Blueberry Season in Alaska

I have many memories of growing up here in Alaska. My father is a bush pilot, and his plane took me all over the state. Summer time was filled with flights and adventure. So much so in fact, I hardly have memories of being in our home in the summer. Most summer memories are from being at the top of a mountain, the edge of a creek, or bushwhacking through thick alders as we made our way to a cabin or homestead.

Some of my fondest memories are of me as a very little girl, just before my brother was born… and perhaps even for a few years after his birth. My little family on one mountain top or another picking berries in the late summer-early fall time in Alaska. I was so small that even on the tundra, I could lose sight of my family if I strayed too far or found a particularly interesting crevice between the lichen covered rocks and boulders. 

Bears were common company on these mountain tops. Filling their own bellies with the sweet berries that grew with abundance. I was never afraid of the bears. I knew my father always kept a close watch. And even as a young girl, I knew that fat bears were happy bears. I let them eat in peace, and they seemed to grant me the same respect.

Today I am an adult. As an adult, some traditions from my childhood are still valued and honored on a yearly basis. Blueberry picking being among my most treasured of traditions. 

I do not often fly to mountain tops anymore. Alas, I am not the pilot of my own plane. And my father does not fly quite as often as he did when I was a child. But I do hike mountain tops. And a good hike to the top of a mountain in August reaps great rewards when you look closely on the ground. 

BLUEBERRIES!

These ripe, sweet and juicy berries cover the tops of our mountains in Alaska. They run up the sides of the peaks and nestle themselves neatly between the blackberry, also called the Paungaq (POWN-guck) plants on the tundra. 

The goal, of course, is to fill the buckets with berries. Ready to bring home to jar or freeze. But, just as I did as a child, so many more berries end up in my belly than in my bucket.

And these days, I am not the child the adults guard on the top of the mountains. Nor am I the mother watching out for my own young children. Today, it is my poodles that come along for the adventure. They are the ones who run and leap among the rocks in the tundra. I keep my eyes on them as I know all too well how easily they can seem to disappear between the rocks, or get too deep into a benign-looking alder patch. 

My dogs are accustomed to these adventures. And they never stray too far. They always keep their eyes on me. And a simple call of the name of one or two of them, and the whole pack will come running.

August in Alaska. Honoring traditions. Reaping wild berries from the same grounds as my grandfather. And watching my poodles live their very best lives in the mountains of Alaska.

All of this is a lovely way of risking delight in my life.