This week had more than its share of challenges.
Over an inch of rain fell overnight on Wednesday. A slow and even shower that allows our soils
time to absorb – a perfect rain for sandy-clay deserts. Yet there’s rarely a storm that doesn’t add
to our work in some way.
By morning most of the water harvesting swales and basins
had filled and a light drizzle was persistent.
Even simple first morning tasks such as letting out the hens from their
protective enclosures becomes problematic when extreme moisture makes a rare
visit.
A feed bag left uncovered and consequently soaked due to a
leaky roof.
A one-inch high ridge of earth and goat manure holds back a
newly formed shallow lagoon that makes for very unhappy herbivores.
Mud and chickens are enemies, so a bale of straw temporarily
offers relief, balancing carbon, and purpose for lots of curious feet.
An overturned box of bees whose supports gave way into the
saturated earth is threatened by fire ants. Too, their work schedule has been altered by the rain.
Usually challenges on a day like this subside by noon, but
this day was different.
It’s 1:30pm and an hour long meeting dictates I leave the
farm by 2:30pm. Experience told me I had
ample time to set the hive upright, and because it contained two relatively
young and small hives, the likelihood of rebellion was low.
Smoke? What for? I don’t intend to open the hive so I could
probably get by without it. The combs
are still mostly in good order, and all that’s needed is to tip things back
into proper position.
So, dressed in the usual protective clothing, a jerk was
made to make the hive upright and prepare it for a lift back up onto its
base. The drum of a deep buzzing drone
in tune with my motion was a definite warning that I had shoved them past their
point of comfort, and had made my presence unwelcome - cloudy wet days make for
moody bees.
Within seconds three managed
to find their way up my shins as several others quietly clung to my suit and
flew at my veil determined to make short work of my intrusion. One last heave and the hive was almost back
to normal.
A short retreat into the house to remove a few stings and
regroup was required. Then a second trip
back to reposition a few combs and replace the cover completed the ordeal.
Time seems to slow on a farm, yet in hindsight and simultaneously,
the stillness of mind required to process the natural beauty of many
interactions seems to double or triple the amount of life experienced in each
moment. What started out as an unplanned
fifteen minute chore due to a great gift of rain, turned into a lesson that
superseded any obligation to be anywhere on time.
One hour later, a last check into the nest boxes before
leaving for town revealed a Barred Rock hen of once premium health, in the open
and motionless, on its back with feet high in the air. Oddly absent was the normal commotion of busy
hens scratching or dust bathing under the shade of a nearby mesquite tree. Most were huddled inside their coop as if a
hawk or coyote had been threatening.
Upon approaching the dead hen a few angry bees persisted in inspecting me as the hive I had restored was not more than 30 feet away from
the coop where I knelt. Although death
is not unheard of on a farm, during this summer day the clouds discouraged a
killing sort of heat. Nevertheless, the
bees were still disturbed by my presence so I trekked back to the house to gather
a veil with a dead hen dangling from one hand.
My confusion and frustration began to take hold. What could have caused this?
Looking over the bird I couldn’t find any sign
of ill-health. Without an answer I
returned to the coop - now one hen short - to gather eggs when I reluctantly peered a
lifeless feathered head hanging down from a nest box entrance, and a group of
hens still huddled. The persistence of a
few cross bees was still present.
Opening the back door to the nest boxes revealed not one, but two more
lifeless hens.
In overdrive my thoughts turned from egg collection back to
the hive. Although the evidence was
hidden, for some reason the bees decided to take out their frustration on this
particular flock. Two flocks less than
five steps away, but screened by a small mesquite shrub and chicken wire, remained
unscathed. In haste I removed the bodies
away from the coop for close examination which revealed two or three stings
each around the head. Not nearly enough
to kill an animal of that size, but chickens have been known to die from fear
alone.
Occasionally, and thankfully rarely, a day comes around that
defeats our confidence and ability to solve problems, and in some respects, defeats
what little resolve remains to continue trying.
In this case, three choices where obvious; exterminate or move the bees,
move the hens, or leave the farm if only to recover sanity. Knowing both, chickens would rather huddle in
their safe house than run from danger, and the bees would only be further
angered by an intrusion and cause more damage until nightfall. Herding over forty distressed hens would have
been unlikely if not impossible.
The uncomfortable choice of leaving, and hoping no more
deaths would result was a necessary one.
That evening we took time to forget and hope over a beer and
a movie showing - about the plight of honeybees nonetheless. A plan to move the hive was made, and that
plan was made whole after finding in the darkness a swollen eye, here and
there, and a few stings amongst several perched hens. My wife bravely helped me reposition the hive
and warned me of the coiled rattlesnake that narrowly missed being trampled by
my wheelbarrow and boot.
Only one more hen met its demise 24 hrs later after attempts to save it. Probably from a combination of stress and
stings.
Bright sunny days returned and the once moody hive has yet
to display any signs of aggression in its new location. The victims of my impatience seem to have
forgiven me or forgotten the ordeal. Although they only laid five eggs today when a normal haul might
have been twenty. Looking back I could
have risked the bees to ants and more rain.
I could have waited for nightfall to render the bees flightless.
Unfortunately, sometimes in our haste to preserve the total
of all our investments we risk more than if we would let some things lay where
they lie.
― Wendell Berry
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