2025 Did Me In, A Bad Start to 2026

The Bad News

Winter is always a challenging and uncertain time of year for beekeeping. Most of the year, we are busy monitoring emerging activity in early spring, inspecting hives to track resources and laying patterns, shuffling frames to control swarming, or preparing for the upcoming winter. There is usually plenty to do. Winter flips the script. In this season, opening a hive can sometimes spell certain doom, and you must rely on careful fall preparation and your own experience to manage anxious emotions.

In my four years of beekeeping, I had previously only lost one hive during the winter, and even then, I had my doubts because of its size going into the cold. But this year, I am sad to admit that all four of my hives were lost.

As I have noted elsewhere on my website, the primary reason I take the time to write these posts is simple: if you don’t document your process, it’s incredibly hard to learn from your mistakes. For me, it’s easier to write it out than to open a notebook and take notes, let alone return to them a year later.

So join me as I discuss why this happened, what I’ve learned, and how I plan to start fresh in 2026.

Winter 2024 Compared to Winter 2025

The 2025 season started out much like most of my previous seasons, with one notable exception: one of my three hives did not make it through the winter. That alone marks a shift worth paying attention to.

By South Jersey standards, this was a fairly cold winter, though not an extreme one. From December through February, daytime highs generally hovered in the mid-30s to mid-40s, which still qualifies as mild for our region. Overnight lows, however, were more consistently cold than what we’ve seen in many recent years, frequently settling into the low-20s to low-30s for extended stretches.

What made this winter different wasn’t a single brutal cold snap, but rather the persistence of cold. Temperatures stayed low enough, long enough, to keep bees clustered and largely confined for weeks at a time. Flights were limited, brood rearing was naturally suppressed, and colonies were forced to rely almost entirely on stored resources rather than the intermittent foraging opportunities that sometimes appear during warmer winters.

Compared to the winter of 2024, which was colder at times but drier and more variable, the winter of 2025 felt more consistent. There were fewer warm breaks, fewer false springs, and more true winter behavior from both bees and beekeeper. That kind of consistency often creates a more advantageous overwintering environment, as bees are more likely to remain clustered, emerge less frequently, and conserve heat and resources.

However, this winter also drew a stark contrast to 2024 in both daily highs and nighttime lows. We experienced 23 days below 30, with many days remaining below freezing and nighttime temperatures repeatedly dropping into the teens. There were few meaningful warm spells to provide relief or allow colonies to briefly reset their internal conditions.

This persistence of cold set the environmental stage for the outcomes observed going into spring.

Starting the Fall with the First Wave of Bad News

Winter survival is not decided by temperature alone. Colony strength going into fall, including mite loads, moisture management, and food availability, matters more than the thermometer. I can safely say I was successful in at least two of these areas, but in hindsight, I see where I failed in 2025 and how I plan to amend this in 2026.

Mite Loads and the First Two Casualties

I want to start with mite loads, which I believe were the largest contributor to my lost colonies. Going into fall 2025, I was selfish. I wanted to maximize honey harvest by allowing the bees to work later into the season and cap any excess honey. My intention was not to take all of their stores, but in doing so, I allowed mite pressure to climb too high.

Historically, I monitor mites around April, before adding honey supers, and again in mid-August, to treat before fall and winter. In 2025, I delayed fall treatment to finish honey extraction, and that was my first big mistake.

The season went fairly well otherwise. I was able to split two hives into four strong colonies, draw more foundation, and develop robust hives. I harvested a modest 35 pounds of honey and was planning an additional 15 to 20 pounds before beginning mite treatment.

On October 8, while preparing for winter and starting a six-week Apivar treatment, I discovered that two of my four hives had completely absconded. Wax moth evidence suggested one left within a week and the other shortly after my prior inspection two weeks earlier.

For context, late-season absconding is uncommon in South Jersey, but the possible causes include:

• Resource stress: Unlikely here, both hives had abundant nectar and pollen stores.

• Pest and parasite pressure: Most likely. Varroa mites and small hive beetles were present at elevated levels, and the beetles indicated I had underestimated the severity.

• Queen problems: Possible, but no evidence of queen failure or missing brood suggested this was not a primary factor.

• Environmental stress: Temperatures and conditions were typical for fall and not likely a cause.

• Disturbance: Wildlife and inspection stress can contribute, but local critter pressure was reduced, and inspections were conducted carefully using smoke.

  
  

Colony Stress Beyond Mites

Colony stress is not only about mites or weather. Running an apiary in South Jersey comes with unexpected challenges, like raccoons. Over the past year and a half, my neighbors and I waged a small, morbidly funny war to keep the local raccoon population in check. Much to our amazement, we managed to remove 25 from our little patch of woods amongst the fields. While this may sound extreme, each one we deterred reduced the risk of hive disturbance and gave our bees, and our chickens a calmer environment to prepare for winter. Running an apiary is about more than honey and brood. It is about protecting the little ecosystem you have created.

Even inspections, which we perform with care, are interpreted by the bees as potential threats. I use smoke during every check, but I have learned that even weekly smoke can be interpreted as a fire threat. This is something I intend to research further in 2026, because every action in the hive, even well-intentioned, can contribute to stress.

Given these factors, I can state with almost certainty that the absconding of these hives was primarily driven by elevated pest and parasite pressure. While I cannot completely rule out other stressors, late-September absconding in South Jersey is uncommon and usually points to colonies under significant pressure.

Insulation and the Second Wave of Bad News

One final observation is worth pointing out. We’ve already discussed this year’s weather patterns, but it is important to reflect on how hive insulation, or the lack of it, impacted the season. Last year, I insulated my hives with R10 foam board. It has always amazed me that bees survive winter in 3/4-inch wooden walls, yet they consistently do. This year, in a mix of a busy schedule and curiosity about the efficacy of insulation, I decided not to insulate my hives.

In hindsight, as I recall the start of the season, my insulated hives from 2024 emerged insanely strong. So strong, in fact, that I was dealing with swarming pressure and no viable foundation by the second week of April. This year, the absence of insulation exposed just how critical that practice was. Sometimes we need the contrast of failure to fully understand the value of a method we might otherwise take for granted.

A large part of this failure was due to laziness. My old process of insulating involved cutting the foam boards and ratchet-strapping them to the hive, since tape inevitably failed as the foam degraded. I found it tedious and annoying, and all I saw was a recurring consumable expense that scattered foam particles throughout my yard.

In 2026, that will change. I intend to prepare insulation panels well in advance, with a sturdy plywood shell that I can paint and attach to the hives more reliably. This will preserve the winter warmth for the colonies and reduce stress on the bees while making the process more sustainable and manageable for me.

What Have I Learned?

Beekeeping is by no means a strict science, nor is it a refined manufacturing process. That is part of the joy. There is a reason that more than 80 percent of Pennsylvania's honey production comes from small-scale apiaries run by hobbyists with fewer than 20 hives.

Reflecting on the 2025 season, I see clearly how delaying treatment, pushing the honey harvest, underestimating pest stress, and even skipping insulation combined to overwhelm the bees. These experiences, while painful, are invaluable lessons. They remind me that beekeeping is as much about observing, listening, and learning from the bees as it is about following calendars or protocols.

In 2026, I will adjust my timing, monitor more closely, and remain mindful that the bees’ perception of risk from pests, inspections, or the environment can be just as important as the numbers on a thermometer or scale. Above all, I will carry forward the joy, curiosity, and respect for these tiny, remarkable creatures, knowing that each season brings new challenges, surprises, and opportunities to learn.

This is the first edition of a video companion blog for my new YouTube channel starting this year. Join me there for on-the-ground footage or come here for a deeper dive into our adventures.

If 2025 taught me anything, it’s that even small decisions in the fall can ripple through winter, how will you prepare your hives next season?