First of the Thimbleberry Picking

I've been watching those thimbleberry bushes from early spring, when they were mere stalks and just sprouting greenery, to June when the bushes were waist -high and topped with white-petaled flowers, to now, in early August, with the first berries turning soft and red.

Last Saturday, along a section of Pilgrim River, for a stream monitoring workshop, we were walking through the brush on a narrow trail, amidst lush thimbleberry bushes, not quite ripe. There were signs posted, handwritten, saying "Trespassing" "No Berry Picking". So the group of us, Trout Unlimited types, were there to learn stream monitoring, but I thought about thimbleberry jam as I walked along, Just about time to start pickin', I said to myself...

Yesterday, in the midst of preparations to go over to Pictured Rocks for guiding a trip for a long weekend, I couldn't stop myself. I grabbed a can and went out to our thimbleberry patch for a quick picking of first-fruits of the season.

The fruit stood out red among the greenery. There was generally one red thimble among half a dozen pale pink unripe berries. The rich forest loam smell at dusk was rising around me. A distant hermit thrush was piping out the day. The blush of crimson on my finger tips and raspberry richness from those ripe fruits were filling my senses. I picked the tender thimbles steadily over just a few minutes that stretched into nearly an hour, until the ebbing light made the red turn to darkness.

At home I vacuum bagged the precious fruit and put it in the freezer for combining with later harvests of thimbleberries. Much more is yet to come...

Isle Royale, July 6-11, Slow Goin'

A father and son in their own boats - it sounded like it would be a good trip - the chance to put down some miles and have a great time without learner anxiety...
When I arrived at the Keweenaw Adventure Co., in Copper Harbor, the 14 year-old pictured below was sitting on the narrow walkway into the shop, with a padded neck brace on and with a knife out, whittling on a stick. On meeting his father in the shop, I found out that in last night's hotel room that his son had awakened with a stiff neck, so he had gone to the emergency room of the local hospital for relief. The brace was worn periodically throughout the trip, whenever the boy thought of it ...

After the safety course (which was lengthy getting the youngster back in his boat), I suggested they rent a tandem but they were determined to use their own personal kayaks. With that decision the slow mode for the whole trip was established. With emotional dynamics being what they were between father and son and the overall bulk of their gear and kayak limitations we stayed in the vicinity of Rock Harbor and Moskey Basin with a side jaunt of father and I up to the entrance to Merrit Lane and back to Rock Harbor Campground on our last night. The headlamp trip back from the Lane was the highlight for me. The father's excitement and fears in the chop, with our route taking us close to the frothy basalt was a sensory delight.

Visiting Mr. and Mrs. Les Mattson, at the Edison Fishery in Moskey Basin.

A rugged spirit tree on Caribou Island