I recently discovered quite the blackberry thicket growing at the wood line. It’s funny—all last summer I searched the property for the berries I was sure had to be around and never found any. So I planted a bunch of berry bushes in the field and started my own patch. And then this year I stumble on the wild berries, which judging by the size of the patch must have been there all along. Joke’s on me.
In truth, though, they could have been easy to miss. They’re well-hidden in a mass of poison ivy, honeysuckle, and all matter of creeping, twining summer foliage. Wading in to collect the fruit feels like entering a murky pond. I gingerly place my feet, cringing when anything brushes my skin, anticipating the strike of a disturbed snake or a swarm of seed ticks.
The berries aren’t huge, and they’re seedy. But they’re tart/sweet and taste of wild vitamin C. I’ll be back every day while they last.
*This post is dedicated to the bear, with memories of a hot and dusty hedgerow and other small, red fruit.