The New York Times-20080127-How Are the Bees of Winter- Doing Fine- Sticking Together

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How Are the Bees of Winter? Doing Fine, Sticking Together

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THE mercury had plunged to 12 degrees, abetted by a vicious wind. I raised the flap on my wool hat and did something I wouldn't dare try in warm weather. I put my ear up against the white wooden beehive that stands in our field, now wrapped against the gales in an unlovely shawl of black tarpaper. Waiting out the loud plaint of human hibernation -- the shrill eek-eek-eek of an oil truck backing down our narrow lane -- I knocked gently on the hive and listened. Nada. Nary a buzz.

I had never considered the bee in winter -- not until this mean season, six months after we gave over a sunny spot behind the vegetable garden to a hive of gentle, purpose-driven Italian honeybees. We are merely foster folk; the hive is owned and tended by a married pair of Norwalk beekeepers in need of more space. Sometimes their 8-year-old son assists in his own pint-sized beekeeping suit.

To our relief, the 30,000 honeybees were welcomed by our neighbors, who, like us, took to calling them the girls. It may be that recent news stories about the mysterious colony collapse disorder imperiling bees around the world raised consciousness about honeybees' essential contributions. But there seems to be a deeper, innate goodwill toward a species so resolutely cooperative, persistent and selfless.

Distinct from the fat black bees so common here, these small, elegant, honey-colored newcomers were easily recognizable. Down the hill from us, Franc, an accomplished octogenarian gardener, reported approvingly, I saw your girls on my rugosa. A pair of men mowing our field stopped the tractor and stood in deep conversation near the hive, which was shooting out pollen seekers in wide arcs. One of them had raised bees in Ecuador. He pointed to a row of eggplants abuzz with pollinators and told me: Bees make me happy. I think of home. Even our teenagers' friends raise the mantle of cool long enough to ask, How are the girls?

As landlords, our part has been easy; keep some clean water nearby in a galvanized pan, and marvel at the astonishing improvements in blossoms and veggie yield. But now, in these cold, still months, I fret. Are they all right in there?

I have read up on their astonishing winter habits. Bees metabolize the dense carbs in honey ferociously, generating heat, which they further augment by flexing their flight muscles, without moving their wings. Clustering around their queen to retain the heat is their means of climate control. Deep in the hive, the cluster expands and contracts with the temperature; the colder it gets, the tighter the huddle.

But can these cluster physics really maintain a constant central temperature of 70 degrees in a pelting snowstorm? You bet they can, said Leslie Huston, a Newtown beekeeper. And in late January, if they have begun producing brood for the spring, the activity can raise the temperature to 90.

Ms. Huston is a member and past president of the Back Yard Beekeepers Association, which draws from all over southwestern Connecticut and meets monthly here in Weston at Norfield Church Hall. She has been keeping bees for nearly a decade. Connecticut is hard on bees, she acknowledged. The weather changes can be so extreme, like last year. They can get caught off guard, flying out in a mild spell, then getting chilled by landing on a patch of snow. I've made a lot of rescues.

She admits it can be a wacky sight, a grown woman slip-sliding across the icy yard to return a tiny hypothermic flier to the hive entrance. We do get sentimental about it, she said. You have to root for these creatures who defy the odds so brilliantly, season after season.

I know. The more you learn, the more protective you feel. Out before dawn to fetch the newspaper, I have had to chuck rocks at a fat raccoon nosing around the hive. Ms. Huston says they are given to shoving a paw into a hive entrance, riling the defending guard bees, which fly out and end up a tasty snack.

Field mice can creep into a hive, feasting on liquid gold and making nests. In extreme cold, the thieving house pests aren't stung for their trespasses; the guard bees can't risk leaving the warmth of the cluster to fend them off. The mice winter well, but the damage to a colony's honey stores can be fatal.

With other keepers in the area, Ms. Huston is engaged in a queen-rearing project dedicated to breeding bees better suited to our winters. Lots of the mail-order bees that people stock hives with are bred farther south, she explained. And we're working to develop hardier queens. We select for good qualities -- gentleness, productivity, disease and mite tolerance. It's going well. But raising queens is kind of tricky. Just marking them for identification -- with a tiny paintbrush -- is a dicey business.

The queen in our hive, if she's still with us, may be laying eggs already. They are awake all the time, and very aware of day length, Ms. Huston said. They know when it is time to begin. It takes so much of their energy and honey, you just hope they don't get caught by a long cold spell.

Maintaining the cluster at all costs, bees carry and pass honey from the perimeter to the center. But they cannot leave its warmth to seek out stores farther away in the hive. They can starve to death, Ms. Huston said, just inches from honey. Dedicated unconditionally to colony welfare, a starving bee will pass the last drop of honey forward rather than consume it -- a fact I have chastised my children with when they tussle over the last slice of pizza.

Even veteran keepers can get anxious during the long, cold wait. Ms. Huston says she sometimes knocks, as I did, and is reassured with a low buzz. January thaws, when the temperature is between 40 and 50, may send bees zipping out of the hive on what are daintily called cleansing flights. Fastidious honeybees will not soil a hive; they wait until it is warm enough to fly out and jettison waste. I am always overjoyed to find little brown spots all over my car, which is about 20 yards from some of the hives, Ms. Huston said.

After the cold snap, and that chilly silence in the hive, I went back out in the sunniest hours of one rogue 60-degree day and stood amid withered asparagus fronds, waiting. I saw dead bees on the ground, generally a good sign. This means the colony is strong enough for routine maintenance. Finally, I spotted some bees, a bit sluggish, but aloft.

This weekend, the Back Yard Beekeepers are holding Mead Madness, a tasting and workshop dedicated to brewing that ancient honey wine, at the Weston home of the group's current president, Howland Blackiston. I think that's a capital idea. Whether you down a cup of this heady elixir, or stir a spiral of honey into steaming tea, a winter's toast to our steadfast cohabitants must be, simply, To life!

[Illustration]PHOTO: BEEKEEPER: Leslie Huston applauds these creatures who defy the odds so brilliantly. (PHOTOGRAPH BY JUDITH PSZENICA FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES)(pg. 2)