Yesterday the July heat was sweltering, humid and sticky. Our clothes were damp with perspiration, clinging to us like cellophane wrappers. Beads of sweat slowly slid down the contours of our faces, necks, and beyond. You might imagine that we were transported to the Amazon, but we weren’t. No, we were in the hills of the wilderness where only the power of your legs or an RTV can take you. We were in a magical place where the wild blackberries grow.
You must use caution when picking these blackberries for they are more ferocious than any domestic blackberry bush you might plant in your garden. They grow along the mountain roads in heavy thickets that strategically mask the steep drop offs behind them. Watch you footing! You must try to avoid the weapons of their long canes equipped with sharp thorns that stab at you, piercing unprotected skin and tangling themselves in the strands of your hair. The risk is great but the bounty is well worth the battle scars.
We fought valiantly, exhausted by the heat and wounded, but we left triumphant carrying a large bucket full.
Ahh, plump wild blackberries as long as the end of your pinky and with a sweet as sugar flavor that kisses the taste buds of your mouth. Yum. If you know where to look, you might find your own thicket of blackberries. X marks the spot and nope you can’t have our secret map.
Today Clarissa and I made eight half pints of blackberry jam and still had enough left over to put some in the freezer to make pancakes or muffins or smoothies.