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Authors: Hannah Nordhaus
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and procrastinating nothing to a more convenient season; for, while bees do not require a large amount of attention, in proportion to the profits yielded by them, they must have it at the proper time and in the right way .” These days, the details are grim—poor economics, thorny logistics, and a plague of disappearing bees. “So generally, beekeepers are unhappy people,” Miller says. “We’re so vulnerable, so dependent on the vagaries of nature.” Perhaps that was always the case. The honey bee, after all, is an introduced—at times invasive—species that boosts the productivity of other introduced species—almonds, for instance—and has now fallen on hard times because of the introduction of still more nonnative invaders—humans, shopping malls, parasites, monocrops. Langstroth once countered critics who objected to his manipulation of bees and comb: “Those who object to this, as interfering with nature, should remember that the bee is not in a state of nature.”
Neither are bee guys. In an eminently practical nation, they are hopeless romantics, dancing on the razor’s edge of failure in order to do something they love. Of all N. E. Miller’s descendents, John Miller and his estranged brother are the only ones left who work with bees for a living: “Everyone bailed out, became accountants, lawyers, and honey packers,” he says. “Why don’t I get out? I love bees. They work hard; they’re well behaved; they’re selfless; they’re generous.” Signs of his apian affection are everywhere, from the bee-striped rug in the entryway of his home to his Salt Lake Stingers baseball cap to the yellow-and-black-striped German felt-tip pens that he encountered in an office supply store. When they were discontinued because of their propensity to leak, he bought out what remaining stock he could find. He carries them wherever he goes, and his fingers and shirts are often stained with ink. The love of the bee is an impractical passion.
“This calling feels good,” says Miller. It used to feel better. There were, he says, three major revolutions that changed American beekeeping. The invention of the Langstroth hive was the first, making it possible to earn a living from beekeeping. Migratory beekeeping was the second, making it possible to run beehives as a modern business. The third, in 1987, was cataclysmic, and it rendered life among honey bees—already a trying assignment—even more difficult.
Chapter Three
The Tiny Leviathan
T HE FIRST TIME J OHN M ILLER SAW THE DIMINUTIVE PEST that would loom large over the rest of his career was in the early 1990s. He doesn’t remember the year, but he remembers the week. It was in early April, and Miller’s crew had just broken the top off a robust hive teeming with healthy bees. One of his employees glanced at a drone cell that had been mangled when the hive top had been pried off, and noticed a small, reddish-brown creepy-crawly thing tucked inside.
No one present had ever seen such a creature. They had seen pictures, though, and knew that the barely visible tick-like bug was something called a varroa mite, which had first been spotted in the United States in 1987. Its presence in this one hive boded ill in the extreme, not just for that particular colony, but for the entire Miller outfit. Everyone in the yard stopped their work and gathered, speechless, looking at the mite. Miller uttered a few choice cowboy words and ran around “in an autistic loop” for about an hour. Then he went out and bought some chemicals to kill the mites. They were the first pesticides he would ever use inside a hive.
Later, he would receive two official letters. The first was from the North Dakota Department of Agriculture, explaining that a state bee inspector had found a varroa mite in one of his bee yards. The second, the following winter, came from Placer County, his home base in California, also proclaiming the reality of his infestation. Miller was lucky. Had a single
Neither are bee guys. In an eminently practical nation, they are hopeless romantics, dancing on the razor’s edge of failure in order to do something they love. Of all N. E. Miller’s descendents, John Miller and his estranged brother are the only ones left who work with bees for a living: “Everyone bailed out, became accountants, lawyers, and honey packers,” he says. “Why don’t I get out? I love bees. They work hard; they’re well behaved; they’re selfless; they’re generous.” Signs of his apian affection are everywhere, from the bee-striped rug in the entryway of his home to his Salt Lake Stingers baseball cap to the yellow-and-black-striped German felt-tip pens that he encountered in an office supply store. When they were discontinued because of their propensity to leak, he bought out what remaining stock he could find. He carries them wherever he goes, and his fingers and shirts are often stained with ink. The love of the bee is an impractical passion.
“This calling feels good,” says Miller. It used to feel better. There were, he says, three major revolutions that changed American beekeeping. The invention of the Langstroth hive was the first, making it possible to earn a living from beekeeping. Migratory beekeeping was the second, making it possible to run beehives as a modern business. The third, in 1987, was cataclysmic, and it rendered life among honey bees—already a trying assignment—even more difficult.
Chapter Three
The Tiny Leviathan
T HE FIRST TIME J OHN M ILLER SAW THE DIMINUTIVE PEST that would loom large over the rest of his career was in the early 1990s. He doesn’t remember the year, but he remembers the week. It was in early April, and Miller’s crew had just broken the top off a robust hive teeming with healthy bees. One of his employees glanced at a drone cell that had been mangled when the hive top had been pried off, and noticed a small, reddish-brown creepy-crawly thing tucked inside.
No one present had ever seen such a creature. They had seen pictures, though, and knew that the barely visible tick-like bug was something called a varroa mite, which had first been spotted in the United States in 1987. Its presence in this one hive boded ill in the extreme, not just for that particular colony, but for the entire Miller outfit. Everyone in the yard stopped their work and gathered, speechless, looking at the mite. Miller uttered a few choice cowboy words and ran around “in an autistic loop” for about an hour. Then he went out and bought some chemicals to kill the mites. They were the first pesticides he would ever use inside a hive.
Later, he would receive two official letters. The first was from the North Dakota Department of Agriculture, explaining that a state bee inspector had found a varroa mite in one of his bee yards. The second, the following winter, came from Placer County, his home base in California, also proclaiming the reality of his infestation. Miller was lucky. Had a single
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