It began so innocently last summer in our rental house. There was a giant blackberry bush next to the house, and throughout the few weeks of blackberry season, we would all be out there, stripping it clean each day. I’ve always heard that one has to fight off the birds to get to the berries, but on Bowen, there are so many wild berry bushes that there is more than enough for everyone.
Last summer we’d drive to the ferry line up early, just so we could pick berries (into empty yogurt containers kept in the car for this purpose) while we waited. There was a patch that ran the length of the town, from the little public library to the old gas station. Sterling in particular loved it, even though there were prickles to attend to. Siena in particular disliked it, because there were prickles that constantly threatened her sense of security. Last year I was paranoid about there being enough berries, so I was too often saying things like, “don’t eat so many, we are supposed to be picking them for jam.” Now I know – now I know that after we made jam till we couldn’t stand the heat in the kitchen, after we’d frozen sheet tray after sheet tray of cleaned berries, after nine months and two houses and lots of opportunities to make berry desserts – there is always enough.
But it isn’t blackberry season yet on Bowen Island. The blackberry bushes have bloomed, and their large but dainty white blossoms are everywhere. Sterling wanted to pick those blooms, as something new to add to his collection of flowers (that’s another entry entirely), but when I told him that each bloom he picked meant one less berry to eat, that he understood.
It isn’t blackberry season, but an early spring heat wave a few weeks back, coupled with great torrents of rain on a regular basis has meant that it is definitely berry season. The first thing the kids and I noticed were bright ORANGE blackberries. Of course, that means they aren’t blackberries at all, but they have the shaping of a raspberry/blackberry. The color is incredible, like a tiny little translucent pumpkin. Then we realized that some of them were the deepest purple-red shade. We kept looking and began tasting. Some were too tart in a very bland way. The tart was there, but only after you’d thought, “now, were did that berry taste go?” Our knowledgeable island friends have informed us that these are salmonberries, and they run the gamut of orange to red, depending on the bush. When you can find a perfectly ripe berry – slips off the stem and into your hand easily, but doesn’t smoosh, then the taste is actually quite good. It’s growing on me, at least.
About a week after we began to notice the salmonberries, I came home to find Sterling flushed and secretive… he and Daddy had found a new berry and he had been waiting all morning to show me. Huckleberries! There is a bush right on the trail near our house – it is one of the more beautiful and delicate berry bushes I’ve seen. Picture, if you will, a blueberry bush that has grown to twice or three times the height without growing outwards. The taste is very similar to the blueberries from the Northwest – tangy and sweet at the same time. The berry itself isn’t too different in shape, although the huckleberry bushes on Bowen sprout little red berries instead of blue. Daily we go out and pick them off. The few bushes near our house are close enough that I can let Sterling and Siena run to them alone. They are behind a bit of a curve in the path, so I am sure that half the fun is in feeling like they are totally on their own, without Mum being able to see or supervise. Whenever things get dicey inside, with too many short people needing too much attention, I simply have to say, “hey, have you guys picked berries today?” and off they go. I’d love to say I’ve made something great with our pickings, but it is so stinking time consuming that we rarely come home with more than a handful.
Until today, that is.
Today, I discovered my huckleberry haven. It began as a family trip to the road leading to Bowen Bay Beach. For much of the road, it is just road, no side streets, no houses. And for every cut down tree trunk, there are half a dozen huckleberry bushes (they apparently grow best in cut growth). So off we go, all four of us, to pick huckleberries. But, I still forget that the big berry pickers are only 2 and 4, so it quickly turned into an attempt to rally the troops past each prickly bush, each little dip in the ground, and huckleberry picking is so much about experience and not about producing big buckets of berries that we had to give up.
Salmonberries are by nature larger and more rewarding, so we drove till we found a big patch, sated ourselves on salmonberries, and even managed to pick about four cups worth. Siena likes this so much better, as many of the salmonberries are at her height, and she can eat, as she did tonight, until she feels a tummy ache.
But we get greedy, and we always want a few more. Chris knew of a trail near Grafton Lake that is lined with berry bushes, so off we went. The berry bushes were there, but someone forgot to leave the salmonberries attached, and it was vastly disappointing. We walked farther and farther down the trail, hoping to find a bush heavy with berry.
We did, but they ended up being huckleberry bushes! Right near the lake there is an area that is resplendent with bushes. I started picking (I like huckleberries more than salmonberries, ease of picking or no), and just couldn’t stop. Pick this bush clean, head in a bit further, pick that bush clean. The kids ran hither and yon (carefully staying away from the lake, never fear), picking what they could and finding “guns” of tree branches on the ground (that too, is another entry for another day). And I picked. And went further into the underbrush.
As I’ve said, huckleberry bushes can be quite tall and are not very thick. The branches are thin, the leaves are delicate and light green, the berries usually quite high up. After picking for over 30 minutes, I discovered myself in a patch that literally surrounded me. I was in a little enclave in the forest, huckleberries all around, picking quietly by myself. It was heaven. Occasionally the kids would rush in, try to steal some huckleberries, and rush off to chase off some pirates or something, and I’d just keep picking.
When I finally got tired of picking, I looked into my bucket. An hour of picking from healthy bushes yielded… 2 cups!
