My mistake. For several years, I believed that urban beekeeping — especially rooftop beekeeping — was on the decline. Because urban beekeepers stopped sending me photos and stories of their rooftop adventures, I concluded that urban beekeeping was passé. But when I began researching the reasons for its decline, I stumbled upon the truth. Instead of shrinking, urban beekeeping was increasing at an astronomical rate.
However, consistent with not hearing much, I learned that many urban beekeepers now prefer to keep their hobby discreet and are less likely to strive for the public attention they once craved. At first, the public greeted urban beekeepers as heroes for saving the bees, but as pushback from environmental groups grew, honey bees became the culprits, accused of displacing native bees from the concrete jungles by hogging the forage.
Whether those accusations are true is unclear. Honey bees are much more adaptable than many of the native bees, especially those that require specific plants, special soils, and unique habitats to survive. When we build cities, we destroy most of those microenvironments, making life difficult or impossible for many species, regardless of the presence of honey bees. I’ve never read a study that convinced me that honey bees are the biggest problem in a native bee’s life, but too often we take a stand without consulting the facts.
High bars to high buildings
Even without public pressure, rooftop beekeeping can be tough. I remember one middle-aged man who had to stand in his bathtub and shove bee boxes through a teensy bathroom window onto the roof, then somehow squeeze himself through the same hole, folded up like a tortellini, joints creaking, bee suit snagging on hardware.
Another woman received permission to carry bee boxes in the elevators until a tenant complained, claiming a nut in a hazmat suit wielding a furniture dolly forced her to wait in the lobby for the next ride while her ice cream melted. As a result, the beekeeper was shown the service elevator and, eventually, the stairs. Now that’s rough.
Yet another beekeeper said the building manager required her to provide standalone sandwich boards near the elevators, like those that read “wet floor” or “closed for cleaning.” Only hers were to read, “Danger. Live Bees.” Last I heard, she was asked to leave because her sign wasn’t quite right. It read, “Bee Ware of Management.”
Costs as high as the building
On top of the inconvenience, urban beekeeping of any type is expensive, above and beyond beekeeping in the country. Depending on the city, you may need to pay for zoning approvals, permits, and licenses. Building owners or homeowner associations may also charge usage fees and require beekeepers to pay for special safety measures. And with so many people so close, many urban keepers opt for liability insurance.
Requests for special equipment by management are never-ending. Because high winds scour the tops of tall buildings, hives may need to be anchored to the roof. Some building managers have requested chain-link fencing around the hives so the beekeeper can’t fall off the ledge.
And then there’s the water problem. To keep bees from frequenting fountains, pools, and public water features, some urban beekeepers are required to buy and maintain watering stations. And some water stations require mosquito control.
Depending on the situation, beekeepers may have issues with parking areas that allow only moments for loading or unloading, and if you break the rules, the fines are high. But one urban beekeeper told me her greatest expense was storage for extracting equipment and woodenware. Because her apartment was tiny, an expensive storage unit was exhausting her budget.
Why do it?
As I reread comments on old blog posts and emails from urban beekeepers, I wondered why they do it. To me, the barriers — time, money, inconvenience, red tape — seem harsh. And even if you can sell your unique honey for a small fortune, it requires a fat fortune to produce. So what was I missing? …
