Hunting and Gathering
I have many memories and stories about my mother picking wild raspberries at the cabin in northern Minnesota. And I remember thinking it was ‘crazy’ that after she turned them into jam, she’d put all those jars in the trunk of whatever giant Buick they owned at the time, and drive it all back to Florida.
It didn’t take very long after they had passed away, the cabin was mine and I could be there by myself, before I too came under the spell of these tiny, red, fragrant, flavorful jewels. An odd thing I discovered, is that a berry patch that had been productive for years could suddenly disappear. Truly this just added to the mystique. And the fun. Because now I had to go searching – in the forest – for a new patch. I’ve always loved true stories about women who would have grand adventures by themselves: “Where the Pavement Ends” by Erika Warmbrunn who biked from Mongolia through China and Viet Nam, and Mary Kingsley, who in the 1890’s, traveled alone in West Africa collecting specimens and studying anthropology. Yes, I actually see my berry hunting slash picking in that same light. And in a self-diagnosed case of, “even crazier than my mother”, there was the year when I was still working, that I too made and canned the jam and spent at least fifty dollars on postage shipping it back. Even with my oh so careful packing several of the jars broke.
Sometimes I would take whatever car I kept there on these hunts, which would occasionally require turning a too large car around on a too small dirt track with a drop off into the unknown on one side and mud on the other. Sometimes I had access to Don’s four-wheeler, which was much easier to maneuver but wouldn’t take me as far as I’d like to go. Nonetheless, I have gone to the end of many of the local dirt roads. The most productive ones are those built by lumber companies. They aren’t maintained, so they can get pretty rough after many years, but wild raspberries really like to grow in the remains of fallen and rotting stumps. If this sounds like it could be dangerous, it really is, especially the older and less agile I become. It’s not great for the car either.
Last summer (2023) was particularly interesting because I was completely out of spots. Additionally, I had a new-to-me 2017 Honda Fit, which is small and pretty low to the ground. I kept my ears quite open for any hints of spots from friends and neighbors and there were a few. The old Brimson/Toimi rock pit, which had a picturesque creek running by it and some very large piles of rocks, but only enough berries to eat as I walked along. There were no large quantities of berries as it was too sunny, flat and dry. And I tried the Otto Harris Lakes Rd, even walking down the old track, now gated off, that I thought was the way to another rock pit my mother used to frequent. The abundant flies and mosquitos however, made me turn around before I got close. And there wasn’t a hint of the plant as I drove slowly next to the road’s edge. As I’ve been on this hunt for many years, I’ve become pretty adept at identifying a raspberry patch, even from a distance.
But then I decided to try a road I’d never gone down even though it’s closer than other spots that used to be productive. I think the stop sign at its entrance for cars coming down that way made me think this might lead to housing. Oh not at all! As a matter of fact within less than an eighth of a mile the road became a track with grasses in the middle that reached halfway up the car doors. I’ve learned that those grasses can hide some surprises for the underside of the car. Sure enough, at least one rock big enough to make a nasty scraping noise made me wince. Now the tree branches are right up against the windows so there’s no possible way to turn around and I’m climbing up a hill too. Just as I’m thinking this may have been a poor idea, the woods on the left side thin out and there’s a big level area with grasses so tall I can tell no one’s been here for quite some time. Could there be berries anywhere around? The only way to tell is to get out and search.
Yes, this certainly is an area that was logged and those spindly poplars have quite a few raspberry plants in front of them, but because they’re so exposed to the sun the quality of the berries is poor. But behind them and down an overgrown incline is just what I’d been hoping for, the raspberry mother load.
I was prepared. I have a hat with a mosquito net, a little blue pail and a gallon sized plastic bag. So, gingerly, I move towards unknown footing. As I keep a hand on the poplar tree trunk, which my fist can almost encircle, I smile as I can see a small twinkle of red. Raspberries are good at keeping themselves shaded under their own leaves, and I’ve also learned that after I’ve picked through a spot, if I turn around I might find many more berries I couldn’t see from my original angle.
As is often the case with a great spot, this one came with obvious dangers. I can’t see what’s beneath my feet because of the tall grasses and whatever's down there will give way as it’s a collection of fallen branches, large and medium-size rocks, and old, rotting stumps. Perfect nutrition for the plants and a great way to wind up with a broken ankle in an area with limited, at best, cell phone coverage. But the berries over there, just out of arms reach are the most enticing, naturally. Eventually, I’m at the bottom of this depression, sitting crookedly on a jutting boulder with my feet straddling a dead tree limb that obviously won’t hold my weight.
I see I’ve forgotten to mention that wild raspberry plants have thorns. Just one more reason to be careful. If you pull up gently on a raspberry leaf you can often see where the berries are and can then pick them from below and thus keep away from the prickers.
So I’ve picked about three fourths of a gallon and it’s really time to go. But getting up, with one bad knee, the other in the ‘not great’ category and the footing being non- existent, means spending a few minutes surveying my options and repositioning myself on the rock before I can eventually creep towards a possibly more stable area. At last I stretch up and grab a flimsy poplar limb that, nevertheless, holds my full weight as I use my arms to lift myself to standing and then that limb becomes the rope I use to get back up to flat ground. Phew!
Now with berries intact – there have been times, pre-baggie, when I’d stumble and drop half the contents of the pail – I triumphantly get back in the car, turn it on, crank up the air conditioning because this is August, and feel I’d won. What satisfaction. Backing the car up, however, there is an odd sound. Is that something? Well never mind. Turns out I’m only a mile from the stop sign, which is only 5 miles from the cabin. Back on pavement there really is a loud dragging noise coming from under the car. I pull over thinking there must be a branch dragging, but I don’t see anything sticking out so I drive home and turn my attention to the berries, figuring I’ll handle whatever that noise is later.
Later is the next day when I’m planning on driving the forty-five miles to Virginia, Mn for groceries. The berries I don’t plan on eating fresh are in the freezer. I’d forgotten all about the noise, but it only took a couple feet before the dragging sound began. Rats! I’m dressed for town but now I have to get down on the ground to remove whatever branch is surely lodged under there. Luckily, I keep an old sheet in the back so my clothes stay clean but what I see gives me major anxiety. There’s no branch under there. A part of the car under the engine is hanging down touching the ground. No, I can’t call triple A from the middle of a national forest. My only option is to drive to Virginia with the noise becoming more threatening the faster I go. What to do? Go more slowly and maybe get stuck or the car starts on fire from the friction, or go faster and pray? I do a bit of both.
Well, I made it and pulled into the Valvoline oil change place that I’d been to before and was the nearest car place. The person who waves you to the correct bay waves me to the left to wait behind the car there when he notices something, puts up his hand for stop and then waves me over to an empty bay on the right. I pull in and stop and he comes over and says, “Well, what’s going on here”. “So I was out picking raspberries in the forest” ... He starts laughing and calls to the young man who’s down in the pit. “Whaddya see?” I didn’t hear the response but evidently there’s a plate under the car that protects some part of the engine, that had been held on with an expandable plastic anchor. Felt like it was my lucky day when they had something that would work. In less than 10 minutes he’s waving me out. “How much?” “No charge.” “No, that’s not right. Your time is valuable. Is $20 okay?”
So that’s my 2023 berry picking adventure. To me it’s just as satisfying as biking through China or trudging through the jungles of the Congo. Plus, I have every intention of returning this summer, especially now that I know to be very careful and aware of where I drive and where I park.
And those berries?
Here they are ready for the freezer.
And here’s the wild raspberry compote over a flan with a vanilla wafer crust.
Now, don’t tell anybody about my spot. It’s a secret!
