainsaw work.

The all-important selfie.  Obligatory.

One more visit yielded only a little more information.  The bees definitely extended further than I had originally thought.

Saturday started off cool and overcast, which meant the bees slept in, waiting for things to warm up before heading out to forage.  At 9 am, Aaron and I arrived, chainsaw and shop vac in tow. With a borrowed generator from the Military park folk (thanks for coming out, Auston!) we got started.

The initial foray into the hive was daunting. I have been chased by bees before, and I have had an entire hive mad at me before, but this was impressive.  The bees just boiled out of the hive, and enveloped both of us in a cloud of bees that overwhelmed us from the first cut of the comb.

I guess it makes sense.  The bees had been safely ensconced in a tree, safe from the elements and from predators.  I imagine that they lived a peaceful life, with no particular aggression needed to keep them safe.

Then suddenly, as Auston put it, God got mad at 'am, and suddenly they are living in a log that turned their hive 90 degrees on edge, and opened both entrances to the elements.  And to predators.

Auston told us, "Since they can't get mad at God, so they get mad at you."

And get mad, they did.

I looked down and did a quick count.  60 stingers in the back of my glove. Where I leaned forward to reach into the hive, the bees stung my cheeks through the veil.  Four times.  Another half dozen stings hit my hands through my double-thick leather gloves as I reached in.

For an hour, I cut away at inaccessible comb while Aaron helped keep the smoker fueled and fired up to help calm the horde.

Before the log fell, the bees had drawn comb vertically in the hollow of the trunk.  When it fell, that comb is now horizontal - not the bees' preferred position. So they sucked the nectar out, abandoned the use of those parts of the comb, and began drawing comb from the top of the log, and connecting it to the now unused comb stacked at the bottom.

Cross combing

Even so, they maintained the spacing that they needed to do basic housekeeping. So everything is stable, but also built at cross angles to everything else.  Cross angles make it impossible to remove comb cleanly.

And the bees that are now defending the wide open entrance are VERY defensive.

After the first cuts were completed, we pulled enough brood comb to start the bees in their new digs.  Once the box was filled up, we transferred all the comb to Aaron's new bee yard, and ran the vacuum for the first (of three) times, collecting some 15,000 bees in the process.  All of whom got transferred to their new hive.

Very quickly, I ran out of space to work, and Aaron started up the chainsaw.  The top entrance of the hive was quickly liberated, and the entrance in the base of the log widened, so that I could get at more of the comb.

Video taken with a potato....

Twice more, we smoked the bees to the entrance, and twice more, we removed the bees with the vacuum, transferring them to the new hive.

Final step was to feed the honey back to the bees, so they could use it to build the comb in their new box.

I used my newly-acquired Square (TM), and received the agreed-upon funds from the National Park Service. (#SquareOne, #contest).  The transaction was very smooth, and completed the full project perfectly. 

Bees defending high ground

In the final analysis, this was the most aggressive hive I have dealt with.  Possibly also the most bees.  Normally, once I get the entire area open, the bees will settle down and I can work more comfortably, in long shirt and pants with a veil.  These guys would have none of that.  I wore full gear the entire time.... only working without gloves towards the end.  Even then, the bees were feisty.

But I hope that gives them a fighting chance, as well.  We salvaged as much of the cross-combed brood as we could, with which they can raise more bees.  But even so, it might not be enough.    I'll be talking to some friends about installing a queen (we never spotted her) to help the hive establish.  But we'll give the 40,000 relocated bees a few days to build comb and make the hive their home.

And when we do, I'll update you all on the progress.


UPDATE:
"There are 3 bees left."

That was the message I got last night, four days after we removed the hive.  The bees absconded. A large number of them apparently died, within a couple of days of removal, and the bodies piled up.  And the remaining bees took off, leaving an empty hive.

I am going to get a handle on the relocation piece of this business one of these days.   It still seems like such a hit-or miss strategy I employ.  And sometimes it works.  Other times, not.  I usually come up with an after-the-fact explanation (too cold, too slow to move them, too long in the heat, induced robbing).  But the truth is, I am not always sure I know.  It is guesswork.

I need to guess better.

Recent Arrival

"How long has the hive been there?"

Whenever I am answering a request to do a honeybee hive removal for someone, I have a series of questions I ask.  Did you spray them?  How high are they?  Are they aggressive?  Are they getting inside?

I just added the question above to my list, because the answer can change the expectation of what I have awaiting me when I open the wall.

This week was a simple removal.  Bees in the Eaves. An easy cut out of decaying soffit, a quick reach in to cut out the comb, and then it is just a matter to separate the comb with honey (almost a certainty, at this time of year), box up the brood comb with rubber bands to hold it in place, and vacuum up remaining bees.

In this instance, it was even easier than that.

Ty Wamsley had been my office neighbor for a couple of years.  He was the director of the Science and Technology section of Mississippi Valley Division, and so I was delighted when I got his call.  Even more so when he wanted to talk about bees.

After looking over the site, I was convinced that there was very little space for the bees to have expanded to, and so started the cutout carefully.  I tore off the plywood to get at the cavity, and found quite a bit of clean, bright comb. The space appeared very small, consistent with what he had described. After removing the first couple of pieces of empty, new comb, I cut out first one piece of brood comb, and then another.  And then the third.

Video recorded with a potato

But no honeycomb.

In all, I cut off a dozen pieces of comb, total.  Only four of the pieces had been used for brood, and those were still light enough to be pretty.

This was a recent arrival.

Apparently, some time in the past month, some seriously docile bees (hooray for docile!) had swarmed into his house and made their home.  They made a conscious decision to swarm, and then agreed on where the new home was going to be.  Ty's house was the winner.

This is where I get to geek out a little.  Honeybee decisionmaking process is so much cooler than anything we use to make decisions.  One day, I am going to run an experiment where we replicate bee decisionmaking in one of our Corps projects, and see if we get different results.

Bee process starts with population pressure.  Once the bees have filled all of the available space in their current digs with comb, and they have filled that comb space with a combination of honey, pollen, and brood, they get to feeling the population pressure.  When they do, the queen picks a whole bunch of recently emerged bees, and takes off in a swarm. When the queen leave, she is accompanied by about 60% of the bees in the hive. (That is a HUGE hit for a beekeeper, who mostly just wants those girls for their sweet, sweet products)

As soon as they leave, and sometimes a little before, scout bees head out to do recon.  They find a place, and come back to report.  And they report with the famous "waggle dance", first decoded by von Frisch in 1949.  The figure eight dance (swing yer pardner, round ye go....) gives direction and distance, and communicates GPS coordinates to the bees that are 'listening'.  Those bees go and check it out.  If they like it, they come and give the same dance.

If they don't, they find another, and come back and give different coordinates.

The cool thing is this: THEY VOTE.

As more and more scouts return to the group, they dance their vote, and at some point, the group gets enough votes to make the move.  And they decide, en masse, to make the move.  And they swarm.

The queen can only make it a little ways.  She's fat and not used to exercising (like me), and after a little flight she takes a rest.

Eventually, she arrives and they immediately start building clean, white comb for her to lay eggs in.  At around 1500 eggs a day, eventually she fills up the space with lots of bees.  And those bees fill up the space with comb. And honey and pollen.

If you don't have lots of honey and pollen, it means that the bees are either a) struggling from a lack of resources, or b) they are just starting out.  Beginning of spring, no flowers, I'd choose a).

But late spring, I am guessing b).

The numbers of bees in Ty's hive were impressive.  And I expect that by the end of the day, the foraging bees will be coming home.  When they do, I can close up their entrance and transport them to the house. 

But I would have had a different expectation when I opened the wall, if I had just asked the right question.  Ty responded, "You know, I don't know.  I think we first noticed them about a month ago.  But it might have been longer."

A month seems about right.  Enough time to have bumped up the numbers of bees, built enough comb to get busy, and not enough time to actually fill the comb with honey.  (Well, maybe not...)

So, next time, I will ask.

The bees were boxed, and were set aside to allow all the foragers to return.  The next day, they will find themselves in a new home.  One that I hope they will learn to love.


***********************UPDATE*****************************************

It is pretty much guaranteed, that when I read about bees, and then use my knowledge and logic to make a decision, that:
A) The bees have not read the same books, and
B) The bees do not use the same logic.

I set the box aside so that the bees in the box would care for the brood, and that the queen (whom I had hoped was in the box, as well....) would keep everybody in the box.

I grabbed the box the following morning - while it was still dark out - and one bee walked out.  I figured that was a good sign, and hustled them to their new home.

I opened the box later in the day, and that was the ONLY bee that had remained behind.  The rest had followed the queen somewhere else.  Somewhere near Ty's house is a new hive of bees that are struggling to build comb and survive.

It turns out that they heard about the fact that I charged rent for staying on my property.  And they figured it was better to be a squatter in a tree than a tenant in a box.

Ah, well.

Pretender to the Throne

She has no claim on this throne, but she went in, nevertheless.

2 queens, 2 cages, 3 nurse bees to help out. 
$37.50 each.

Last Saturday, I bought a nucleus hive and two queens from my mentor.  (A recent flood had taken out a bunch of his 'nucs', and he only had one that he could sell me.)  But I had two different hives at the house that needed to be re-queened.  One had lost the queen because of an accident.  The remaining workers had hustled to raise up a queen, but with no success. Another was of a removal where the queen had not transferred.  I had tried to help both of the hives by sharing some brood from my successful hives, and had managed to keep the numbers high, but they had not had a queen successor to take over.

"Talk me through the process."  I asked my mentor for help.  Books are fine for background, but my bees don't read the same books, so I like being able to ask specific questions of people who do this professionally.

"First, go through the hive and make sure that you don't have any queen cells.  Then, spread your fingers like this (looks like a deck of cards between each of his fingers), and use that space between the frames to put this box in.  The workers will eat their way out, and the other workers will eat their way in.

"If, after four days, they haven't released her, pop it open and let her out manually."

Simple enough.  I had inspected the hives just the previous day, and there was no queen cell present.  It had surprised me a little - I had hoped that I would be able to avoid the $40 expense of buying a queen (each...).  But such is life.

I did as he said, and then left the hives for a couple of days.  The nuc I installed into a freshly painted hive, and left them running their lives on their own.  And this afternoon, I went out to release any queen that needed a little nudge.

First hive, opened up with a slight puff of smoke, and looked down into the hive.  The queen cage was still intact.  I pulled the tape off the edge, and pulled the plug - still filled with bee candy - and watched as the queen marched out and disappeared down the side of the hive.

Sweet success.

Emboldened by the ease by which I had just watched that happen, I opened the other hive, and peered inside.

Same story. The workers had not eaten through the tape and candy to release the beautiful queen.  So I repeated the process, cleared the dead bee from the entrance to the box (just like the first one) and watched as the fat-bottomed girl walked over the edge and disappeared.

Sweet success, part two.

I grabbed one of the other frames - one that she had NOT just walked down the face of, and glanced at it to see how much honey they had put on the frames.

Brood.

Wait.  Brood only happens if you have a laying queen.  There can't be brood in this one, because I don't have a...

OH, CRAP.

A gorgeous, fat, bright, yellow queen strolled across a frame of perfect brood.  I watched in horror as she walked to the edge of the frame and disappeared over the edge. I had just released a second queen into a perfectly functioning hive.  They HAD replaced the queen that had been lost.  And I had just spent 40 dollars needlessly.  Worse, I couldn't even go back and find the pretender.  Or the fat girl I had just seen.  They completely disappeared.

To clarify for those who don't know: one hive, one queen.  Honestly, I would have expected more resistance to the entry of the second queen.  But the other workers simply ignored her. So I don't know what happens next - whether there is a battle to the death, followed by a Quickening, or whether the newly introduced queen just gets ignored and starves.

But I can't worry about it too much. I have another removal tomorrow (for which I wish I had saved the queen) and another the following week.  I have to get ready.  And next time, when I am told to inspect to make sure there are no queen cells...

...you better believe I am going to do it, and that I am going to be thorough.  

The Beverly Carol - a B&B&B

It seems as though working at heights is my go-to job now.  Once again, I had a bee removal effort in Vicksburg, where the elevation of the job just gave me pause.

The entrance to this hive at the Beverly Carol - a historic home in the downtown area of Vicksburg,  was high on the exterior wall - right at the corner of the building.  Below the entrance was a three-and-a-half story drop.

The bees are somewhere near the top.  I can't even look.

It was not the sort of job I was looking forward to.

Immediately, I looked for alternative solutions.  After a little while of trying to figure out my options of ladders and scaffolding, I asked the owner if I could see inside.

The location interior to the hive is a laundry room, and one that is a later addition to the lovely 1910 house, now turned into a B&B.  Well, maybe a B&B&B....

It appears that a second-story balcony was enclosed, siding put on the outside, and tongue-and-groove flooring used as paneling for the walls.  Pretty solid.

But the proximity to the hive meant that it would be a perfect way to get at the hive without facing a three-story drop.  I provided Mrs. Jenkins with my estimate - the lowest amount that I charge for removals - based on the expected effort to remove a small infestation in a small corner of the building from the inside.

Easy peasy.

How hard can it be?

I know better than to ever say those words out loud.  Nothing is EVER easy peasy when it comes to bees.  And speaking the words means that the task is immediately more difficult than you can manage.

So I sealed the room with plastic sheeting - to keep the bees from going out the door and into the house - and got started.

Getting started is often the hardest for me.  I'm not sure what it is - might just be the spankings I got as a kid - but I just don't want to damage anything.

After finally breaking loose the corner molding, I was able to open the hive.  Just the corner.  And some excited bees made their way into the room.  Curious - not angry, but intent on evaluating the threat.


The tongue-in-groove paneling was locked into place in the corner, and resisted easy removal.  So over the next half hour, I struggled to remove the wall to get at the comb.  The area was almost certain to be a small one - there was just not enough space in the corner to hold a hive of any real size.

I finally decided that removing the molding around the window would allow me more access, and I pried it loose. 

Opening the wall.

The hive was not relegated to just the corner.  It turned out that this was an enormous hive, extending for about eight feet to the right of the corner. The comb next to the entrance was mostly dry, having held honey that had already gotten sucked down during the winter.  But an opening down below allowed the bees to expand.  And expand.  And expand.

A sawzall quickly  came into play (by the way, bees HATE the sound of saws), and I cut down the wall at the edge of the exposed comb, and exposed additional an additional five feet.  The area covered by the bees was phenomenal.

There was dry comb on the left.  There was nectar on the margin. And then rows and rows of brood - baby bees just waiting to be born.  Comb extending down four and five feet below where it was connected to the wall.

Baby bees, including several
peanut-shaped queen cells. 
Baby queens, ready to emerge.

This extension created a huge problem for transportation.  If you had asked me 20-questions about the hive before I started, I would have had a hard time guessing whether it was bigger than a breadbox.  That was about the size I expected it to be.

Instead, what resulted was much bigger than what I had the ability to move.  I came with equipment to stage and transport bees in two boxes. Those two filled up before I got done with the first segment.  The rest was choosing what pieces to save and which to discard.  Eggs for boy bees?  Discard pile.  Honeycomb with nectar in it?  Crush and strain, and then feed the remnants back to the bees.  Eggs of girls (worker bees)?   If they are in good shape, save them.

I cut and parsed and discarded and set aside a LOT of comb.  Anything that I did not put back in the hive got melted down to make wax - I should have quite a lot of lip balm available pretty shortly.  Maybe some mustache wax, too....

I did get some video of the removal of the comb.  The hyperlapse function of my camera was a good way to capture it, since it took forever to complete the job.

It took the whole day.

And then the next.

Cleaning the sticky leftovers took quite a while.  But the bees were promptly installed in the home bee yard, and are now happily buzzing around in their new home.

The Beverly Carol dropped a B - they are no longer a B&B&B!

(Or maybe they dropped an E - from the Beeverly Carol).

Duff Green Removal, Part 2 (Or How I learned to avoid the sting and love the bomb.)

So most of the time, when I get a call to remove bees, it is because the bees have begun to migrate inside the house.

Not this time.

This was the second hive removal from Duff Green, and the one that I was most worried about.  With the first removal, I was able to stand, kneel, sit, stoop, and walk around the hive until I was able to pry the eave bracket from the wall.  The closest to danger I got was dropping the four feet from the roof to the balcony.  Significant risk to my pride, but no real consequence, since nobody was watching me do it.

The height of the second hive, combined with the fact that there was no easy access, meant that I needed help.

Help came.

Boom.

With the assistance of the truck, I was able to spend my attention on the bees, rather than whether I was able to keep my balance on an extension ladder. 

The hive was visible on the outside of the building, certainly a result of the hive running out of space inside one of the two eave brackets on either side of it.  The comb was attached to both, so it could have been either one.... and I was hoping for the one closer to the truck.  Otherwise, I would be reaching out around the corner to proceed.

But first things first, I started cutting down the comb.

The comb on the outside of the building was very friable.  The bees had sucked out all of the goodie from the comb, leaving a dry waxy husk.  The second and third layers were the same.  Brightly colored comb, with minimal evidence of use.

Two sections removed.  Photo: Kathe Lawton

Two sections removed.  Photo: Kathe Lawton

Then the bees started appearing.  It was a cold day, so there was minimal activity.  Mostly just a couple of flybys telling me to buzz off.   At this point, Mr. Wright, who had accompanied me in the lift up until this point, decided that the roof was a better place from which to direct and observe.  

Each of the successive sheets of comb had more brood and bees on it, and the girls got a little more defensive with each step.  But at the end of the ten pieces of comb, I cleared off the remaining bees to figure out where the entrance to the larger part of the hive was, and I found...

Nothing.

The bees were not accessing the inside of the structure at all.  Like wasps or hornets, they had built the entire thing on the outside of the building, exposed to the elements.

As a result, they were not as strong as the group that had hunkered down in the eave bracket.  Their numbers were reduced, and there was maybe some evidence of a predator trying to gain access.  Very little honey remained, and they were not doing a great job of foraging.  The weather has been pretty rotten - wet and cold alternating in a bad foraging arrangement - so it is possible that they just couldn't keep up. 

The entire group went pretty docilely into the box, and I followed up with a clean-up of the corner, including a dosage of pyrethrins (hornet spray), to discourage future swarms from taking up residence.  Half hour later, and I had the box carefully stowed, the extra way set aside for melting down, the clean up complete, and the truck driver on his way.

Now to hope that they can weather a couple of cold nights in their new complex.  Fingers crossed.

Come out! (Photo: Kathe Lawton)

Heart-shaped hole in the comb.

I need a fish-eye lens to get the full picture. (Photos: Kathe Lawton)

Postscript:  two of my most common questions:

How do you avoid getting stung? (Um, I haven't figured out how to avoid it, yet.)

How many times do you get stung during something like this? (I really don't know.).

I am not sure how to explain it.  This weekend, I was working with Stephen Coy down in Wiggins, MS, with his operations down there.  While I was working, I started getting stung.  A few bees made it up my pants leg, and started to let me know they were there, in a final gesture sort of way.

The first one, I noted, and kept working.  The second one, I noted, and kept working.  The third one, I figured I had a problem, and moved to the side to deal with it.

But getting stung is just part of the process - not something you go after, just something that happens.  And at some point, you notice, but are too focused on the task to pay attention to the mounting count of stings.  

So I don't know.  I can usually get a count by the welts. But especially if the bees sting through the shirt, only a little venom gets in, and I might not react. 

The bees react, though.  More stings means more fight pheromones in the air.  Means more stings. 

So not getting stung seems one of the best ways to avoid getting stung.  Now if I can just manage that....