In Ottawa, berry picking means driving for like 20 minutes to some farm where you get on a hay bale wagon and ride to a designated row where you pick strawberries, raspberries, whatever, filling up your cardboard boxes. Then, you ride back to the farm and pay for them. You bring them home to jam or bake or just eat and feel a little bit accomplished for providing for yourself or family, for being a gatherer, for eating local, like all the magazines tell you to.
In Ross River, berry picking means learning of a secret, sacred berry patch from someone who’s lived here longer than you. You drive out and hike in to its remote location and pick raspberries, strawberries or cranberries until you just can’t pick any longer. There is abundance; you’ll never run out of berries to pick. That is, unless you spill the beans, or berries, and betray the secret of your berry patch to too many people and then they come and pick too many and then you have to scour the hillsides for a new spot.
I was taken to a raspberry patch a few weeks ago and filled my bucket with raspberries smaller than I was used to. But man, were they delicious! And obviously organic and stuff since the pesticide sprayers don’t tend to make it to the North Canol Highway region. The raspberries made for delicious pancakes, smoothies and juices. Mmm. I miss them already.
Yesterday, a friend entrusted me to accompany her on a cranberry picking adventure. They are just ripening, she told me, and will continue to as long as there’s no snow! (A justified fear in a place where snow can fall as early as mid-September!) I squatted and sifted through moss and lichens, coming up for air and granola bars once in awhile. I came back with a mother load of little red berries. I don’t even know what I’ll do with them! Last night, some turned into a cranberry-rhubarb crisp. Maybe today some scones? I’ll freeze some for Thanksgiving and Christmas too.
Either way, this is what us gatherers gathered while the hunters in the area seem to be having a rough go of moose hunting this season. Everyone says the cows and young ones are being spotted everywhere, but you aren’t allowed to shoot those. Only one guy around here claimed to have shot three caribou, but I only believe about half of what he says. So good luck to the local hunters, and courage to the wives and children they are leaving behind for three or four days at a time, only to come home empty-handed. Courage, ladies!

Labels: food, Ross River