Wolf Lake

Chapter 3

The small town of Wolf Lake aptly sits along the similarly named body of water and is surrounded by a national park. Our territory only takes up about 50 square miles of the park and is home to about 60 members. Known Wolf packs tend to range from  5-100 members, with between 500-700 recognized packs on the continent. Average territories range between 13 – 2,400 square miles depending on pack size and needs. Most packs attempt to keep their territories within the boundaries of State and National Parks, or private lands to help keep our existence hidden from the human world. While there hasn't been wolves in our state for decades, some locals still claim to see one or two on occasion. For the most part, these “sightings” can be attributed to young Wolves being less experienced and less in control during their first few turns. We and other packs have members who are responsible for making sure these “sightings” are always discredited---basically they are our PR teams.

...

I reach the end of the street and the edge of town, climbing over the small wooden fence protecting the first trees of the orchard and marking the beginning of my parents homestead ...High ho, High ho...I think with a smile. When my parents married, my dad built their home on the large vacant lot at the end of Main Street. It might not have been on the water, but what it lacked in lake-front property it made up in beautiful serenity. Marshall surrounded the house with two acres worth of lush orchards, fields, and gardens full of diverse flowering plant life. My dad built my mothers dream home and surrounded it with a honeybee paradise. Even a human can smell the sweet floral aromas from over a mile away in the spring and summer. The orchard has a host of apple, sweet and sour cherry, pear, elderberry, and pawpaw trees. They garden fields full of every sort of vegetable from beans and gourds, to tomatoes and peppers, cucumbers and melons. The flower gardens are made up of tall sunflowers, honeysuckle, poppies, buckwheat, alfalfa, lavender, lilac trees, and wisteria vines. He also made fields teaming with different species of wildflowers that bloom throughout the spring, summer, and fall--keeping the bees well fed on nectar and pollen. 

It really is a good thing I don’t have any allergies. 

While most honey is typically harvested in the afternoon, while the majority of the bees are out and about, there is still plenty to do in preparation before the lids of the hives are lifted. My first stop is the barn, an enormous storage shed where my dad keeps all the tools and supplies needed to care for the bees and rest of the homestead. On the table next to the door are the 5-gallon misters. Grabbing one, I open the lid and pour in a couple tablespoons of plant protectant concentrate before filling it with water. 

That ought to do it… I take a moment with the crisp cold water running to rinse off some of the sweat from my neck, shoulders, and arms before turning the spigot off, giving the canister a shake, and putting it over my shoulders like a backpack. The long hose comes out the bottom and up to the misting applicator in hand. I turn the unit on, listening to the quiet hum of the pump as it pressurizes the canister. Once a week we spray the grounds and all the plants down early in the morning before the bees wake up with a wonderful smelling mixture of organic, non-toxic oils that protect the plants and fruit from damaging soft-bodied pests, mold, and mildews. The mist kills all those pesky aphids, mites, thrips, and fungus gnats on contact. It prevents and treats pesky powdery mildews like a dream. By the time the bees start their busy days, the plants have all dried and are ready to be pollinated. 

On my way out the door, I pass and greet the other employees as they are arriving to do the same. “Good morning Tom…. Hi Diane…” On time for once Brad….. While my dad and I can and do handle the vast majority of the bee keeping between the two of us, my parents employ quite a few members of the pack year-round to help with the upkeep of the grounds and the care and harvesting in the orchards and fields. Farmers Markets are the first stop for most of the crops grown on the property, but anything that isn’t purchased is donated to local food banks and the schools. 

“Morning Boss.” I hear the familiar deep gravelly voice coming from behind me.

“Good morning Dad.” I respond with a smile, turning around and giving him a big hug around his waist. There have been some people who don’t think I look anything like my father, but the similarities are there. My sister and I both do take the majority of our features from our mother, but the similarities with our father are there when you look close enough. Willow and I both get our smiles and our eyes from dad. While mom has dark, almost black irises, our dad has bright hazel eyes--amber in the center spreading out to a light grey. Willow’s eyes move from brown in the center to a deep forest green while mine start amber and transition to blue along the edges. Dad has darker hair, speckled lightly with some greys along his temple--but his beard is almost all grey. According to my parents, it has almost always been that way. It makes him look more mature than his sense of humor betrays. Mom has always been the serious one, but my dad has always felt like one of my closest friends. 

“I thought we would try for five hives this afternoon, what do you think?” He asked, looking at the tops of the leaves around us, before getting on his knees to take a closer inspection at the stems and air roots where they come up from the ground. 

I nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I think five will keep us plenty busy. The hives in the southwest corner all appeared to be full when I checked in on them yesterday. Probably a good place to start.” He bobbed his head in agreement, cleaning his soil dusted hands on the fronts of his jeans. 

“This has been a particularly good summer for us, you were right about adjusting some of the oils in the protectant mix. The plants have never looked healthier and in return, the bees have never been happier.” He said with a smile. 

Well I learned from the best and you taught me well, Dad.

I don my hat and veil, pulling my long gloves up above my elbows. I do not normally bother with a bee suit as they are bulky and uncomfortable, especially in this humidity. It helps that I have never had problems with the bees stinging me. That is one of the reasons why it has always my dad and I handling the bees. It seems that they have come to accept us as part of their colonies. Two summers ago when we tried to enlist help, the bees took serious offense--poor Mac. I fill my mini smoker with some dried cotton and citrus peels from last years plants. I prefer to use the cotton in the smoker because it provides a cool smoke that doesn’t harm the bees and the citrus peels are long lasting and the strong citrus aroma helps calm the bees and keep them from getting themselves worked up. 

Good morning ladies! …

We make our way through the five hives without incident. All are well over 90% capped and filled with beautiful golden honey. One by one we replace about two-thirds of the frames with empty, preformed combs. In a few weeks to a month, the hives will be refilled once more. We carry the frames to the barn and place them in the extractor after gently cutting off the caps. The extractor then runs, removing the honey without damaging the combs. When they are done spinning, the now empty combs can be taken back out and recycled in the hives again. Giving the bees ready-to-fill combs means they don’t have to work as hard and can spend their energy taking care of the baby bees and making honey. A turn of the spigot at the bottom of the extractor sends cascades of raw, unpasteurized honey down into waiting jars. 

...

Finally! I think--nearly out loud in my excitement--as I finish sealing the lid of the last jar around four o’clock. We are both pasted with a thick, gritty layer of sand, dust, and pollen and we are sticky past our elbows with honey drippings. I so greatly look forward to a long hot shower to get some of the errant honey out of my hair. 

“You headed to your place to clean up before dinner?” Dad asked, attempting to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, but raking a dark streak of honey-mud across it. “Of course, Mom would not let me in the house looking like this. Let alone sit down to dinner with her. What would the children think!” I feigned a horrified look, dramatically putting the back of my hand to my forehead and leaning back as if to faint. We both laughed, a deep hearty chuckle-- another trait I clearly get from my father. My mother, much to her chagrin, has a much higher laugh, almost a cackle. She hates the sound of it, but I have always loved hearing it as it has always been such a rare sound. She takes everything so seriously and hardly ever gives herself the opportunity for a good laugh.

“Well she still lets this old dirty mutt in the house…. But… ah…. you do have a certain … aroma….. An ‘ode to a hard day's work’ shall I say?” He said, playfully scrunching his nose with a smile. I nod in agreement. 

Oh, you know it is bad when you can smell yourself… After sweating all day I definitely NEED a good hot shower.. 

We put away the last of the tools and close the lids on the boxes holding the jars of honey. “Yeah… and I have to get this mess--” I pointed with disdain towards the patch of crusted sugar and dirt near my temple “--out of my hair first then I will meet you guys up at the house for dinner.”

Even though Willow and I have both been out of the house and into our own places for a few years now, we still have regular Friday night dinners with our parents. Most of the time it is a home cooked meal, but for special occasions, or when any of us are particularly busy we will meet up at one of the local restaurants. Mom loves her job, but she always worries it keeps her from spending enough time with her family. This has always seemed like a silly concern since she always puts family first, except on the absolute rarest occasion when the community really does need her attention in that moment more. This has not happened very often, only a few times I that I can remember. Like when our area experienced a 500 year flood on my 11th birthday-- that was certainly one of them. Half the city was under three feet or more of water that day and my mom and every other able bodied person was doing anything and everything they could to help out, Willow and I among them. We simply celebrated a couple weeks later, but I know she has never stopped feeling guilty about it. 

We were truly blessed with amazing parents and an amazing community. 

I bump shoulders with dad on my way out the door, since we are both far too sticky for a hug. If was raining, I know he would have offered me a ride since my apartment is on the other side of town, but it wasn’t and my place is less than a short mile walk away anyway.