In search of the great Idaho Purple

Huckleberries. Idaho Purple.

I don't have a secret patch — and know better than to ask. My sister-in-law and I set out last week to uncover one. We were on a dusty mountain road — with many false stops checking for berries. Slim pickings.

Almost to the main road off the loop, we encountered an impassable obstacle — a logging operation. Nothing but to turn around with difficulty and head back the way we'd come.

Tromping brushy slopes had us hungry. But there was no blue bag in the back of the car. It was sitting totally useless in Debbie's cabin fridge. We were forced to steal berry time — a felony — and eat lunch at the nearest restaurant. There we learned our server lived here because a dozen years ago her mother had opened a map, randomly placed her finger, and they'd moved to Priest River. She loved it as a kid — and returned as an adult. A story almost worth our forgotten lunch.

We drove north exploring new country. Watching a bucolic haying scene, discovering a beautiful meadow with a creek flowing through and finally, on our way back, coming upon berry bushes alongside the road. They were caked in dust, but we'd been out nearly eight hours and were beyond caring. We nabbed the ones the dog didn't grab — coming home with all of a quart each.

Three days later the unheard of happened. A really nice guy I know shared his patch — even leading us there as we never would have found it. Us being the two octogenarian men and me in an old diesel truck. Miles of mountain drop offs — ruts up to your heinie. Utter relief by the time we got there. I was in awe of all the loggers who do that every day.

The friend took off for another commitment. The 80-somethings were past their prime for negotiating inclines with tripping hazards. The berries were great — but not as many accessible-to-us ones as we'd hoped. We harvested a gallon among us.

The next low blow was a flat tire where you don't ever want to have a flat. We'd picked up a stick on the way up, causing a slow leak. The spare beneath the truck hadn't been checked in ten years. But it did its job. The intrepid oldsters — already sore — got it changed with a minimum of temper flares. In the meantime I took the bear spray and went back up to the berry patch.

Just as the guys wanted to leave my bucket tipped. I recovered those and kept finding others on the way to the truck. It's against the Law of Huckleberries to leave any behind. This resistless behavior about got me stranded on the mountain. Those men were out of there.

The way down was just as tense. My best friend was the new pacemaker giving my heart a steady beat. We saw a yearling moose — always a treat.

I'm probably not done huckleberrying — and it's a betrayal of my native Idaho blood when I say I don't even like them — but I like to toss them in pancakes for those who do. This year they'd better win Grand Champion Purple.