Saving a Wild Bee Colony From The Side of The Road!

It was just there, waiting to be found and rescued. Without help, they didn’t stand a chance. So, I did what I could to bring the bees back from the brink of disaster.

I write novels, but I’ve always been interested in bees. They’ve been an interest of mine for a long while. I’ve got all the gear. I like how they keep the planet alive. They pollinate everything we eat so humans can eat fresh fruit and vegetables. Their sexual intervention creates new trees, bushes, and grasses, giving us fresh air. Everything they do allows humans to exist. It just so happens that Earth’s little helpers are on the decline.

I kinda know why they’re threatened. Predators, parasites, sicknesses, climate change, etc., have harmed the world’s bee population. Margo and I want to stop that.

We have a small plot of land to provide space for a hive or two. There are flowering trees and bushes nearby. So, it’s perfect for a hive. Wild honey bees are street-wise insects and can look after themselves. They already know how to forage, feed, breed, etc, right from the start.

Some apiarists are wary of taking wild colonies. They speak of words like aggressiveness, diseases, weak Queens and poor honey production. There are risks associated with bringing wild bees back to a commercial farm, but I don’t see the problem collecting wild ones for me. I’m not mixing them with any other hives. I’m not a commercial grower.

I lifted the concrete lid that covered the mains-water connection, and what I saw under it was disappointing. This little hive was struggling. Two combs, one blackened and tatty at its end. It touched the soil. Every ground-dwelling creature around it helped themselves to the contents of the hive. I guess the hive had its heyday.

You want to read a happy story about my rescue, right?

I’d love to tell you that I took them home, nursed them until they were strong enough, and they rebuilt their bee village into a glorious city. In nature, it doesn’t always work that way. Sometimes, the happiest story is the one that includes death — of the weak. A hive that comes to its natural end isn’t romantic, but it is nature.

I tried my best to help these guys. My efforts came with good intentions.

Does that count?

–Michael

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