COLUMN: Swarm!

I am many things -- brave is not one of them.

If you ever want to see me act like a complete and utter ninny, just put me anywhere in the vicinity of insects and watch the comedy magic play out before your eyes. If some gross bug even makes a move like it MIGHT want to crawl on me, I go from behaving like a fully-functioning adult to a panicked toddler in the blink of an eye. Wait, I take that back. I've seen panicked toddlers who handle insect encounters better than me.

This seems like perfectly justifiable rational behavior to me. I mean, they're called "creepy crawlies" for a reason. No one ever calls insects "cuddly crawlies." I've never looked at a bug and thought, "aww, how cute" -- and if you ever have, zoom in with your camera phone and take a good hard look at the prehistoric fanged nightmare factory you're gushing over. Bugs are tiny little horrifying monsters.

But I knew what was coming this year. The news has been giving us plenty of warning. 2024 marks the twin emergence of not one, but TWO different broods of periodic cicadas. These hulking beasts spend 13-17 years living underground (where they belong) before crawling to the surface, shedding their exoskeletons, and partying it up for a month of naked cicada debauchery before having the common decency to die -- all so their offspring can do it all over again 13-17 years later. Gross.

I was braced and ready for cicadas. As it turns out, they're the least of my problems this spring.

Last week, I took a rare and well-deserved day off to sneak down to Peoria with some friends for a concert. Having elected myself driver, I figured I'd take advantage of the beautiful morning by pulling my car into the backyard and giving it a good clean for the benefit of friends who would soon be piling in. It was a gorgeous morning, but I found it kind of annoying that one of my neighbors was running a high-pitched weed whacker that was seriously interfering in my ability to low-key rock out to the tunes bumping from my car stereo.

When I stepped out of the car, the shrill noise was even worse. I looked around to figure out where it was coming from, but didn't see anyone out and about. That's because I was looking AROUND. I should have been looking UP. 

It wasn't a weed whacker making that racket. Just feet above my head, the sky was full... of bees. Not just a few bees. Not even what I would call "a lot of bees." We're talking horror movie levels of bees, a "where-are-his-glasses-Thomas-J-can't-see-without-his-glasses" amount of bees. I'd reckon at least 3,000 in all. I didn't know there were that many bees in all of Rock Island, let alone one backyard. 3,000 bees is beyond my brain's capacity for rational thought. All I could think to do (as if "thinking" was an option) was dive into my car, roll up every window, and have a panic attack. 

In full disclosure, I lied earlier. I don't hate insects. I only really truly hate bees. The problem is that when any other insect dares come near me, I err on the side of caution, assume it's a bee, and act accordingly (specifically, like a ninny.) My mother once had to physically restrain me from tuck-and-rolling out of a moving car on the interstate because a bee flew in the window. I am super allergic, I am super petrified, and I assume no responsibilities for my actions when a bee comes near me. It's my worst phobia.

"But Shane," you say, "bees are nature's miracle! Without them, we would..." blah blah blah. Yes, I know. No, I don't care. Kill them all with fire, I say. And here, on this fine afternoon, they must have overheard me -- and they were here for revenge. I watched in horror as they worked to assemble what I assumed to be a massive hive in my backyard walnut tree.

Only later, when I gathered enough courage to run full bore back into the house, did I learn what I was actually dealing with. I grabbed my phone and called the first number I found after Googling "bee removal Quad Cities." I'm glad that number was Adam Ziegler's. He's an amateur backyard beekeeper and a kind soul who talked me off the ledge. I also suspect he might be clinically insane, because he seems to actually LIKE these flying death-bringers, but I won't judge. After I sent him a pic of the horrors I was witnessing, he let me know precisely what I was dealing with -- a swarm. 

The structure I was seeing in the walnut tree wasn't a hive -- it was just bees on bees on bees, gathering around their queen while scouts were out looking for new build-to-suit hive real estate. Let's hope it's nowhere near here. "They'll likely be gone within an hour or two," he reassured me.

I had no idea bees were prone to this sort of caravan lifestyle, but apparently it's pretty common. "This time of year in our region is known as swarm season," Adam explained. "The warmth and conditions have been great for trees and flowers to bloom, giving the bees plenty of resources to grow and expand."

"As a colony produces more and more bees with these abundant resources, something is triggered in the hive to start feeding young larvae extra nutrition in the form of 'royal jelly.' This gives the female larvae enough extra proteins and fats and carbs to develop into a queen bee. When the queen bee hatches, parts of the colony abscond with the new queen and become a swarm."

"Neat," I replied. "Now come kill them."

Except I didn't say that, because I'm not a monster. While it would warm my heart to no end watching these bees meet a most painful demise, I understand their importance in the world, which is why I purposely Googled "bee removal" instead of "bee extermination." Sadly, Adam was on his way out of town, but he reassured me the swarm was likely just making a pit stop in my yard, and he was right. Two hours later, they all took off in horrifying tandem to become what I can only hope is now Someone Else's Problem.

If that someone is you, Adam's your guy. I was super thankful for his advice and cool lesson, even if it was like listening to someone recap the world's scariest horror flick. He's looking for a swarm to re-home, so if you've got one, check out his website at https://zigsbees.adamziegler.com/. In the meantime, if you need me, I'm pretty sure I'll be indoors until first frost.