Wild blueberries.

Lewisburg.

Blueberries grow in our backyard. Enough that we've picked twenty-one quarts thus far this year, with more ripening as I write this, though production has started to slow. It's more than enough to keep us in blueberry pancakes, cobblers, and so on for the next year.

And yet, it was hard to resist the urge to go get more. Wild blueberries.



Last year, I'd gone hiking deep in the woods, and had come across tiny, wild blueberries. Fields of them, in among the mountain laurel and rocky terrain. There aren't many ripe ones to be found, but they're delicious for a nibble as you walk by. And this spring, in conversation with friends, the idea came up. So, it became an evening activity.

I say "activity" because, like most foraging trips, it's all a crapshoot. Even when you know a fine wild patch of something - from berries to mushrooms to whatever else seems worth the effort - you always run the risk of returning home with an empty basket. You might have estimated the wrong date for ripe fruit. The birds, bears, and others might have cleaned it out first. It might simply be a poor year.

That said, we made out reasonably well, if you consider that we went for a hike, enjoyed a picnic dinner, and came home with some blueberries. A pint and a half's worth. Enough for baked goods - scones and pancakes and turnovers - but not so many that they needed preserving. With luck, I might even convince a few seeds to sprout into new plants, which'll help cut down on the mowable lawn surface.¹

And feed the birds, too, no doubt.

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¹I'm always on the prowl for this sort of thing.