A Huckleberry Story

For Kelly, a huckleberry to my persimmon

We got on the 4x4s at 7am. There were five of us, Glen, Chuck, Teri, Kelly and me. We were riding up the Selkirks, armed with a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum revolver. Our plan was to climb 2,000 feet up Colburn Mountain, past “the mailbox” at Whisky Rock, to the Huckleberry patch. Some of it over 45 degrees, through a coniferous forest with Larch, Douglas Fir, and Cedars 100 feet high on both sides.

At the viewpoint, I could see straight through the Selle Valley, all the way to Bottle Bay on Lake Pend Oreille. The Green Monarchs were in the background. We found the Canadian Crown Royal hidden in “the mailbox” stump and took a birthday swig. It was 50 degrees but the ride and the whisky warmed the cockles of our hearts.

Thirty minutes later, we reached the cabin and hit the flat. The bushes were chock-full of berries, 50 to 60 a bush, some as big as my thumb. They hung from the end of thin green branches, everywhichway. Some painted purple by the bears and the moose who helped themselves before we arrived. We visited a while.

We told huckleberry stories, some true, others not so much. Stories about the past, about the best picking, about when the berries were so thick you would hurt from picking and eating, mostly from eating. “Bring the five pound bucket over here” kind of stories. Tales about families teaching self-reliance and responsibility. “There’s two types of people…those who eat pie and those who eat crow. So you better start picking if you want some.” Sayings about what’s important. “You knew you were golden when you had smoked blueback, buckskin tamarack and huckleberries.”

Grandmothers figured prominently in stories about cooking berries that resist being farmed and stay wild despite all our so-called progress. Huckleberries that keep alive the tart spirit of self-reliance. Stories that take us through another winter, pulling ourselves by our purple gold boot straps.

They warn us to “Keep it simple, or you will dig yourself in so deep you won’t find your way out.” Huckleberry picking is not for the faint of heart. But in the end, we are energized by a renewed sense of purpose. We keep talking, happily catching up with each other, trading stories. News about the good, the bad and the ugly.

There’s two kinds of people kind of news: “those with loaded guns and those who dig.” You understand? You don’t need to say much to get your point across. Huckleberry picking is like our immune system, a quick connection, a handshake, just enough to know all is well, and we keep going. On to the next bush. A face to face contact that reassures us, reminds us of our past, and saves the best for the future.

The forest touches us like a soft breeze, a thick curtain of green covers the dark moving shadows and we grow silent, surrounded by a hundred watchful coniferous spears. Each one of us concentrating on the berries, the hands, and the bucket. Hitting our stride. Some of us will eat crow but no matter, we all try to take it in, to make a mental note of it, to mark our Huckleberry picking calendar with a memorable day. You remember that summer? They were big and juicy, I tell you. What year was it? Well let me see … We all feel lucky, one more year lucky. In the forest together.

A couple of hours go by. We sit, and pick, and write, and imagine what’s next. We get up and go back to the 4x4s, the taste of the berries on our purple lips, on our violet fingers. Gallons in plastic bags. We drive down the mountain over carpets of Indian paintbrush, wild daisies and pearly everlasting. The dry sweet scent of evergreens hits us as we fly down. It will be the perfect pie, with the perfect crust, from the perfect recipe from our ancestors. We don’t know their names but we thank them all the same.

Nothing stops us on our way down, not widow-makers or wind-blown trees from the last storm blocking our path. Our ancestors have given us a dream almost as good as the real thing. Well … almost. We smile in anticipation. We’re all dreaming of that Huckleberry pie in the sky.