My bees are doing well, building little cells and filling them up with golden, brownish honey.

I feel sure that they are in a good spot now, despite earlier having worries to the contrary. Since I got my bees, I have started watching bushes, trees and flowers now for the little yellow and black fellows. Recently I saw some of the bushes behind the office were just covered with bees. They are very interesting to watch.

I have enjoyed most of my experience with the bees, with just a few exceptions. One thing I have not liked is having to drive to Timbuktu to find hive parts. I needed a couple of supers (the thin boxes that the bees use to store their honey) and thought I would drive down and pick them up. I left before 7 a.m., hoping to pick them up and get back up the mountain by 9 a.m.

My guide was a little business card with a map on the back, complete with a color picture of the place I was supposed to go and little roadways all over the place. Little did I know what I was in for. I should have known I was in trouble when the fellow told me those ominous words that everyone seeking directions hates to hear, "You can't miss it." I can miss it, believe me. First of all, I barely can find my way to major cities, let alone navigating four major highways to get to a spot that's three cornfields west of the boonies.

I am much more accustomed to driving on dirt roads than I am on Interstates. People are nuts out there.

Anyhow, here I am with a big cup of coffee, a cell phone and a banana, trying to find my way to ‘Beeville.' I generally consider most of the places off the mountain as ‘down there,' places best avoided by all but crows, level-land walkers and city folk. The only thing they have there that we need is more places to buy underwear. But I don't worry about that — Santa usually fixes me up with appropriate undergarments. I was feeling fine about things for a pretty good while, listening to the radio and sipping my coffee. I had the window down and my arm hanging out, whistling a tune.

That changed soon afterwards when the morning work traffic was whizzing by and I didn't really know where my exit was. Therefore, I had to stay in the ‘pokey' lane, being passed by almost everything while cruising along at 55 behind a line of big rigs and one dump truck incessantly spewing out soot-colored exhaust that reeked like an oil field on fire.

After about 20 minutes of cruising, a sudden reprieve in the black soot around my truck allowed me to actually read the exit signs. The driver must have let off his gas pedal to save some coal for the next trip. At that point, I realized that the numbers on the exits were heading in the wrong direction and so was I. Still in control, I took the next exit and pulled over to ask for directions. The woman at the counter, in between pops of her electric orange chewing gum and twists of her reddish dyed locks, informed me that the other road, 601, was somewhere. By listening to her, I just couldn't understand where. "Just take a, um, like a, left or something at the next, um, intersection thingy and look for another gas station and then turn right, I mean left," she told me. Translation, "Stop at another gas station and ask a smart person for directions." It would be worthwhile to travelers to raise the price of gas by a dime along big roads and require that all stations maintain someone competent on staff. Otherwise, let's just hope they have the decency to tell someone, "I'm sorry, but I am an idiot. Ask someone else for directions." If that isn't the case, they could intone," Go away, you're bothering me," or "Buy a map."

By the time I got to the other road, I was ready to douse the bees with gas and burn down their houses. I tried to call the bee man, using the number on his business card, with little success. "You have reached the bee man," the machine said. I think I would have had more luck finding an endangered lowland gorilla in Piney Creek.

Another couple wrong turns and a stop at a local yard sale for directions later, I was starting to feel psychotic. I not only hate being in the flat lands, I hate being lost even more. I eventually found the road the man told me he lived on, but the lane his house is on eluded me. I traveled back and forth on the road twice, never once seeing a sign. After I rode around for about another hour and a half and exhausted myself, I knew I wasn't going to find this place "I couldn't miss" after all. However, once you get so much time invested, you like to think you will get some sort of return. With this in mind, I stopped at another gas station on the way toward good old U.S. 21, bought a slurpy and a pack of nabs and refilled my gas guzzling pickup with fuel. How's that for a trade off? Hours of driving, $28 and a headache for slurpy and a pack of nabs? Luckily, after I got back a friend helped me with bee supplies.

It's good to have friends, so long as most of them are atop the mountains.

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