Fall-ing and Berry-ing in Alaska

 In the last week of August, like every die-hard sourdough*, we went berry picking in Skiland, Fairbanks. It was not only a sought-after fall ritual, but also a requisite winter survival activity. Skiland, which rose high above the ridge, was a vast expanse of undulating mountains, quilted with berries! From the silky and translucent purple low-bush blueberries, and intensely bright cranberries, to deceivingly juicy crow-berries, and bursting with flavours plump raspberries, they made the short Alaskan autumn even more precious. Wherever we stepped, inadvertently we were quashing berries, squashing our own winter dreams.  

Yes, during our very first year in interior Alaska, we were to learn and appreciate the importance of foraging and freezing summer's natural bounty. For, just a dash of these rich colours was needed to break the monotony of endless snowy scapes...and long winter months. A few berries in the buttermilk pancakes, topped with birch syrup could so easily draw one out from a spell of cabin fever. A scoop of freshly fallen snow, a hint of birch or maple syrup, and a scatter of these berries made the best natural slush and reminded us of that last sip of dappled sunshine, when we stood shoulder to shoulder with black bears and grizzlies, each desperately trying to lay claim to what was rightfully his/hers...each trying to gorge on these red and purple and black fruits, rich in antioxidants, and richer as a luxurious bite of the lingering summer days.

Such expeditions to Skiland were invariably accompanied by friends and their families, a picnic basket, and a long lunch break by the shady spot where the mountain jutted out a bit. Along with tubs to store the booty in, we also carried a pepper spray just in case we had a surprised encounter with the ursos arctos.  

I remember lying on a downy soft  mountainside after we had done picking for the day, under the intense blue sky, shimmering with the gold hues of a fall day. A  sudden rush of wind made me open my eyes just in time to catch the tail-end of  of a raven flying overhead.  Letting the migratory guests, such as the tundra swans, sandhill cranes, and Canadian geese take the centre stage,  the ravens quietly retreat beneath the returning foliage, for most of summer. So, sighting one now, was a sure sign of the changing season.   

Everything seems so far away now, so wild, unfettered and old...like a piece of treasure, folded in between fragrant tissue wraps  and stored away...or, more like a bunch of accumulated memories within the fissuring surface of a remote past, jostling to make themselves heard... even as their voices grow dimmer and dimmer.

*Old-time Alaskan