There comes a day in late summer — you won't mark it on your calendar, but the bees will — when the light changes. The sun, which has been climbing higher since winter solstice, stops. It hangs at its zenith for a moment, then begins the long descent toward winter. The days grow shorter by a few minutes each day. The angle of light shifts. The temperature drops, just a degree or two, in the hour before dawn.
And the colony, reading these signals with a precision no thermometer can match, changes.
The queen slows her laying. Workers cease building new comb. Drones — those bumbling males who have spent the summer lounging and eating honey — are suddenly persona non grata. The workers drag them to the entrance, refuse them re-entry, and leave them to die shivering on the landing board. It's brutal. It's efficient. It's autumn.
This is the make-or-break season. What happens in September and October determines whether your bees see spring. Get it right, and they will cluster through the coldest months, warm and well-fed, waiting for the crocus to bloom. Get it wrong, and you will find a silent hive in March, full of honey the bees couldn't reach because they starved three inches from salvation.
Pay attention. This is when beekeeping matters most.
By September, the queen's egg-laying has dropped from a summer peak of 1,500-2,000 eggs per day to perhaps 500, then 200, then nearly zero. This is not a failure. This is strategy.
Worker bees raised in autumn — called "winter bees" — are physiologically different from their summer sisters. They have larger fat bodies (hypopharyngeal glands) that allow them to survive for months instead of weeks. They do not forage (there's nothing to forage for in January). They do not raise brood (the queen isn't laying). Their sole job is to keep the cluster alive until spring.
Raising these winter bees requires tremendous resources — protein from pollen, carbohydrates from honey. The queen lays just enough to replace losses and build a population of 20,000 to 30,000 going into winter. More than that, and the colony wastes resources feeding mouths it doesn't need. Fewer than that, and the cluster may be too small to generate adequate heat.
The bees know this balance instinctively. Your job is not to interfere, but to ensure they have what they need.
The expulsion of drones is one of the more dramatic events in the hive's seasonal calendar. These males, who have spent the entire summer doing essentially nothing except waiting for a chance to mate, are suddenly dragged kicking and protesting to the entrance and shoved out into the cold.
Why? Because drones are expensive. They eat honey but contribute no labor. In summer, when resources are abundant, the colony tolerates this. In autumn, when every ounce of honey might mean the difference between survival and starvation, they cannot.
If you see drones being evicted in September or October, that's a good sign — it means the colony is preparing for winter in a normal, healthy way. If you still see drones flying in late October, that's often a red flag. It may indicate a queen problem (she's still laying drones when she shouldn't be) or that the colony is queenless.
This is the most critical assessment you will make all year. Does the colony have enough honey to survive winter?
The answer depends on your climate. In the Deep South, where winters are mild and bees fly year-round, 40 pounds may suffice. In the upper Midwest or northern New England, where colonies cluster from November through March, you need 60 to 80 pounds or more.
How do you know how much they have?
The two-finger lift test, as always. But in autumn, you need to be more systematic:
Autumn feeding is different from spring feeding. In spring, you use a 1:1 syrup to stimulate egg-laying. In autumn, you use a 2:1 syrup (two parts sugar to one part water by weight) to build stores quickly.
Why heavier syrup? Because the bees don't have to work as hard to evaporate the water. They can process and cap it faster, getting it stored before the cold sets in. Time is of the essence in autumn. Heavy syrup is your tool for beating the clock.
How much to feed? As much as it takes. Offer five gallons. Ten gallons if necessary. Feed until the bees stop taking it, which signals they have what they need. Or feed until temperatures drop below 50°F (10°C), at which point syrup feeding becomes difficult (the bees won't take cold syrup).
If you're feeding in late October or November and temperatures are marginal, consider dry sugar, fondant, or candy boards instead (more on this in Chapter 56).
If you didn't treat for Varroa in August, treat now. If you did treat in August, test again to confirm the treatment worked. An untreated mite infestation going into winter is a death sentence.
Why? Because mites don't just weaken bees — they vector viruses. Deformed Wing Virus. Chronic Bee Paralysis Virus. Kashmir Bee Virus. These viruses devastate winter bees, shortening their already-extended lifespans and preventing them from clustering effectively.
By the time you see deformed wings in spring, it's too late. The damage was done in fall. Treat now, while you still can.
A small entrance is easier to defend. Against robbers in October. Against mice in November. Against drafts in December.
Install an entrance reducer, narrowing the entrance to just a few inches. The bees will adjust. They'll form a tight cluster just inside, maintaining a wall of warm bodies that blocks cold air from penetrating the hive.
One caveat: ensure the entrance doesn't get blocked by dead bees or snow. A completely blocked entrance can cause moisture buildup (bees exhale water vapor when they metabolize honey) and lead to mold or dysentery. Check periodically through winter.
A weak colony — one covering fewer than five frames going into winter — will not survive. It cannot generate enough heat. It cannot maintain the cluster. It will break apart in January, and the bees will freeze to death inches from food.
Your options: combine it with a stronger colony using the newspaper method, or accept the loss and harvest the honey for yourself (assuming you can spare it for next spring's feeding needs).
The newspaper method is elegantly simple:
"September is the cruelest month. Not because of what happens in September, but because of what September determines. A beekeeper who tends his hives in March but ignores them in September is a fool — and soon a beekeeper without bees."
— The Veteran Beekeeper's Diary, 1889
September:
October:
November: