It’s Berry Season!

The uphill switchback was a little overgrown and I was gassed from the previous climb. No one was surprised when I slipped a pedal and washed the front tire into the bushes. I hovered over the top tube as my stem slammed into my gut and I gently folded forward over the bars. And there, deep in the murky depths of the bramble, I saw it: the first salmonberry of the season. It was impossibly plump, like one of those heavily GMO’d raspberries you get at chain grocery stores.

We’ve had a wet spring and summer. It’s been dank and delightful and the hero dirt has kept my mind off of summer's traditional bounty.

Without even bothering to skooch my back tire off the trail to let my buddy clear the climb I plucked it and held it aloft. “It’s berry season dude!”

That first salmonberry was the best of the patch - perfectly ripe, almost gushing, like a tart raspberry-apricot cocktail. I should have stopped there, but of course I delved deeper into the bush, and plundered a few more less-ripe, less-perfect berries. Nothing like ruining the first with a series of mediocre follow-ups.

It doesn’t matter though. That berry was just the first of hundreds, maybe thousands, I’ll gobble along the trail in the coming months. And as we remount our bikes and spin up the trail, I can taste the legacy of every trailside berry I’ve ever eaten.

I used to fill a tupperware of blackberries from my mother’s yard patch, load it into my sweet Dakine backpack, and drive up to Moscow Mountain and snack on them as I sessioned jumps. One time I crashed onto my back and the tupperware collapsed with a cracking sound that I was sure was my spine snapping.

Later, in the Tetons, our youth rides were often hijacked by huckleberries. I usually rode with the “problem” groups - the kids who needed a little more supervision - and so many rough, contentious rides were saved by trailside berry patches. We’d ditch the bikes, and all the frustrations associated with them, into the bushes, and then flop down ourselves and do our best bear imitations stripping summer’s bounty. Once that kid, the one who was always in trouble for wandering off, or pushing his friends around, or buzzing littler kids’ tires, brought me a perfect wild strawberry he’d found, and it hit a little different.

I know it’s a bit sacrilegious, but I’m not really a huckleberry guy. Maybe growing up in northern Idaho inured me to their allure, but they’re fine, not excellent. They’re so much work to pick, and something about their aftertaste grosses me out. It’s similar to how the cilantro haters describe their relationship to that herb. Huckleberries seem better left to the bears, who can afford to eat the whole bush instead of delicately plucking the berries. But one September we discovered a big patch on a bikepacking trip and filled our water bottles with hucks. At the campsite I lounged naked by the hot spring, eating huckleberries like some sort of pale, hairy, decadent prince. That’s living.

Here in the PNW we’ve got a cornucopia of berries to choose from. The walk to the grocery store is lined with blackberries, and the little old folks housing complex down the street has fat blueberries spilling onto the sidewalk.

Last summer we took a wandering ride on some less-trafficked trails. Along the way we found the thickest patch of berries I’ve ever eaten, complete with massive thimbleberries. We gorged ourselves until I felt sick, my bar grips sticky with berry juice. On our way back to the car we took the worst blackberry bramble shortcut of my life and emerged scratched and clawed like victims of a McDonald’s ball pit full of angry cats. As we licked our wounds in the sun, an ancient, incredibly tanned, leathery man emerged from the bramble. He wore very short shorts, shoes, and nothing else. We had a somewhat surreal conversation about trail maintenance and berries before he disappeared back into the bushes. Somehow he beat us back to the car, even though he was on foot and we were on bikes. I think about that man and his perfect aged leather tan often.

My favorite of all the PNW berries is the humble thimbleberry. They’re not as profuse and abundant as blackberries or even salmonberries. They’re smaller, harder to pick, and have a smaller margin for perfect ripeness than the other berries. But I love how they slide off their white cores, hollow shells of berry. I love their slightly desiccated, almost freeze-dried texture, and that tiny, perfect burst of sweetness. I’ve never found enough thimbleberries in a single ride to get sick of them, I’ve never over-gorged on them and ruined the taste with familiarity. The best things come in small doses to keep them special, and every thimbleberry feels like a privilege, a gift. Don’t bother trying to fill a bottle or other container, they don’t travel well. Instead, eat them immediately, trailside, and thank the universe for its bounty.

So my apologies if you hear loud noises from the bushes trailside, and see a bike abandoned near the berry patch. My fingers are sticky and my tongue is stained. There are little bits of leaves and vines in my socks, and my bottle is half-full of berries. There’s a good chance that any review bikes I mail back in the next month or so come with a few random blueberries rolling around the downtube storage compartment. It’s berry season, and my cup is full.