Brianna Walker

It was likely a huckleberry over my persimmon — an old expression meaning a bit beyond my abilities — but there’s a lot to be said for old-fashioned determination.

We had stopped at my grandmother-in-law’s house late one evening and the kids began telling her of our huckleberrying adventures a few days before. The day had started a bit gray and gloomy, with thunderstorms forecast in the afternoon. We scrapped our river plans and decided instead to take a Jeep trip to the mountains.

We loaded up the kids, the dog and a picnic lunch and headed off on more than 100 miles of less than 10 mph roads — it was fantastic. We even had a summer-sit-down meal — which means all four of us sat around a halved watermelon, eating off pocketknives.

“You can’t Joe that!” my oldest shouted from the backseat as my husband pointed the Jeep up a really steep portion of the trail.

“Joe it! Joe it!” my youngest shouted.

In our family, Joe is a verb. Joe is actually my husband’s older brother, whose favorite hobby is Jeeping in Moab. “To boldly go where no Jeep has gone before” should be his motto. He isn’t unsafe, he knows the limits — but he pushes it right to the very edge of them, which is why “Joe” has become a family verb.

My husband stopped at the bottom of the trail and surveyed the possibilities of actually getting to the top. It looked a little powdery, and while we likely could have made it, our decision to turn on a side trail turned out to be the best one.

Before long we were surrounded by the best huckleberry patch I’d ever picked in. The berries were almost the size of blueberries and so sweet. We emptied a bread bag and, while I tried to take home some of the deliciousness, the rest of my family consumed immediate gratification.

My kids finished relating their purple-finger-stained stories of the patch to their Great Grammy and told her that we were going to go up again with actual containers to pick in.

“Oh, I just love huckleberrying,” she exclaimed. “It’s one of my favorite things to do. Grandpa and I would go up to Mount Hood and spend a week just to pick them.”

“So why don’t you come with us?” I suggested.

The question was barely out of my mouth before she was excitedly making plans for a Sunday picnic.

Now, here’s where it was a huckleberry over my persimmon. We had to pick a semi-load of watermelons that morning also — without a crew. It was gonna be tough, but seeing the excitement on 96-year old Great Grammy’s face, we knew we couldn’t disappoint.

My mom was helping pick and load, my dad stacking the bins. It was impossible, but we did it. Covered in muddy sweat, we pulled up in the Jeep in front of Great Grammy’s house. There she was, sitting outside her garage, wearing a sun hat and surrounded with huckleberry-picking paraphernalia: buckets, knee pads, water to wash our hands, and food to feed an army.

We bounced and bumped our way up to the patch again — and it didn’t disappoint. The berries were still large and the bushes loaded. We ate cups and we picked gallons. After spending the day sweating in 100-degree weather bent over picking melons, it was relaxing to sit on the ground while the mountain breeze cooled us back down.

There’s just something special about huckleberrying with the family. It promotes easy conversations and stories about past huckleberry adventures with loved ones.

“Is your bottom covered yet?” was the running joke in my mom’s family during their huckleberry picking. While the rest of us told stories, my youngest spent most of the time running around with the dog, sampling berries from this area and that, telling us which section had the biggest or sweetest ones.

We picked until dark, then bumped back down the mountain, even encountering a large elk that didn’t seem at all afraid of us.

It was a long and crazy day, and there were a few hours that I wasn’t totally sure we were going to pull it all off. But as we drove home, our clothes filthy and our hair a disaster, our eyes were sparkling.

Sometimes you never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory — but that day we knew it was a treasure while it was happening. There are no greater huckleberries than those picked with love and eaten amongst cherished family.