I’m feeling blue(berries)!

My hiking trip last week was one full of surprises, but possibly the best one of the trip was discovering a tasty treat at the end of our ascent. Wild blueberries covered the mountain top, and thanks  to my knowledgeable guide, Shaun, we were able to identify them and feel safe chowing down.

While in the middle of so many sweet, flavorful berries (these really put your grocery store variety to shame), I felt I had to pic some to share with friends who hadn’t accompanied us, particularly one baking-inclined friend. Luckily I had an empty water bottle to collect and store the berries so they wouldn’t get squished on our way down. After returning home, I felt compelled to find out more about the little blue berries.

A quick snapshot of the blueberries we picked. Photo: Elizabeth Piseczny

Wild blueberries, which are smaller than what you’d find at the grocer’s, are a flowering plant indigenous to North America, so they have quite a resistance to any sort of disease.  They can have oval-shaped or lance-shaped (long, wider middle) leaves.  While there are many species of blueberries, Vaccinium boreale, the Northern Blueberry, grows in an area ranging from Quebec in the North to New York and Massachusetts in the South. Wild blueberries are a low-bush variety (growing up to a few inches tall), but there are high-bush varieties that grow much taller.  They grow well in acidic rocky or clay soils, and they require full sun, so you can imagine they would flourish at the top of a mountain without any trees to filter out light. When blueberry plants grow in a way in which they cover a large area of land (often naturally), it is called a blueberry barren.

Blueberries are often called a “superfruit” because they’re rich in antioxidants, which can prevent and repair damage done to our bodies by free radicals, and are reputed to have many health benefits, including reducing risks of some diseases like cancer and heart disease.  Like the apple is to New York, wild blueberries are the official fruit of Maine.

Depending on location, the peak season for blueberries can vary, but in the early days of August, there were berries everywhere (a lower peak of Jay Mountain).

When I was younger, we used to pick different kinds of berries that ripened in the later summer, hoping to amass enough to make jams. I remember having to remind myself not to eat the berries as I was picking, because the treat of homemade jam would be my reward later! I only wish I’d had the time (and storage containers) to gather enough for blueberry jam!

Bare Feet and Concrete

The back side of the Capitol building is just as impressive as the front.

I sometimes forget that there is another world outside of the Adirondacks; one that is not green or wild. Not everyone can see the sun setting over Lake Champlain, or witness the view from atop Giant Mountain. I can.

This summer, however, things were a bit different. The vistas I saw were not painted with foliage, but with steel and concrete.

At the beginning of June, I traveled to Washington D.C., pursuing an internship and college courses. I didn’t know then what awaited me at the end of my one-way ticket, but I remember I was excited.

After the plane touched down, I took my first breath of Washington air. It was thick, heavy. I wrestled with my luggage and made my way to Georgetown University. I ogled at the tall buildings and city lights. My eyes must have been as wide as the streets. Country girls don’t make it to the city very often—or, in my case, ever.

As the days passed, I noted so many things I had never seen before (there were escalators made specifically for shopping carts!). I mastered the metro system and visited nearly every Smithsonian museum that D.C. had to offer. I saw the memorials of four presidents, and I even visited the home of Barack Obama. Everything I saw was spectacular, but I noticed that things I did at home didn’t quite translate in Washington.

A look inside the National Museum of Natural History.

Instead of hiking up mountains, I hiked up a dozen blocks to the store each week, stocking up on groceries. My commute to work was a bus ride to a metro station, and no longer a quick mile on a bike. My morning jogs migrated indoors to an air-conditioned track because of the oppressive summer heat. Formal dress was not a decent pair of khakis and a polo, but a jacket, skirt and heels. And jazz in the garden wasn’t really in a “garden,” either.

I was surprised by the supermarket’s idea of “fresh” produce, and shook my head when I called home, only to hear about everything that’s growing in our garden. Thanks, Mom.

During the eight weeks I spent in Washington, I saw so many beautiful buildings. The Capitol at night is particularly breathtaking. But as much as the city had to offer—frozen yogurt, sidewalk concerts, and a Starbucks on every corner—this country girl needed her space.

I missed waking up to see the sun chase away the fog, to fall asleep listening to the crickets’ playful chirps, and walking barefoot through a plush grassy lawn. This final piece is a guilty pleasure of mine. I could walk for hours, twisting the green blades between my toes. Let me be the first to say that going barefoot through city streets is NOT the same as going barefoot through the Adirondacks. Yes, I tried. You can be sure the first thing I did once I got home was pull off my shoes and take a stroll around the little plot I call home.

It has been more than two months since I last saw Vermont, or since my weary eyes have rested upon anything truly green, for that matter. Sure, there were plenty of little parks, but the general idea of green in the city means something that’s energy efficient or eco-friendly. One thing is for sure: I won’t be taking “green” for granted any time soon.

For eight weeks, I traipsed the streets of D.C., looking for a slice of home. I didn’t find it. Where I did find some small strip of grass, there was no quiet. I couldn’t wait to get back.

Sitting in my coach seat of a train destined for Rouses Point, I smiled as I first saw the sparkle of Lake Champlain. I was getting close.

A fountain near the Capitol.

As the car jostled back and forth, I took a deep breath and ran through the memories I made this summer in D.C. When I look back, thinking of the lights and great marble buildings, there will be no doubt in my mind that it was a wonderful experience. I really do love D.C., and heck, I may even miss it. It’s a beautiful, fast-paced place, and there’s no shortage of things to do. Though it definitely doesn’t have the small-town charm, the people are nice enough, and the streets are surprisingly clean. Will I ever go back? It’s quite possible. But boy oh boy, it sure feels good to be home.