Just Another Jim's

Alaska Journal

Ch. 16: Blueberry Hill

Posted January 26, 2007 by James E. Nelson

Wild blueberries are one of nature’s simplest gifts to those who have the patience for little things. The key is finding a blueberry patch. And in Alaska that is relatively easy to do.

It was Marie who told us about the big patch “past Black Rapids Glacier and up on the hill with the radio tower on the Richardson Highway.” I knew right where it was, but expressed my surprise that she told me the location of the berries. I had done my seminary internship in Montana huckleberry country, and the location of prime huckleberry patches was a trade secret; your best bet for finding them was to spy a huckleberry afficionado’s car parked along side the road and then sneak back after they were gone. If you were lucky, they left some huckleberries. But Alaska was different: “Oh, there’s plenty of berries for everyone—and lots of cranberries too. Besides, it’s far enough out of town that not many people make the effort to go there.” We immediately dubbed the spot Blueberry Hill.

The distance was the least of our worries. The patch was two-thirds of the way to Paxon where one could find a juicy hamburger with hand-made patties and pretty good coffee at the Paxon Inn. I told Marie we would definitely plan on going up there when the berries were ripe. “Wait two weeks after the berries are ripe here in Delta, and they should be perfect up on the mountain.” She was exactly right.

The blueberry patch was big beyond imagination and possibly beyond description. Set, as it was, against the backdrop of towering mountains and a ribbon of highway disappearing into the valley, distances were extremely hard to determine, but a careful survey of the map told me that the blueberry patch likely stretched up the hill for five miles and was four to six miles wide, depending on the spot in the patch.

It occurred to me that we didn’t bring enough buckets.

Blueberries are surprisingly hard to see, nestled close to the ground as they are. There is a chalky white dust on the deep blue berries, and the resulting hues allow them blend to in surprisingly well with the shadows created by the leaves and stalks. When I first began to look closely I couldn’t see any berries at all, but eventually my eyes learned to distinguish between shadow and berry; I began to learn what to look for. I also discovered that it’s best to wear old pants. The easiest way to pick, because they are so low to the ground, is to sit right on the ground and pick everything within reach, and then move a few feet. The result was blueberry stains on the pants. We tried sitting on buckets. That had the advantage of keeping the body warmer, because the ground was cold, but it made for a sore back from so much reaching over to find the berries.

The biggest danger in picking blueberries is the brown bear. Blueberries are one of the bear’s favorite foods. Berry picking (or in the case of the bear, berry eating) also requires focus. If you lift your head to look around at the scenery, when you look back down at the berry patch, it takes a few moments to focus again and see the well camouflaged berries. Bears move quickly through a patch as they snuff up berries. It is therefore quite easy to not notice a bear—and the bear not notice you—as it moves ever closer to your position. The last thing a berry picker wants to do is startle a brown bear, so berry pickers must always be on their guard for foraging bears. This was the biggest advantage of Blueberry Hill. The miles of space was covered exclusively with low lying brush, primarily blueberries, low bush cranberries, and small arctic flowers. There was simply no brush or bushes taller than twelve to fifteen inches. As a result, it was easy to see clearly for miles. If a berry picker looked up every five minutes or so, any approaching bear would be clearly visible from a long way off.

Blueberry Hill was the heart of bear country; fortunately we never saw any while we were picking. We did see a lone caribou and possibly a wolf heading south along the edge of the mountain. The only other easily visible wildlife were the ubiquitous ravens and an occasional hawk or eagle making its daily rounds. I would also occasionally take a break from picking and scan the rocky mountain face to the east with my binoculars. Sometimes I could spot mountain sheep picking its way along the rocks. There were also mountain goats in those mountains, but I never spotted any.

Over time I developed a berry picking rhythm: focus on the ground until I spot the berries. Pick for a few minutes. Scan the field for bears. Look the other direction, across the valley, at the ever changing mountain face. Return to picking for a few minutes. The mountain face to the west, across the Delta River valley, was one of the prettiest spots we frequented. It’s certainly one of the reasons we returned so many times to pick berries on Blueberry Hill. In the summer it was amazingly green. It’s what I thought of as Ireland green—a deep green, sometimes almost black, with a dozen different shades of green creating a patchwork of color. In the Fall that variegated green would turn to deep reds, umbers, ochers, and browns. That side of the valley was also almost vertical in its rise toward the first set of peaks. Ribbons of water would cascade off the rocks, spraying into space. Most of these feathery waterfalls would disappear with the cooler weather of Autumn, but the larger ones would still make their silvery way toward the river far below. The valley was also deep and the elevation high, so wisps of clouds would sometimes float through the valley. On a couple of occasions there was a very light mist falling and the clouds would settle and curl so close, you thought the sky was offering a blanket against the damp chill in the air.

A second set of clothes was a must. You didn’t always need them, but it was so far back to Delta that one wanted the security of dry clothes if it was a misty day on top of the hill. A raincoat was also a good idea. If it was raining, the rain was generally so light that one could easily pick berries and not get particularly wet. There was also a certain austere enjoyment to picking blueberries in a misty rain. These particular mountains seemed to be nearer perfection on a misty day with wisps of clouds floating about. And the warmth of the car was always that much more welcome after the buckets were full.

Of course the real fun was in eating the berries over the next several months. Blueberry pie is the classic and was usually available at the White Raven restaurant, the tart, tiny wild blueberries spreading out over the pie plate and mixing with the ice cream when it was served. But we tended to use them for blueberry pancakes or breads. Our favorite was syrup or frozen blueberry sauce. Blueberry sauce, cold from the refrigerator, poured over ice cream eaten in front of a crackling fire was probably the perfect way to finish a day of picking berries on Blueberry Hill—if you still had some left over from a previous berry picking expedition.