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Wednesday, May 9, 2018 The Nugget Newspaper, Sisters, Oregon
The Bunkhouse
Chronicle
Craig Rullman
Columnist
Bee Lives Matter
Historians and arche-
ologists tell us that human
beings began collecting
wild honey about 10,000
years ago. Evidence shows
up in ancient North African
pottery, Egyptian art, and
honey in jars has been recov-
ered from the tombs of the
Pharaohs. By 600 BCE the
Picts of ancient Scotland —
naturally it was the Scots —
were brewing honey-ale, or
mead, a legacy which comes
down to us even in poetry
such as the epic of Beowulf,
which means bee-wolf, or
bear.
But bees are not just a
luxury because they make
honey. They are necessity.
They are required for an
almond to set, for exam-
ple, and the work they do
is vital for any number of
other crops we rely on but
rarely think about when we
tuck in for a meal. Bees are
an engine for the success of
many other species of life,
and a bell-weather for the
health of our planet.
Sadly, the world’s bees
are not doing well. From
Colony Collapse Disorder
to pesticides and infestations
of treatment-resistant Varroa
mites, the world’s bees are in
big trouble.
So, here on the Figure
8, we’ve decided to try our
hand at beekeeping. I’ve
been attending the Tumalo
Bee Academy, reading
widely, talking to experi-
enced beekeepers, and last
Saturday we picked up our
first nucleus colony of bees
and brought them home.
The basic building block
of a beehive is the “super,”
where the frames are stored.
It’s possible to buy the supers
and frames already assem-
bled, but I wanted to build
them myself because, like
most things worthy of our
attention, the more I invest
myself in the intricacies of
the hive, and the life of bees,
the bigger the reward has
become.
I placed our hive in a
clearing in the ponderosas
that dominate the Figure 8,
on the remnants of the old
Deer Ridge Road where
Gary Tewalt and other Sisters
aboriginals once hunted
deer as young men — and
set up the box facing south-
east, where the bees would
be primed to enjoy full sun
year-round.
When I opened the nuc I
was, momentarily, amazed
by the sheer number of bees
inside. No one really counts
the bees, but best estimates
put the numbers for a nucleus
colony at about 10,000 bees:
one queen, mostly workers,
and a smattering of drones
whose only glorious function
in this world is to mate with
virgin queens.
Of course he dies a
Shakespearean death in the
process, his abdomen ripped
open, but his purpose on
earth is fulfilled in the act.
The bees had come from
Medford in the middle of the
night and were, thankfully, in
a good mood when I brought
them home. I can admit to
feeling somewhat ridiculous
in a full bee-suit, and glad
some of my less-repressed
friends weren’t around to
provide a running commen-
tary, but in the suit I was able
to handle and examine the
frames — and watch the bees
at work — without worrying
about getting zapped on my
first full day of keeping bees.
By lunchtime we had
the bees installed, fed, and
apparently happy in their
new home. We stood watch-
ing them, utterly mesmer-
ized , as they began to fly,
precisely marking their new
location by some miracle of
evolutionary GPS (a bee can
fly up to eight miles in one
direction looking for for-
age) and by early afternoon
the first bees had found their
way into our yard and were
scrambling around on the
flowering dandelions.
I feel a tremendous
responsibility for our bees.
There is some miracle in
them, some fascinating
glimpse into industry with-
out guile — only steady
PHOTO BY CRAIG RULLMAN
The Figure 8 Ranch bees are already hard at work.
disappeared into the hive.
It was truly a singular
and transcendent experience,
enough to inspire me to take
a slow walk around our place
with fresh eyes, as if I had
never seen any of it before,
and to stand beside the apple
trees appreciating in some
new way the marvel and
promise of their bright pink
and red blossoms.
I stood in our little
orchard for a long time then,
until a single cold drop of
rain hit my thumb. And then
I looked up into the clouds,
watching the tall tops of the
ponderosas brush against
the disorganized sky, and I
thought of Robinson Jeffers,
the wild bard of Point Sur,
who watched the world
closely and in awe and who
implored us all to remember:
“It is only a little planet, but
how beautiful it is.”
purpose and a commitment
to the things of life.
I would be dishonest if
I didn’t admit to harboring
dreams of honey, but this
first year honey can only be
a bonus; my focus is entirely
on nurturing a strong col-
ony that builds up its own
sufficient stores to survive
a Sisters winter into next
spring.
In the evening, as the light
was drawing out of the sky,
I went back to the hive and
sat beside it for a long time.
The vigorous comings and
goings of midday, when we
saw the first bees returning
with bright pollen on their
legs, were easing off as the
last bees flew home in stag-
gered waves. They came out
of the forest in buzzing and
random bunches, like forma-
tions of B-17s scattered after
a mission over Europe, and
Moth er’s Day
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