Skin Game

“It’s the best kind of cancer you can get,” she says hanging up the phone.  I don’t like “best” and “cancer” in the same sentence.  She knew it wasn’t going to be good news when the clinic left a message to call back.  We were camping in a state park in southern Vermont.  All of the little pressing needs of sleeping in tents and living off a picnic table swept us back into the present.

More people have skin cancer than all other types of cancer combined.  Rates of melanoma -- the worst kind of skin cancer -- have gone up 200 percent between 1973 and 2011, according to acting US Surgeon General Boris Luchniak in a recent report.  This type of cancer kills 9,000 people a year.  Despite the alarming rise, skin cancer is both treatable and preventable.


Later, my wife made the appointment to have the growth removed.  Melanin-challenged, I like to call her.  Sun-deprived Northern Europe runs deep in her genes.  She sees a dermatologist regularly who’s mapped and measured the little constellation of moles on her back.  She’s supposed to use wide-brim hats and sunscreen.  Sometimes she forgets the hat.  I nag her about hats all the time.


When I was a kid in the late 70s, we spent all day getting baked by the sun at a pool.  You burned once in the spring, then spent the rest of the summer in a speedo, brown as a bean.  My mother read crime novels while sunbathing on the patio.  Now we make our kids wear swim shirts, and we slather them with a layer of 50 sunscreen.  


Just under 5 million people were treated for skin cancer last year, so most cases of skin cancer are treatable.  But it turns out that a whole lot of them are preventable as well.  Aside from blocking the sun from hitting your skin with shirts, hats, and screens, you can stay out of tanning beds.  


The use of tanning beds is the American cheese of the beauty industry.  Both are ultimately fakes; while they might look tasty at first, they leave you unnourished; and they both give off an unnatural orangey glow.  Thanks in part to the popularity of tanning beds with particular demographics, “over the last three decades, the number of people with skin cancer has grown higher than that of all other cancers combined.”


Among other findings, The Surgeon General’s report concluded that tanning with electricity contributes to two thirds of the new melanoma cases each year, over 6,000 cases.  Additionally, skin cancer is the most widespread type of cancer among youth and young adults.  And so they’ve taken some corrective action by banning the use of tanning beds for people under 18.  


The Indoor Tanning Association -- yes, there really is such an organization -- disputes the link between melanoma and fabricated ultraviolet light.  If tanning on a tanning bed is American Cheese, the ITA must be Kraft.  


Like hats, you can wear them or not.  Hey, it’s a free country, right?  I can go on down to the store and buy myself a pack of Marlboro Reds if I want.  Maybe a better analogy for indoor tanning and the ITA is Philip Morris.


“Proponents of sun avoidance always exaggerate the risks of exposure to ultraviolet light in order to get the attention of the public, the media and the government,” the association said.  But let’s just take a look at the motives here for a second: tanning beds are about turning profit by appealing to vanity, and the SG is about promoting health by appealing to common sense.  


As for me I’ll keep trying to promote common sense in my family: I’ll keep packing the hats.

MTB in the VT

At the top of the hill, I slide my fingers into a fresh, dry pair of gloves, flex then ball them into a fist to get the fit right.  I cinch on my helmet, slide my glasses into place, and swing my backpack onto my shoulders.  My bike leans against a small hemlock.  It’s a full-suspension rig, which means that both the front and the rear-end have shocks (with over 5” of “travel”) to absorb and smooth out the roots and rocks of the trail.  It has hydraulic disc brakes to control speed with a finger or two, and the seat-post is also on a hydraulic lift so that I can drop it low on technical descents, get way out over the rear wheel for stability and flow.  I lift the rear-end to check for wobble, but it feels solid -- so I mount up and push off into the first feature series of the descent: a rocky spine of schist which drops off into to a series of switchbacks cut into the hill with hand-dug berms.  I let go the brakes and let the bike run into the corners.  It hums right over roots and small boulders.  I’m a kid again.  A boy in the woods on a bike with a grin on his face looking down the line of the next dirt jump.

And that for me is what it’s all about.  The aerobic exercise is good, and the adrenaline is fun -- but getting back to the kid in the 43 year-old me is more than just exercise.  It’s a near daily purification ritual that involves getting dirty.  The thing is, I have a few more resources than when I was twelve, and my toys are a little more sophisticated.  While the main idea is still rolling on two wheels, Mountain biking has come a long way since the late 80s when off-road specific bicycles first became popular -- a long way.  Even if riders resist it, the sport has grown up.

First developed in the late 70s, mostly in Marin County, CA, the sport of mountain biking began with the old newsie “klunker” and Mount Tam.  The pioneers of the sport -- some of whom are the empresarios of today’s industry -- began with bikes of the 50s because they were solid, steel, heavy, and most importantly: durable.  These guys, and some women too, would take these klunker-beasts to the top of Mount Tamalpais and then “race” down.  Allegedly, first prize was often “smokable”.  As they began to break theses bikes, they began to innovate.  As the frames were too heavy for climbs, they began to build more durable off-road frames.   Easy as that, a new sport was born.

But it would take another couple of decades for the bikes to get really burly -- a lot of them even look more like off-road motorcycles than they do their now distant “roadie” cousins.  And they certainly owe some of the technological advances to the motor-sport as well, namely hydraulic suspension, hydraulic disc brakes, and big, fat knobby tires.  Time after time, I am amazed at what the technology has allowed me to do.  Sure, I can ride the same trails on an old “rigid” bike with no suspension -- sometimes I do -- but with the new version, I can tear down the trail at twice the speed, huck my 210 pound self off of ledges four or five feet above the landing, land with a gentle ka-thunk, and flow on.  

Not only has the bike evolved, but the surface on which we ride has been significantly and mind-alteringly improved, just in the last six or eight years.  In the “old days”, we either found old logging roads, fire-roads to ride.  We made “rake and ride” trails -- that is, we raked off what we wanted to ride, and then we rode it -- over and over until it was officially a trail.  

Now trails are designed, and they use some sophisticated tools to get the job done.  Trail builders even plan and use math!  They scrape off the first layers of earth, down to the clay if possible; they rake it out, fill it with rock that drains, and pack it back in.  They build huge earthen walls called berms that are specifically calibrated to let a bike tear around a corner, 180 degrees, downhill -- without braking!  And uphill climbs are now so full of switchbacks and contour-following lines that it hardly even feels like you’re climbing a hill.  These designers have learned to work with Vermont hills so that it’s all about “flow”.  They design and build trails that wind through the woods and mesh with the environment so well that you forget the massive amount of work that went into them.  

But a lot does go into them.  A typical mountain bike trail in VT costs about five bucks a foot, on average.  This cost comes from machinery, often full-time staffers for various areas, and materials.  VT is wet, and it takes some decking and engineering to build over some of low areas.  We used to cut trail at night, without permission, but organizations like VMBA (VT Mountain Bike Association) coordinate projects with private land-owners and public lands.  This organization takes infrastructure.  Maturity.

Vermont has become a Mecca for mountain biking in the Northeast with hundreds of miles of these bike-specific single-track trails.  When I go to several of my local spots -- and I’m lucky to have a dozen great trail networks within a 30 minute drive -- there are always cars from Massachusetts, New York, and especially Quebec.  These have become “destination” riding centers.  

It’s easy to take things for granted when you have it good.  I don’t though, even after twenty years in Vermont.  I did my time in the flat, tree-deprived, soybeans-and-corn midwest as a teenage pent-up ski bum and road biker.  I know Vermont is weird; we like it that way.  We do things here like ban roadside billboards and offer free, universal health-care up to age 24.  We know our neighbors, and we know we can depend on them in a pinch.  Sometimes we even work on the neighborhood trails together.  Mainstream doesn’t count for much in the 802, and that goes for “fringe” sports as much as anything else.  The fact that I can hop on my bike, spin out my driveway for a good ride on mountain bike trails keeps me grinning like a kid.

An Uphill Battle: Coming to Terms with the New Policy

Coming up the last stretch of Antelope, I knew the rest was just a kick and glide to the Stark’s Nest.  Putting my shoulder into the door, I opened it, kicked my leather boots on the step a few times to knock off the snow and stepped inside to double up my fancy new 40mm Pomoca mohair skins.  I shook off my Andean Toque and glanced out the window at my sweet 215 Tua’s resting against the rail, sporting revolutionary bindings (with a heel-throw!) and a state-of-the-art capped top-sheet  The snow was gently settling in on Chute, beginning to fill in the nooks and crannies.

I know, I know -- that guy totally still skis Mad River.  There’s plenty of him lurking in the hills today.  But 18 years ago, he was pretty much the only guy hiking for pre-season turns.  The sport of backcountry skiing then was a tiny niche occupied by Dickie Hall and twelve other guys.  Now the Rat pull-off is full by 7:30 in the morning on powder days, and sleek people with super-light Dynafit set-ups and blade sun-glasses are storming the mountain in hordes.  

Part of it is the gear, for sure.  AT equals access, and the stuff has gotten really, really good.  No more sacrificing weight or stiffness of boot or compressing springs with every step -- ski-hikers of all varieties have never had it so easy.  And so it makes sense that they’d want to ply the frozen waters of the Legendary Stark Mountain, whether a regular pass-holder or weekend warrior hitting any number of closed areas.  

The other reason for the increase in uphill traffic at pretty much all of the New England ski areas is snow -- or rather, lack thereof.  Yes, I hate to say it, but the New Norm has all of us who enjoy sliding on frozen precipitation a little bit cagey.  Last season was great (except for January, which we won’t talk about) -- but if you remember the lean year of 2011/2012, and you happen to enjoy earning your turns on Stark Mountain, then you would have seen a HUGE increase in uphill traffic.  While the surrounding hills were brown, MRG’s mountain ops were working their magic by grooming in and preserving the snow that we did have.  The upshot: more people were taking to closed areas to get their backcountry jollies.  

Who can blame them?  Certainly not me.  I joined them regularly.  Like many, I absolutely depend on Stark Mountain for my gym membership, my therapy, and my adrenaline fix.

While famous for its terrain and schools, Mad River is not necessarily known for being on the cutting edge of the industry.  (I’d wager that there are more people skiing MRG in and on gear they bought in the 80s and 90s than at any other ski area around -- which, in my humble opinion, is totally awesome.)  Still, with most of the ski resorts in the US developing uphill traffic policies, it was high time for Mad River to address the issue, simply by virtue of the increased number of people doing it.  And like most of the neighboring areas in No. VT, they have been batting ideas around for a couple of years now.  

To me, common sense reigns in the new list of dos and don’ts.  Most importantly: you can still hike Mad River -- though it is not patrolled during off-hours and seasons and not recommended.  Additionally, Ops report a growing number of people trailing the groomers in order to suck up the sweet-fresh corduroy.  Not my thing personally, but you can see how this would be a safety issue since a skier can very well catch a moving Cat if s/he wants to.  There are also growing numbers of people who want to skin while the lifts are turning, and there have multiple close-calls between downhill skiers and uphill skinners on blind corners.  A good debate has emerged on whether or not there should be a designated uphill route (yes, please!), or whether or not passes would be required for climbing (they probably should -- you have to buy a pass to snowshoe).  But for now, simplicity takes precedence.  The antidote to your ski-jones is pretty straight-forward: don’t ski when the lifts are turning, and stay away from the mountain crew so they can work their magic.

The policy was coming, no way around it.  There are just too many people trying to get on the hill these days, and it’s high time that Management at Mad River came up with a responsible, common sense plan to deal with it.  And I believe they have.  There’s the safety thing, and frankly, the liability thing.  I count myself among the many BC skiers who do not like to be told where they can and can’t go -- but at the same time, I can’t blame Mad River at all for getting with the times and setting some reasonable ski boundaries.   The new uphill traffic policy doesn’t really change anything for the typical skinner, the vast majority of whom are pre-season or post-lift operators who will continue skinning obliviously compliant with the new regs.  Heck, snowboards have never been banned from the mountain -- just from the lifts.  So whatever you slide-fix, check the glue on your skins, get ready for the next (pre) season, and see you on the hill!

Bees, condensed version

When we finally got Abigail into the clinic in Puerto Jimenez the next day, her condition had stabilized.  It had been a long night of extracting stingers with tweezers, so we were relieved to be in the company of doctors and nurses, even if it was a backwoods operation.  Other than tropical light slanting through the windows and onto the aquamarine cinder-block walls, I do not recall too many specific details.

I do remember my sister sobbing into the waiting room. “They won’t tell me what they’re doing to me,” she said.  Apparently I went back and told the doctor that they would need to tell her what they were doing to her -- and that we would be with her in her room.  My wife says the doctor looked a little scared.

We spent the rest of the visit by her bed, and there were no further issues at the clinic.  Abigail -- though puffy and sore -- was OK in the end.  Afterwards Kerry’s step-father was so freaked out that he wired us some money to stay in a nice resort-type place for a week.  We hadn’t bathed in warm water or slept on comfortable beds for months.

My sister Abigail had come for a visit on her spring break, and the plan was to backpack into Corcovado National Park on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica’s Osa Peninsula. To get to the the ranger station, you can take a pick-up -- but it’s only driveable at low-tide.  We’d shared a ride with a group of three (was it four?) Israeli tourists.  We’d checked in about the same time, and headed down the beach about the same time.  

A light drizzle would fade in and out, and we’d have our ponchos on and off all morning.  About an hour into our trek we decided to stop for a swim in a beautiful little freshwater stream.  Just a quick dip, air-dry, re-boot, and we were good to go.  I think about this part all of the time: the time. That fifteen minutes made all the difference.  I think about how the celestial bodies aligned just so on that day to pull a rotten tree full of Africanized bees onto the beach between the Israeli tourists and us.  The universe operates on predictable physical laws, right?  At least gravity does.

The hybridization of African “killer” bees and their movement into Central America was governed, at least in part, by physical law.  In 1956 a “prominent” Brazilian geneticist named Warwick Kerr introduced the first African honey bee to the Americas because he thought he could produce a new breed of honey bee, one which would have the favorable African quality of high honey production, but without the unfavorable “defensive” behavior they tend to exhibit.

Of course we know the end of the story: the bees did not drop their aggressive behavior, nor were they content to stay put.  By 1990 Africanized, or more technically, hybridized “killer” bees had made it as far north as the Rio Grande.  How that occurred is a wee bit murky.

Kerr did successfully create a hybrid bee, one that produced more honey.  In October of 1957 he had a total of 29 queens in various hive boxes with “queen excluders,” screens that allow the workers access to the hive but prevent the larger queens from escaping.  And some wandering beekeeper, according to Kerr, came by and removed them.  Of the 29 queens, 26 escaped with small swarms.  Kerr hoped they wouldn’t survive in the wild, or at least become more domesticated by interbreeding with the already abundant European honey bee.  

At last check, the bees have made it as far north as southern Utah.

I remember the downed tree laid down perpendicular to the beach.  I remember the sound of the swarm I remember thinking, man, these are some loud flies  The rest is a whirl.  

The bees attacked us, exhibiting their famous “defensive behaviors.”  Basically, Kerry and I jumped into tidal pools for protection, my sister didn’t, and that made all the difference.  The startled Israelis, still within shouting distance, had tossed her a can of OFF!.  We eventually got away from the fallen tree/hive with our packs, and decided to make our way back to the ranger station.  

After thinking that we were on the backside of our ordeal, Abigail began to get woozy.  When we removed her pack and looked at her back, we saw hundreds on hundreds of stings.  If we had constellations, she had whole universes.  If my sister were a smaller woman, she might have not handled all of that venom in her system.  We freaked out.  And then we went to work.

We spent hours removing stinger after stinger with tweezers to prevent more of the toxins from working into her body.  She went in and out of consciousness.  We got some anti-histamines into her, thank goodness.  At one point she lost her sight.  

Because of the tide, there was no evacuation until morning.  So it wasn’t until mid-morning the next day when we arrived at the clinic where Abigail was given fluids, antihistamines and antibiotics.  

I don’t blame the bees for attacking us, for exhibiting “defensive behaviors” they’ve passed on for decades, and I don’t even blame Warnick Kerr for bringing them over from South Africa.  The world has been getting smaller ever since humans became the dominant species.  Every cultural interaction we humans have had, just about every conflict and treaty has been about the goods, the resources and how we’re going to get them.  And seems like every conflict spins off some unintended consequences.

Kerr himself was an import.  His parents were Scots who immigrated to The US, and then eventually to Brazil where they had a son.  Same goes for the Africanized bee, an opportunist as much as any human.  

As it happens, the European honey bee is in great peril here in the Americas.  Due to what’s mysteriously called Colony Collapse Disorder, both natural and domestic populations are crashing.  Farmers now rely heavily on domestic bees to pollinate their orchards and fields.  As it turns out, some scientists are looking to breed the European bee with their hearty African counterpart.  And if we can make that can happen, I’d be willing to chalk it up for a draw with the killer bee.   

Opportunistic colonists

When we finally got Abigail into the clinic in Puerto Jimenez the next day, her condition had stabilized.  It had been a long night of extracting stingers with tweezers, so we were relieved to be in the company of the familiar white-clad doctors and nurses, even if it was a backwoods operation.  Other than a particular sort of tropical morning light slanting through the windows and onto the aquamarine painted cinder-block walls, I do not recall any details of the place.

I do remember being told to wait in the lobby.  And sitting there with Kerry when my sister, still dazed from the day before, came shuffling out in her hospital johnny sobbing.  

“They won’t tell me what they’re doing to me,” she said.  

It wasn’t for lack of asking -- despite her condition, my sister was savvy enough through her own travels to keep an eye on what any foreign doctor was doing to her.   Nor was this a language issue -- Abigail is fluent in Spanish.  

I always prefer my wife’s version of this part of the story -- I’m pretty sure that I only remember it through her version.  Apparently, without another word, I went through the curtains into the back. (Were Kerry and Abigail with me?  They must have been.)  I found the doctor, in a huddle with the other nurses and doctors, and I told him three things: he would need to be more respectful of my sister; that he would need to explain every single procedure and every fluid or medication that he was putting into her; and that we would be sitting in the room with her.  

I’m 6’2”.  This doctor might have come up to my chest.  Kerry says that he looked terrified when I leaned over him, pointing.  I think I wanted him to be at least as scared as my sister.  Rarely is my Spanish that clear or fluid.  I was acting purely on sleep-deprived protective instinct.  

Whatever transpired, he caught my drift.  He explained everything to my sister while Kerry and I sat by her bed.  There were no further issues at the clinic, and Abigail -- though puffy, sore, and soaked in calamine lotion for a couple of weeks -- was OK in the end.  Afterwards Kerry’s step-father was so freaked out that he wired us some money to stay in a nice resort-type place for a week.  We hadn’t bathed in warm water or slept on comfortable beds for months.  We hadn’t paid more than $5 or $10 for a hostal in that time either.  

***

Abigail had come for a visit on her spring break, and the plan was to backpack into Corcovado National Park.  Located on the Pacific side of the Osa Peninsula of Costa Rica southwest coast, it is only accessible on foot.  To get to the launching pad, the ranger station, you can take a pick-up, which we did -- but it’s only driveable at low-tide.  We’d shared a ride with a group of three (was it four?) Israeli tourists.  We’d checked in about the same time, and headed down the beach about the same time.

A light drizzle would fade in and out, so we’d had ponchos on and off all morning.  If you have a big pack on, it’s easy to fold them back over your head when the rain lets up, or to pull them over your head if it’s coming down a little harder.  

At about an hour into our trek we decided to stop for a swim in a beautiful little freshwater stream.  Just a quick dip, air-dry, re-boot, and we were good to go.  I think about this part all of the time: the time.  The timing.  That fifteen minutes made all the difference.  How were the celestial bodies aligned just so on that day to pull a rotten tree full of Africanized bees onto the beach between the Israeli tourists and us?  

The issue of human agency or “free will” as we know it is one of the oldest human questions.  Philosophers and theologists have all weighned in.  But a number of neuroscientists are joining in.  A growing number say that free will is an illusion.  It’s not so much that things are written in the stars, they say, as guided by predictable physical laws.  As far as physical laws go, gravity is one that still impresses me every time.  

***

The hybridization of African “killer” bees and their movement into Central America was most certainly governed by physical laws as much as by random chance.  In 1956 a “prominent” Brazilian geneticist named Warwick Kerr introduced the first African honey bee to the Americas because he thought he could produce a new breed of honey bee, one which would have the favorable African quality of high honey production, but without the unfavorable “defensive” behavior they tend to exhibit.

Of course we know the end of the story: the bees did not drop their aggressive behavior, nor were they content to stay put.  By 1990 Africanized, or more technically, hybridized “killer” bees had made it as far north as the Rio Grande.  How that occurred is a wee bit murky.

Kerr did successfully create a hybrid bee, one that produced more honey.  In October of 1957 he had a total of 29 queens in various hive boxes with “queen excluders,” screens that allow the workers access to the hive but prevent the larger queens from escaping.  And some wandering beekeeper, according to Kerr, came by and removed them.  Of the 29 queens, 26 escaped with small swarms.  Kerr hoped they wouldn’t survive in the wild, or at least become more domesticated by interbreeding with the already abundant European honey bee.  

At last check, the bees have made it as far north as southern Utah.

***

I remember the downed tree.  I remember the sound of the swarm I remember thinking, man, these flies are loud.  The rest is a whirl.  

The tide was out, but coming in.  There were some pools in volcanic rock, some of them several feet deep.  After swatting wildly at my head shoulders and chest, I jumped into one of the deeper ones.  

Submerged, tranquil, floating free of the buzzing I had two distinct thoughts.  The first: shit! My boots are wet.  And the second thought followed immediately: Shit, my mom’s going to lose both her kids at once.  The practical and the existential, a one-two combination.  Not to get too philosophical about it, hiking in wet boots sucks, but death would suck a whole lot more.  After my inwardly directed thoughts, I remembered my hiking companions.  I surfaced with a gulp.  

In a nearby tidal pool, Kerry’s poncho was spread out, and she was laying face down.  Jesus, she’s dead! I thought.  I sprinted over and yanked her out of the water.  

“Put me back!  Put me back!” she yelled.   She’d used her poncho to protect her face and to breathe at the same time.  Smart.  I put her back.

Now my sister: she was wandering up the beach erratically.  She was stumbling toward the Israeli backpackers, still within shouting distance.  They were backing away and yelling something at her.  They’d tossed her a can of OFF!, which in hindsight I always think is kind of funny.  

So we got to the other side of the log, out of the reach of the bees and the nest/hive they assumed we’d wrecked.  Africanized bees will pursue up to 50 yards beyond the hive (so says Wikipedia).  I don’t know how far we got, but it didn’t take long to realize two things: our packs were right next to the tree and if we were heading back to the ranger station, we had to get back around the tree.  

Somehow, we did -- which involved wading, arm in arm, through the rough breakers with the tide coming in fast.  It was an epic struggle.  Thanks to the can of OFF! and a massive boost of adrenaline, I got the packs, which happened to contain, among other items, our passports and airline tickets -- all we had for 11 months in Central America.  

We then began the hour-long trek back to the ranger station, relieved to be alive.  But it wasn’t long before Abigail felt woozy.  So we lifted down her pack (which she’d never taken off), and raised her shirt to look at her back.  I’ll never forget that picture of hundreds on hundreds of stings.  Kerry and I looked at each other.  This was not good.  This was very bad.  My sister is not a small girl; we come from good old Iowa farm-stock, and we’ve often thought that that amount of venom would have killed a less hearty person.  

At this point, I took her pack and mine and started off at a jog for the ranger station.  I don’t know how I did it, running in sand with two packs, but a mortal fear for a sibling can introduce even more adrenaline into the system.  That day, my adrenal glands were working triple-time.  

When I got back to the station, I breathlessly explained the scenario.  The ranger asked about the type of bee, and I was able to produce one of dozens I’d killed on my head; there were plenty of dead bees stuck in my hair.

In the understatement of the year the ranger held up the bee, squinted at it, and said (in English): “That is an aggressive bee.”

We hustled out to help Abigail into the lodge and began the long process of removing stingers.  Hours of it.  This was important to keep more venom from spilling into her body from the dismembered bee-hinds.  She went in and out of consciousness.  At one point, not having any, we procured some anti-histamines from a nearby jungle lodge (thank goodness) -- which very well may have saved her life.  At one point she lost her sight.  We watched over her for the night.

There was no evacuation until morning -- remember the tide?  So it wasn’t until mid-morning the next day when we arrived at the clinic where Abigail was given fluids, antihistamines and antibiotics.  

***

Fate or luck or predictable physical law, I still marvel at the timing twenty years later.  

Philosopher/neuroscientist/anti-orthodoxy evangelist Sam Harris says that we don’t choose to choose the things we choose.  Labyrinthine logic, I try not to think too hard about it.  But I do.  And I put it in a mental box next to the idea from the buddhist philosophy class that I chose to take in college that’s followed me ever since: the present is infinite, a never ending series of events existing in a causal continuum, each present moment effecting the next.  As in: I drove to Vermont on a whim, met some guys, played music in coffee houses, met my future wife at one of our “shows,” fell in love, moved to Central America for awhile, and went for a hike.

We like to think we made those choices.  We chose to hike in the Corcovado National Park, and my sister chose Kenyon College, whose spring break in 1995 fell on a certain week in April.   She elected to visit her brother in Central America, and a tree full of killer bees fell at some point during a fifteen minute swim in a little Costa Rican stream flowing down from the highlands of the Osa Peninsula.  The timing.   

I don’t blame the bees for attacking us, for exhibiting “defensive behaviors” they’ve passed on for decades, and I don’t even blame Warnick Kerr for bringing them over from South Africa.  

The world has been getting smaller ever since humans became the dominant species.  Every cultural interaction we humans have had, just about every conflict and treaty has been about the goods, the resources and how we’re going to get them.  

Kerr himself was an import.  His parents were Scots who immigrated to The US, and then eventually to Brazil where they had a son.  Same goes for the Africanized bee, an opportunistic colonist just like us.  

The world is shrinking in other ways.  Now domesticated bees are in peril, in part due to a tracheal mite that was first found in England in the early 1900s.  By 1980, the mite was found in Mexico.  It has devastated wild populations, so much so now that farmers are depending on professional beekeepers to pollinate their fields and orchards.

Many sites say that the fear of the Africanized honey bee is overblown, and even with my intimate knowledge of their behavior, I’d tend to agree.  Back in Africa, they are still kept to produce honey.  In a place subject to frequent droughts and erratic vegetation, the AHB is still preferred by most beekeepers.

Maybe most importantly, some scientists believe the AHB could also help with the mysterious “colony collapse disorder” -- still a mystery, some think that pesticides are to blame.  Regardless, the prevalence of CCD is alarming to naturalists and farmers alike.  If they can help stabilize and rebound natural populations of bees, then I’m all for the Killer Bee.  And in that sense, I hope we haven’t seen the last of them.