What's worse than finding a Western Maine mountain covered in wild blueberries and having no container to put them in? Spraining your ankle with no Dr. McDreamy in sight.
I was just steps from getting a good view of Buckfield, the hometown of actor Patrick Dempsey and EepyBird.com, when I misstepped, turned my ankle and landed on my backside, grimacing. If not at the pinnacle of my hiking ability, I was at the pinnacle of Brown Mountain, an otherwise gentle hill between Paris and Buckfield, Maine. My husband and daughter were waving gleefully to me from the Buckfield side of the mountain when my daughter realized something was amiss in Paris. "Mom's hurt."
Where's Dr. McDreamy when you need him?
After about 15 minutes, brow knit in contemplation, I decided to attempt to stand. Not exactly Homo erectus, I gingerly began my one-mile descent with my family's help. My daughter offered words of encouragement, while my husband handed me a walking stick and a new nickname: Gimpy.
To add insult to injury on this perfectly sunny and breezy late August day, Brown Mountain was covered in blue. Clusters of plump blueberries hung like grapes from low, scrubby bushes. Blueberries rank among my favorite fruits, and these were singularly sweet and juicy. If you've ever tasted Stonewall Kitchen's Wild Maine Blueberry Jam, then you know what I mean.
"It's like Blueberries for Sal," my daughter said in delight, referring to the Robert McCloskey classic, as she stuffed the fruits into her mouth by the handful.
And raspberries for mom, apparently, for not thinking to bring a container in which to gather the gems. My Cape Cod brain didn't expect to find blueberries at the end of August, when the blueberrying season-if there is one-fades into memory.
This is Maine, where the blueberry season spreads from late July to early September. I needed to improvise. I dumped the contents of the First Aid kit into the backpack and began filling the plastic container, which, I later discovered, held exactly a pint of berries. I briefly considered emptying the water bottle, as well, but my husband cautioned against it. "We could get mighty thirsty on the way down."
A Westerner, my husband remains baffled by the fuss over blueberries. He champions huckleberries, the state fruit of his beloved Idaho. He says he doesn't see the difference between the berries. While they are related, huckleberries and blueberries are indeed different, although there is rancorous debate over the nature of those differences.
My love of the wild blueberry (Vaccinium angustofolium) borders on obsession. For the past decade, I have been unable to gather more than a quart on Cape Cod. Housing development has eliminated much of the blueberry habitat. I won't make a pie without having at least two quarts: one for the pie and the other for muffins, pancakes and such. So, needless to say, we haven't enjoyed a homemade wild blueberry pie for a long time. On Brown Mountain, the pie was well within reach. Alas, for lack of a container large enough, it would have to remain pie in the sky. And as for views of Buckfield, they would have to wait, too.
