The Bee Hunter — Background and Themes

A Voice of Experience, Not Theory

The narrative is built on a lifetime of observation, not library research. Edgell recalls his initiation at age ten by an old Adirondacker named George Smith, a man who “took his whiskey neat” and “could spit without removing the pipe from his mouth.” That character sketch sets the tone: practical, earthy, and skeptical of armchair naturalists. Edgell’s authority comes from fifty years of hunting, and he repeatedly contrasts his own field-tested knowledge with the “imagination” of earlier writers like John Burroughs. The prose is direct, often self-deprecating—he admits he is not clever enough to build his own bee box and must hire a cabinetmaker. This humility reinforces credibility.

The Mechanics of Lining Bees

The technical core of the book is the method of “lining” bees—tracking them from a bait box to their tree. Edgell describes the bee box in precise dimensions (five and a half inches long, three inches wide, three inches deep) and notes that an old cigar box must be weathered outdoors because “bees do” react to fresh wood. He explains how to time a bee’s round trip with a watch, then move the box in the direction of flight, repeating until the tree is located. The process is iterative and demands patience. One anecdote recounts using field glasses to spot bees in foliage forty-five feet up; another describes a line that reversed itself on a mountain, leading to a colony in a spruce root. These examples show that even an expert encounters surprises.

Accidents, Mistakes, and Unlikely Hives

Edgell admits that finding a bee tree by accident is “very, very rare.” He recounts only three chance discoveries in decades of hunting. One came when a companion filled the bait comb with anise instead of syrup, forcing a fresh start—and on the way back they stumbled upon a large colony in a pine. Another tree was found because a colony had swarmed from a nearby tree. He also notes that bees sometimes choose absurd homes: a colony in a rotted poplar so weak he could push it over. He moved that entire tree to his cow pasture, plugging the hole with moss, sawing the trunk, and replanting it in a tub. The bees, he reports, “were quite untroubled” and organized a ventilation system by morning. The tone is wryly affectionate, never sentimental.

Edgell’s book is best read as a craft manual with a memoir’s soul. The pacing shifts between brisk instruction and leisurely anecdote, mirroring the hunter’s own alternation between focused lining and patient waiting. Readers interested in the actual technique will find the details reliable; those drawn to the character of the old Adirondacker or the author’s dry asides will find those pleasures woven in. The book rewards a slow, attentive reading—much like bee hunting itself.

There’s something about a man who spends fifty years watching bees that makes me think of those old horse histories—not the facts, but the quiet devotion underneath. The way a tracking instinct turns into memory, almost sacred. I found that same patient wonder in The Horse of America in His Derivation, History, and Development — A Reader’s Guide, and it lingered with me like a soft echo long after I closed it.