Chelsea and I went skiing today. I had wanted to ski earlier but was busy, then it rained, etc etc but today looked like soft fluffy snow and mild temperatures, so out we went. It was very sticky snow, so sticky that I couldn’t easily push my skis forward and ended up walking them most of the time. Snowshoes might have been easier.
The forest looks very – open – because there is no underbrush in the winter and many of the trees have come down. In some places you can see quite far. I had never really considered that Cora Kirton’s house backed on to that forest but now that it is owned by her grandchild I did notice; they have turned it into some kind of compound with fencing and strange posts. Apparently they have large dogs to keep in or something to keep out. The fence came up quite close to the trail and had posts with big No Trespassing signs, almost like something from my nightmares. It is a very inhospitable thing to have showing from the forest. But the forest itself was quiet and fresh, with drifts and heavy snow-laden branches and deer tracks. Chelsea found some places where the deer had peed and made herself busy sniffing and digging and learning all about these most important smells.
The trail going up into the bush itself was almost completely blocked so I had to press through branches and do zig-zag detours around fallen trees and new saplings. I decided I didn’t feel like trying to ski down the slight inclines over the fallen logs and all the little glacial erratics like I used to. I didn’t really want to fall so I side-stepped down. Chelsea bounded all around and disappeared at times and reappeared all snowy and happy with gleaming shiny eyes and a big tongue-out smile. Her pawprints are so huge. I think the pads of her paws and the webbing between her toes actually helps buoy her up on the snow a bit. She doesn’t sink in the way the deer hooves do.
We didn’t see any movement, and I didn’t find any forms. A few times I had to say ‘hup, hup!’ loudly to keep Chels from going to close to the highway. But she was well behaved. I fell once trying to slowly go down the little hill before the Big Rock and lay there for a while looking up at the tall swaying pines. Beautiful. I would have stayed longer but I hadn’t any water repellent pants and the snow was wet.
I went up the Big Rock and looked at my meditation place from days gone by. I also looked down the incredible incline where we used to sled. Quite intimidating. It would be suicide now without removing some very large mature spruce trees that are just gorgeous. I miss those good times. Will I have strength, stamina, energy enough to do these things with my children? Will dad see this? The questions make my heart quiver and ache.
I de-skiied and walked back the way I came and just wandered through the bush to get back to the main trail because so many trees were down. I did ski properly down the gentle long hill, all the way, not too quickly. The meadow is no longer a regenerating field, it is just about a forest proper; more than a thicket. It’s hard to recognize. The bee enclave was open and I went in to look at it. The hives are all wrapped up in dark paper and tied with string like packages delivered from above and dropped or set down temporarily, awaiting someone to come and open them. There was no buzzing. I looked down and saw a dark little shadow, and realized it was a bee in the snow. I brushed it off and picked it up and tried to warm it with my breath, thinking perhaps it was sleeping. I would like to imagine this, bees asleep, blanketed with a dusting of snow, dreaming of fragrant flowers and waving grasses, honeyed aromas arising from golden meadows and the busy-ness of their hives. But the bee did not wake up. I lifted the top of the hive to see if it was open, to see if anyone was groggily moving around, hoping to see the inner workings and to put the bee back in, hoping it would revive and drowsily take its place amongst its sister drones. But the lid was just sitting there on top of the paper-wrapped hive. Chelsea came to see what it was about. I don’t know if her nose smelled any lingering hints of the tasty sweet treats manufactured in these earliest of factories. Her movement revealed more dark specks in the snow, and I realized that everywhere the snow was disturbed, more motionless bees showed through. It was a still, sad feeling, beautiful and cold. I realize that their lives are short and that their little beings cycle quickly, affected by the uncompromising weather in drastic ways. I have seen the bodies of pollinators lying in groups in the fall. I remember the first time I saw this, on the sidewalk near our first apartment, walking home from university. I was startled and a bit scared, worried for the wasps and wondering what it meant. Did something mass murder them? Possibly – people kill them all the times, in multiple mean methods. But these wasps had just finished their lives, dead of cold or exhaustion or old age after a short intense life of hard work. Do they receive a reward? Do they die knowing they kept their colony alive? Are they remembered and revered in the dances of the next generation of drones?
It was strange to think of all these bees lying silent under a thin snowy blanket throughout this meadow, throughout this young forest. Presumably they can find their way out through the paper packaging, this dark gift wrap on their hives. For a while I entertained the thought that they had been here like this all winter, but of course that couldn’t be; they lay within the snow. This just happened. It was mild and raining for the last several days, followed by thick fluffs falling lightly, then heavily from the sky. They must have awoken and come out, hoping to find buds or water or a sign that spring was coming. Why didn’t they return to their beds before it got too cold to fly? Did the temperature really snap that quickly? Were they out of food and too low on energy? Did desperation drive them out or did curiosity coax them? Could they find their way back through the paper or was it a barrier? Did they land on the snow and then stiffen with the cold, weighted down by flakes? I hope they felt no pain. I hope they drifted off into the drifts. I hope they were placed there gently by the hand of God, tucked in to sleep, their tiny soul-sparks lit up to float upwards like glowing smoke-bits from a camp fire whose embers have been stirred. I hope God keeps these bees, these good, dedicated, hard workers, takes them to a place of endless flowers, an abundance of nectar, plentiful honey, dizzying dances, and all the things that bees like.
They were so tiny. So fragile and perfect and lovingly put together. Not menacing at all. I wondered at it. I did think for a minute that it might be scary, realizing I was surrounded by the wee corpses of tiny stinging insects. What if I fell? Do the stings work if they are dead? What if it suddenly warmed up? Would they arise, angry at the imposition and intrusion? But no, they were just there, layers of snow and bees and snow, quiet. Quiet. Not just by the hives, but quite far, half way to the edge of the forest, perhaps further. Bees in snow.
I wish I had taken pictures. Why didn’t I? Maybe it wasn’t the time. Maybe they didn’t want me to. I wish I had a way to save the simultaneous crispness and softness of the snow against the little wings and antennae and fuzzy bodies, the legs all tucked in, curled up in my glove with the sparkle and shine of new-fallen crystals on just-melted flakes. I wish to remember the silence of the hives against the backdrop of feathery, rich deepest green needles of the emerging trees in the baby forest. I wish the one bee I picked up and carefully set on my camera bag had made it back to the house. I wanted to try again to warm it up, just hoping. When I was younger I would have tried to gather them all, to revive them, tuck them in, hope to restart their little bee-selves, like the time I brought home a duck egg I found in a barn. I refused to believe it wasn’t viable, tried to warm it and turn it and hatch it.
I don’t know if I miss the hope and insistence of believing we can help them all, or if I embrace the peace of accepting that they have gone and are now a beautiful, graceful scattering on and under the snow. I do know that I am grateful I saw them, grateful that skis, poles, dog paws unearthed them, that I was able to know about their existence and their passing, and that I know where they lay to rest and where they now stay.
