Chapter 1: The Fascination with Hoverflies

As I now reside on an island surrounded by the sea, my expertise is solely in hoverflies, so let’s begin there. My artistic sensibilities have remained largely unrefined, and my past experiences still linger. When asked about hoverflies, I typically describe them as gentle, unassuming insects that come in a variety of forms, sometimes resembling hornets, honeybees, or even delicate mosquitoes so minute that they often go unnoticed. Some species imitate robust bumblebees, complete with their buzzing and pollen-covered bodies. Only true experts can discern the differences, and while we may be few in number, we age gracefully.

However, the distinctions among them are significant, often outweighing the commonalities. For instance, wasps and bumblebees, like all hymenopterans, possess four wings, whereas flies only have two. This basic fact often escapes the casual observer, especially since flies can beat their wings several hundred times per second.

A Finnish scientist named Olavi Sotavalta, whose work I came across in my growing collection of entomological literature, was particularly intrigued by the wing frequencies of insects. He focused on biting midges, which can reach an astonishing rate of 1,046 wing beats per second. His lab housed advanced instruments for precise measurements, but he also possessed an impressive musical ear that allowed him to identify frequencies by sound alone. He became famous for an experiment where he warmed a midge and trimmed its wings, enabling it to achieve an unprecedented 2,218 wing beats per second during wartime.

In my imagination, I envision Sotavalta lying back in his sleeping bag under the bright summer nights of northern Finland, perhaps by Lake Inari, listening to the billions of insect hums surrounding him, as delicate as mica filaments.

Yet, I intended to discuss the art of disguise, particularly how hoverflies mimic bumblebees. Birds tend to prey on flies but often steer clear of hymenopterans due to their stinging capabilities. As a result, many harmless flies have evolved to look like these more dangerous insects. I remain uncertain why hoverflies have become such exceptional mimics, but I distinctly remember a sunny day early in my career, standing among bishop's weed in full bloom, with insects all around. Armed with a Czech-designed tulle net and the carefree mentality of an eager novice, I spotted a black object darting through the air.

I quickly thought, “stone bumblebee,” but then sensed an unusual lightness about it. Without a second thought, I swept my net back in a reflexive motion. That moment led me into the exclusive world of hoverfly collectors.

Before diving deeper, let’s set the scene properly and explore how one hunts for these elusive creatures. The typical image of an entomologist is of someone breathlessly chasing butterflies across fields. However, this stereotype doesn’t hold true for hoverfly collectors. We are more composed, thoughtful individuals, often standing still in sunny, fragrant spots, creating an impression that we might be meditating.

Our equipment is quite simple: a net in one hand and a pooter in the other. The pooter is a transparent cylinder with corks at both ends, connected to a tube through one cork and a hose through the other. When positioned correctly, a quick inhale allows one to suck the fly into the container, with a filter preventing it from going further. I’ve faced countless questions about my sanity over the years, and I’ve heard every joke imaginable. To silence skeptics, I often reveal the third piece of equipment—a poison bottle.

With a nonchalant demeanor, I’ll take it out and truthfully state that I possess enough cyanide to incapacitate the entire island. This revelation transforms the mocking laughter into genuine curiosity about how one obtains cyanide, a secret I keep to myself. While many experts favor ethyl acetate or chloroform, I prefer cyanide for its efficacy.

Around 300 people inhabit this island, and during my initial summer of collecting, I caught a large black fly that quickly succumbed to the poison fumes. I recognized it as a hoverfly, but only later did I discover it was a rare Criorhina ranunculi through the microscope, surrounded by stacks of reference books on hoverflies. The next day, the country's leading Syrphidae specialist visited the island, examined my specimen skeptically, and then expressed delight at my find.

Criorhina ranunculi, not only striking in appearance but also rare, had been declared extinct in Sweden in the early 1990s, having not been spotted for 60 years. The first recorded sighting was in 1874 by Peter Wahlberg, a prominent figure in the Royal Academy of Science, who transitioned from botany to the study of flies. His brother Johan was a renowned African explorer and collector who met an untimely demise.

The second sighting occurred in Korsberga in 1928, followed by another in Borensberg, but then the species vanished for decades until my new friend discovered some specimens near Stockholm. My catch was the sixth recorded in Sweden. Since then, awareness of this species has grown, either due to its increased prevalence or our better understanding of its habitat and habits.

The challenge lies in conveying my excitement to those unacquainted with the subject.

In D.H. Lawrence's short story “The Man Who Loved Islands,” he reflects on the simple joys of cataloging nature. This sentiment resonates with me as an entomologist, where observing and collecting can serve as an escape from the mundanity of life. Collectors often pursue objects not merely for ownership but as a means to stave off existential dread.

Natural objects, unlike art or literature, cannot be easily purchased. Many collectors, such as myself, prefer to experience nature firsthand rather than trade in artifacts. Despite the misconceptions surrounding collecting, my pursuit of hoverflies is less about competition and more about appreciation and understanding.

The thrill of recognizing a particular fly, like the narcissus fly, Merodon equestris, which has a unique buzzing sound, brings immense joy. I often find myself lying in the grass, allowing the sounds of nature to wash over me, content with the knowledge that my understanding of these creatures is both deep and satisfying.

As summer approaches, the island's population swells, and I often find myself answering questions about my activities. While the wild chervil blooms, I find solitude. But as the raspberry bushes bloom, I must come closer to the roads and interact with curious passersby.

You get accustomed to it. On particularly beautiful days, I sometimes grow weary of explaining and resort to fibs. “Catching butterflies” is a harmless lie that generally suffices. However, claiming to collect hoverflies can lead to misunderstandings. Many people mistakenly associate the term with common indoor flies, leading to lengthy discussions I often wish to avoid.

When I answer truthfully, I find myself inadvertently educating others on the significance of hoverflies, their ecological roles, and the intricacies of collecting. It’s a conversation that can shift from simple inquiries to profound discussions about nature and our modern lives. Yet, in these moments, I often miss the chance to catch any flies.

The truth is that people often misunderstand the joy of collecting hoverflies, seeing it as a peculiar hobby rather than an enriching experience. I recall an encounter with a tourist on a bicycle who mistook my catch for wasps. Despite my explanations about mimicry, he remained unconvinced, insisting on his assertion.

Ultimately, my passion for hoverflies reflects a deeper desire to understand and appreciate the natural world. The beauty of collecting lies in the connection it fosters between us and the intricate tapestry of life around us.

In the peak of summer, as the island fills with visitors, I retreat to a serene part of the land to immerse myself in its beauty. I often find myself drawn to a slope covered in broad-leaved sermountain, where numerous insects congregate around the large, white flowers. Here, I often spot the noble chafer and other intriguing species, each with their own stories to tell.

The presence of these insects adds richness to my understanding of the ecosystem, and the thrill of discovery keeps me returning. Collecting hoverflies is not merely an act of capturing; it’s about reading the landscape as a narrative, unveiling the interconnectedness of life.

Each hoverfly tells a story, and my collection serves as a testament to the wonders of nature, inviting deeper exploration and appreciation. The joy I derive from this pursuit is akin to the delight of reading a well-crafted novel, where every detail contributes to a larger, more meaningful experience.

Fredrik Sjöberg is an entomologist and a literary critic, translator, cultural columnist, and the author of several books.