In Pendleton, Oregon, about 200 miles east of Portland, there is an apiary with nearly a dozen honeybee colonies. During peak season, this apiary houses close to 500,000 bees.
The beehives are near a garden with rows of bee balm, lavender and a few dwarf honeycrisp apple trees. But the perimeter of their sanctuary is surrounded by a 4-foot-tall, chain-link fence and the bees are under the watchful eye of an armed guard tower.
Welcome to our felon-friendly apiary, located inside Eastern Oregon Correctional Institution.
Each year, 10 to 12 residents join the selective beekeeping program, which lasts all four seasons. In the first year, successful students earn beginner and apprentice certifications through the Washington State Beekeepers Association.
Once a student, I am now a facilitator, which is the third and final level of the program. Facilitators take on a three-year commitment of classroom instruction, mentoring and study in pursuit of a journeyman certification — the highest level of beekeeping achievement a person can earn while incarcerated. Four of us here have made it to the journeyman program. We mentor students and rotate teaching the class each week.
As a facilitator I have had to prove to the students that I am qualified to instruct them — even though I wear the same state-issued clothing.
Students are partnered up and assigned a hive to manage for the year. Each hive depends on the students and their mentor for survival. There are no second chances. If they fail, the colony will collapse.
“It’s a lot of pressure,” student Chris Ainsworth said. “If we mess this up or accidentally squish the queen during an inspection — it’s over. That’s the end of our season, and we just have to watch everyone else.”
According to Patrick Gazeley-Romney, a longtime facilitator for the program, “Hives do fail and that’s OK. When the hive fails, it can feel like you failed. It can be confusing and discouraging.”
After five years of facilitating the beekeeping program, Gazeley-Romney knows the challenges of maintaining an apiary. During the winter of 2023, every single hive in the prison apiary collapsed.
“Sometimes, you can do everything right and it doesn’t work out,” Gazeley-Romney said.
Like most apiarists, we wear protective gear: thick white coats, gloves and wide-brimmed hats with a mesh veil. The one major difference is our coats are stamped with a bright orange “Department of Corrections” emblem.
When I take my mentees to their first field day, the excitement is palpable. They walk a little too fast. They talk a little too much. Everything is brand new to them.
Long before we reach the apiary, we can smell the lavender. While the colonies are positioned around the perimeter, there are eight rows of lavender plants in the center. Once we start the inspection, the flowery smell becomes a hidden note, replaced by the heavier scent of smoke, beeswax and humidity. It’s an olfactory combination unique to beekeeping.
We light the smoker, which is a canister with a bellows attached, using newspaper and kindling. The smoke disorients and calms the bees, making them easier to manage.
Next we use a mini crowbar to pry off the top cover. Bees have a tendency to fill gaps and crevices with propolis, a strong, glue-like substance they make from wax.
The hives are Langstroth-style: square boxes with vertical frames that provide the template for perfectly symmetrical hexagons of beeswax.
The students are often surprised by the level of trust the prison has with the beekeeping program. It’s akin to being given a lighter, asked to start a fire and handed a crowbar.
For me, when we pull the first frames of the year, it always hits — the normalcy of this program contrasted with prison life.
Throughout the year, students will treat the beehives for Varroa mites, a pervasive tick-like pest that spreads disease in colonies. They also manage swarms, create splits to reduce hive congestion, and conduct bi-weekly hive inspections to check for brood and queen health. And yes, we also harvest and consume their honey.
The students ask lots of questions, about queen pheromones, the stages of larvae and pupae, or even different strains of honeybees and their characteristics. “What type of bee is this?” “Is this egg a drone or worker?” “How does the queen spread her pheromone?”
In my students’ enthusiasm I forget that the 4-foot fence I often lean against is the only thing separating me from a dead zone and endless miles of razor wire. I forget the armed guard tower and the blinding orange emblem on the back of my bee suit. I forget the challenges of convincing my peers I am qualified to educate them.
For that moment, I am just a beekeeper.
