Two Feet or Two Miles

Standard beekeeping wisdom says that, if you're going to move a hive, you need to move it only two feet, or move it two miles for a day or two, in order to completely reorient the bees. Then you can bring the hive back to its new place on the farm.

Happily, I checked online and found that there are easier ways to do it. Today was the day, so I smoked the bees as much as I could (which didn't look like much: I'm not sure if the smoke was more invisible than I remembered, or if it was just nonexistent). Then I took off the outer cover, and carried the upper hive, which probably included the queen and brood, about 30 feet to its new home in the moon garden.

It was heavy and unwieldy. The last eight feet or so, I worried a bit that the box was slipping, but once moving, I didn't really want to set down a box of bees, only to pick it up again.

A standard hive body, filled to capacity with honey, weighs about 80 pounds. I don't think this weighed that much, but I would guess 50 pounds, easily.

I set it next to its new bottom board, and went back for the second, lower hive box. This one is where most of the mature bees, with mature venom glands, work. The foragers leave from and return to this box, so I was concerned there would be more activity of the crawl-around-inside-Amy's-protective-gear sort. I temporarily put on another cover, just to cut off a little extra access to my face.

But the hive didn't change its pitch: it stayed at a dull, calm hum the whole way. There wasn't an uptight bee in the bunch. I carried the second box up, saying over and over, "They shall mount up with wings as eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint."

I put this lower box on its stand, put the queen box on top, opted not to actually open up the brood box this day (if they are close to swarming, I'll know soon enough; and just how much disruption does a hive really deserve in one day?), and covered the hive.

Back at the former home site, the faithful foragers returned to find their home ... vanished!

Periodically, I would carry pieces covered in foragers up to the new home. I think most bees, though, did what they were supposed to do: a spiral flight away from their previous home site, until they found their hive. By nightfall, there appeared less than a dozen confused bees still buzzing.

Though it didn't take too long, moving the hive was a huge highpoint for me. I also found about seven more jujube sprouts, which made me happy. They're coming along!

Phil was down in our mass daffodil planting, and commented that he didn't think the daffodils were doing a great job keeping back the grass. Then he said, "Wait: maybe this isn't grass." There were patches of grass growing around all the spots he fed the pigs.

Looks like we have spots of wheat.

Since the sheep have been meandering all around the farm lately (faithfully heading back into their pen by mid-morning, so they can rest and ruminate in the shade), Phil finally corralled them with a hot wire in the orchard. He's left a lane down the driveway so they can reroute to the shade periodically.

Phil also mixed up a batch of tree paste: a concoction of equal parts fresh cow manure and red clay (which we have in abundance), mixed with whey. Amazingly, I had several gallons of unused whey from the last time I milked (now about a year ago), and since they're not smelling any fresher, I was happy to add them to the mix.

Tree paste was the primary reason Phil bought the wheelbarrow: a convenient receptacle in which to mix and move. He had a good muscle workout: shoveling the sloppy mixture over and over until it was well combined.

At first, he tried painting it on. As an engineer, he was doing it perfectly, missing no spots. When he thought about it, the first few trees probably took five minutes each. Five minutes times 300 trees = too many hours for what is, in some ways, a peripheral task.

So we put on vet gloves (the only disposable gloves we have), took handfuls of the mix, and covered the tree trunk all the way down.

It's supposed to be both a nutrient boost for the tree, almost like a salve for any wounds, and, perhaps, a moisturizer for bark that expands. Also, it's supposed to be a rodent repellant. We found one tree girdled and dead, and it presumably happened recently, as we pruned the tree, and it had (dessicated) buds. Rotten rodent.

The few daffodils that are just blooming now are, in many ways, the most interesting we've seen. Extra petals, or a bit more orange. The little extra time in the orchard was a good chance to observe these outliers.

We had folks come and take three puppies today: the three males that sort of ran together for us, so alike in coat, color, and temperament that we could not tell them apart. Before they arrived, we had a family meeting to figure out which of the puppies we'll keep, and we reached no consensus.

The three in the running: Mom (not to be confused with Bitsy, the actual mom), the largest and spunkiest of the girls, who is the one most often at my heels. Also sleek Socks, the only one identifiable by his marking, and, as such, the favorite of the boys since his birth. It's nice to have one puppy you can always tell apart. And Curly Boy, with the lightest of undercoats, who has really jumped out at us this week; Phil's current favorite, the smallest boy. He is gentle and submissive almost past belief, happy to be held, even on his back. He'll stand on his hind legs to greet you, and fall over on his back. He's on his back a lot.

Which is the one for us? We head to bed yet undecided.