It was a perfect Park City morning a few Julys ago. My first summer living here. I was riding my bike down Old Ranch Road as free as a bird. And that’s when I got stung by a bee. It collided with my lower lip, vibrating a low, dry buzz I can still feel when I think about it. It clung there for about 10 seconds. A lethal kiss. And then, as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone.

I rode on, already feeling my lips inflate. I felt a bit sorry for the bee, who gave her life so that I would have a sexy Angelina Jolie pout. But as I rolled along, I realized it wasn’t just my lips that were puffy. My whole face was beginning to swell. I phoned my buddy Matt and asked him to meet me at Quinn’s Junction with an ice pack.

By the time I reached Quinn’s, I could barely feel my lips and cheeks. Matt was nowhere in sight, but I spotted a lady at the far end of the dog park.

“Excuse me,” I called out. “Do you have any ice? I just got stung by a bee.”

The lady came closer. She actually did have some ice — the remains of a Starbucks iced latte, which she generously sacrificed. My patron saint of the bee sting. She looked alarmed.

“Are you allergic to bees?” she asked studying my face, which had by now doubled in size. “You look like you could be going into anaphylactic shock.”

“I don’t think so,” I said, trying to stay positive.

She insisted on following me to Emergency at Park City Hospital. I mean, it was right there. We rolled up to the ED, a slo-mo caravan of the bees: me on my bike, the lady driving slowly behind me, and finally, Matt pulling up right behind her. I thanked the lady, and Matt followed me into waiting room. I could tell by the horror on his face. It was not good.

“Kate, you don’t even look like yourself,” he said, pulling out his iPhone to document the moment.

It turned out I wasn’t in anaphylactic shock, but I was most definitely allergic to bees. The doc said I would have to carry an epi pen from then on to make sure I didn’t die the next time I got stung.

It was right around that time that I fully embraced the irony that I was now living in the Beehive State. I don’t know how I missed it before. I mean, it’s on every highway sign. It’s on the state flag. Heck, there are two, huge beehive sculptures on the grand staircase at the State Capitol. Just last week, there was a huge bumblebee float in the Fourth of July parade.

Why beehives, you ask? Why bees? Utah officially became the Beehive State in 1959, adopting the symbol along with the state motto, “Industry.” But the significance of bees in Utah started long before that.

According to the BeesWiki, which apparently has the buzz on all things apiary, the symbol is not only a nod to the busy-ness of bees, but also to our state’s early Mormon settlers. The first of those pioneers, Brigham Young himself, owned colonies of bees, which came to be seen as a metaphor for survival in the wild west. Anyone who’s seen a beehive in action can attest that thrift, unity, perserverance and industry aren’t just Mormon values.

The early settlers began importing European honeybees, which were thought to produce sweeter honey than American ones. They arrived by rail in the late 1800s, and honeybee colonies, along with Utah honey production, thrived.

There are over 20,000 bee species around the world. But only honeybees make make the sweet stuff we like to eat. They pollinate a wide variety of native flowers — hyssop, lavender, Russian sage, alfalfa, fern bush, blue mist spirea. They collect the flowers’ nutritious nectar. Pollen is their protein and nectar is their carb.

But bees do so much more than satisfy our sweet tooth. One out of every three bites of food we eat is possible because of bees. As they travel from plant to plant, pollen sticks to the little hairs on their body. That pollen is then distributed among all kinds of fruits, vegetables and seeds. Hey, if you’re drinking a cup of coffee right now, thank a bee!

Yet as important as bees are, their populations worldwide had been on the decline since the early 2000s. Pesticides, climate change and invasive mites pushed populations to near-collapse.

But a recent Washington Post story reported that bees might be making a comeback. At the moment, they’re the fastest growing livestock category in the United States — way ahead of chickens, hogs and cattle. (Yes, bees are considered livestock.)

And get this. We may have none other than Angelina Jolie to thank. That same year I got stung, the woman with the hottest lips in Hollywood posed for an iconic National Geographic portrait on World Bee Day. In the shot, which took a full 18 minutes to capture, Jolie stares fearlessly into the camera as 60,000 live bees crawl all over her. Unlike me, she emerged without incident.

Efforts at bee conservation seem to be working. If we can continue to focus on awareness, limiting insecticide, planting more plants and fewer lawns and promoting habitats like meadows and wetlands, bees — and humans — will benefit. I guess you could say that’s a sting we can all live with. I’ll just keep my epi pen at the ready.

Kate Sonnick is a freelance writer and creative director living in Park City. She prefers her bee stings to be served in a cocktail glass. Contact her at kate@katesonnick.com