What I found when I finally stopped looking
Huckleberries. I needed to find huckleberries. It was more than a goal now. My first three attempts were casual, but now it felt necessary, like paying rent – and about as much fun.
Ever since moving to western Montana, I’d heard about the July-August huckleberry season. Billboards touted huckleberry shakes and jam, huckleberry fudge and muffins. By the time August arrived, vendors at farmers markets were charging $60 for 5-pound bags of these shiny, freshly picked jewels.
What I grew up calling huckleberries in Pennsylvania were actually one of 17 species of wild blueberry native to that state. While huckleberries are in the Vaccinium genus – the same as wild Maine blueberries – they are their own species. That is immediately obvious the moment true huckleberries touch your tongue.
From generous friends sharing their hard-earned bounty, I realized that huckleberries are sweeter and more pungent than blueberries. They are also generally smaller, though the largest reach the size of a marble. They are dark blue, nearly purple; the almost-ripe ones have a red patina that glistens. No matter how carefully you pick them, your hands will be stained blue, purple, and red. And I couldn’t find any! Not in the wild, at least.
After a couple of weeks of, yes, fruitless searching, I gave up. Summers are preciously short here, and I wasn’t using my time wisely by tromping through the woods, frustration growing by the minute. I couldn’t afford a 5-pound bag of berries, but I could certainly splurge on two scoops of huckleberry ice cream in a waffle cone. That would have to do.
I returned to the creeks full of trout, something I did know how to find. That renewed my confidence.
The heat of August sent me higher into the river drainages where the coldest water flowed. One afternoon, with my mind focused on native cutthroat trout and possible bears, I stepped up onto the bank of a stream. Suddenly, I saw a berry that looked a lot like a huckleberry.
The leaf was that of a huckleberry. I picked the fruit and pinched it, and the purpled, sugary juice burst on my fingers. It even tasted like a huckleberry!
I looked around. I was surrounded by knee-high huckleberry plants laden with fruit. It was the kind of patch where one could sit on a log, picking and eating fruit for 10 minutes without moving. Trout were forgotten. I filled my 32-ounce water bottle with berries. It didn’t take long. I promised the patch I’d be back soon.
For two summers, until a wildfire ran through the drainage, the patch yielded gallons of berries. My wife, Nikea, and I would pick for hours. We shared berries freely, but not their location.
We baked them into crumbles, buckles, and pies. We made huckleberry simple syrup for cakes and drinks, and cooked huckleberries in sauces to pour over grilled duck and venison. We ate them frozen like tiny icy gems.
Words like serendipity or grace come to mind when delights reveal themselves. Skeptics might say my ineptitude was conquered by persistence. But I think I was simply wound too tight to see huckleberries. The best gifts are unexpected. They’re stumbled upon, not strained over.
