For the Love of Insects Archives

An accidental encounter with a paper wasp underscored the importance of mindfulness. It also brought into focus a little-known truth: Humans live and walk among an extraordinary number and diversity of wasps every day without ever getting stung by these remarkable creatures.

The vast majority of wasps, like this one in the Tachytes genus, are solitary and very unlikely to sting. Most make small, inconspicuous nests in the ground.

If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to be stung on the tongue, wonder no more: I have the inside knowledge, my friends. And there’s one wasp out there who has the inside knowledge of my mouth.

That’s right: A few weeks ago, I was reading in our treehouse when I took a swig of coffee without looking. The next few seconds were an explosion of shock and regret, with time speeding up and slowing down as everything happened all at once: a terrified wasp zooming around places where no winged creature should ever be, primordial signals of pain firing at my brain, and a projectile-splashing of coffee-soaked wasp back out onto the table. The wasp sat stunned as I ran for the screen door and dashed into the house, leaping up and down as if on fire.

Ice cubes were my relief for the rest of the day, and, I’m happy to report, the paper wasp was fine. A few minutes later, I found her getting her bearings on the pages of my book, and I brought her onto the deck, where she promptly flew away.

A Northern paper wasp (Polistes fuscatus) nectars on goldenrod. I assume the one who ended up in my coffee was attracted to the sugar.

What’s most remarkable about this episode is that it represented only the second time in our entire 24 years of living among wildlife—particularly all manner of insects—that I’ve been stung. And the first time was no less provoked. Years ago, despite repeated reminders from my husband, Will, to avoid steering a wheelbarrow near an underground yellow jacket nest, I became absorbed in my daydreaming and forgot. Only one wasp got me, but for good measure she flew up my shirt and went right for a nipple.

Who wouldn’t lash out when they suddenly land in the mouth of a monster or their babies are threatened by the crushing feet and machinery of a massive predator barreling over their home? These animals were fighting for their lives. I’ll never begrudge them for that.

Most Wasps Are Very Unlikely to Sting

Considering the sheer number and diversity of wasps living among us humans, such incidents are surprisingly uncommon. The stings I received were from social wasps who make large nests together that they then need to defend. Our culture tends to pay attention to whoever makes the most noise, often at the expense of the quieter introverts, and so it is with insects too. The vast majority of wasp species are solitary and mostly hidden from sight, typically creating an underground nest as furtively as possible.

Many wasp species are parasitoids, using an organ called an ovipositor to lay eggs in other insects; hatching wasp larvae then feed on those host insects. Some wasp species have modified ovipositors that allow them to sting and inject venom into grasshoppers, caterpillars, spiders and other arthropods before carrying the ill-fated prey back to their nests. None of these lone actors are likely to go after people. “Solitary wasps have little incentive or time to use their valuable venom to defend their nests,” writes Heather Holm in Wasps: Their Biology, Diversity, and Role as Beneficial Insects and Pollinators of Native Plants. “They reserve their venom for subduing their prey so they can provide a paralyzed, fresh, and live food source for their larvae.”

As ancestors of (and sisters to) bees, many wasps visit flowers as adults and transfer pollen around in the process. Their lifestyles and skills are so varied that, as some naturalists and writers are fond of saying, when it comes to a variety of much-needed ecosystem services, “There’s a wasp for that.”

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

At this time of year, a stunning array of these insects is hard at work in our habitat: mason wasps, great golden digger wasps, organ pipe mud dauber wasps, blue-winged wasps, gold-marked thread-waisted wasps, cicada killer wasps, rusty spider wasps, cuckoo wasps, Trogus wasps, and more. We walk freely among their favored plants—the mountain mints, bonesets, burnweeds, black cohosh, and swamp milkweed—saying hello to the wasps and knowing they’re there not to hurt us but to drink nectar and gather insects for their young.

A Peek into the Lives of Solitary Wasps

Rarely have I been able to witness solitary wasps creating nests in the ground, but recent disturbances to our patio garden—where I had to move some plants in the spring to accommodate a deck repair project—gave us a front seat to the activities of Tachytes guatemalensis, known also as dark grasshopper-hunting wasps. It started as these things often do, with a frenzy of fliers zipping back and forth from the ground to their perches on leaves and stems. Those were males who, like many of their solitary bee counterparts, search for mates soon after they emerge. Though some people find such frantic activity disconcerting, male wasps lack stingers and pose no threat at all.

As the wasps have gone about the business of building and outfitting homes for the next generation, I’ve sat close by to watch them mate, dig, and carry paralyzed grasshoppers into their nests. They seem to ignore me completely, performing orientation flights in full view, flying in ever-wider circles to memorize visual landmarks—a violet leaf, perhaps, or a pebble or a twig—that will help them find home again. One day Will spotted a mother wasp fly past, clutching a grasshopper. We watched as she struggled to subdue the much larger insect, all so that her babies would have something to eat when they hatch.

It wasn’t long before I began noticing some rabblerousers hanging around the nest, especially satellite flies just waiting for their chance to enter and lay eggs on or near the grasshopper prey. If they’ve been successful in their sneaky endeavors, their fly larvae will eat all the provisions that were intended for wasp babies, and no wasps will emerge from the nests next summer. I can’t help but feel sorry for the wasps, but I know the flies have to eat too.

The Hard Work of Digging Out a Nest

After a torrential rain about a week ago, I worried that the wasp nests would be washed out. But within a couple of days the tumuli, or excavated mounds of soil, had been refreshed, and more Tachytes wasps hovered about the area. A walk toward our meadow revealed that the storm had helped create habitat for even more wasp species. There in the middle of the path, where six inches of water had fallen within 24 hours and washed away the woodchips and pine needles, a great golden digger wasp was excavating a home for her babies too. Once hatched, they’ll feast on katydids and crickets captured and stowed away by this industrious mom.

Looking back at my video of the great golden digger, I see—or rather hear—something I hadn’t noticed while filming. She appears to be sonicating to mine her nest. (Watch the video above to see if you can hear the sounds, which are detectable even amid the noise of planes and neighbor’s machines.) I’ve listened to organ pipe mud daubers use the same mechanism, which involves contracting thoracic flight muscles to create high-frequency vibrations for gathering mud balls and molding them into nest tubes. (Read more in “The Surprising Life of a Gentle Mud Dauber Wasp.”) Mining bees who excavate sand do the same, noted Heather Holm when I interviewed her for my book Wildscape: “Because their nest entrance just collapses when they leave, they will sonicate head first down through the loose sand to get into their burrow.” Bumblebees and other native bees also make waves when foraging, vibrating their flight muscles to shake flowers that won’t release pollen grains without a bit of a ruckus.

Coexisting with Wasps

I’ve long since recovered from my wasp stings, and I hope the wasps fully recovered too. Though I don’t wish to repeat the experience, they reminded me of the importance of mindfulness. It’s usually easy to avoid a social wasp nest if they’re not directly in your path. When yellow jackets have made their homes in the ground, we give them a wide berth, knowing that their predatory ways are helping to keep a balance in the garden. When baldfaced hornets create nests in shrubs or trees, we maintain a respectful few feet of distance and have even had dinner parties nearby with no issues; they became agitated only once when I got too close to photograph their nest entrance. (Read more in “Happy as a Hornet.”) We also know the nests aren’t permanent. Later in the season, most of the wasps will die, leaving only new queens to begin the process again a year from now, in new spots of their choosing.

In the meantime, for extra precaution, I carry coffee outside in a metal mug with a plastic lid. I call it my Wasp Coexistence Cup, a simple way to keep wasps out of my mouth and in the garden where they belong.