A day in God's country with the blueberries

I wrote about my ethereal blueberry picking experiences as one of my first posts. This year marked the third of my annual day trip to Maiden Rock Wisconsin to pick berries. Some people might wonder why I will make a 1 1/2 hour car trip one way to pick fruit. Some people have never been on State Hwy 35 on the Wisconsin side of the St. Croix River and seen what kind of wondrous natural beauty is present there. Maiden Rock lies on Lake Pepin, a natural widening of the St. Croix River that is considered one of the most beautiful natural wonders in the US. (I don’t know if that’s official, but it should be) The road winds, turns, climbs and falls, all the while skirting along the cliffs that are prominent along the river. Tiny little towns lie along it’s edge, almost like an afterthought, with weathered houses perched on rock overlooking a vista of amazing beauty. I have never taken this drive on anything less than a gorgeous summer day, so the sun catches the dancing ripples in the water far below me, while eagles and vultures too numerous to count ride the winds aloft on the cliff edges, suspended like kites, circling and diving. To get to the berry farm, you drive three miles up the side of one of these cliffs, eventually coming to their farm with the breathtaking view of the St. Croix valley. In any direction you look is a panorama of Midwestern life; farm land, silos, crop fields and houses all reduced to the miniature status of their distance, like toys scattered across a verdant and fertile playground. But the berries are the reason you came here, and the bushes await you, hanging their heads in bowed obedience awaiting your hands to relieve them of their delectable blushing beauty. The harvest was at a peak, brought on by the recent hot weather, and it took me about an hour to pick my first 10-pound box. One bush alone yielded enough fruit to fill my colander to the rim before I poured it’s bounty into the box. The place was crowded with people, all bent and intent on reaping the harvest. Little children swung plastic ice cream buckets, proclaiming joyfully at their finds and parents talked amongst themselves of what they would do with their fruit. I picked, picked, and picked some more until two full boxes sat by my side. It took about 2 1/2 hours, but on a picture perfect 78 degree summer day with a stiff breeze to dry the sweat on my face, it was not a chore at all. Had I not been so hungry from my labor I would have kept going. All around me were bushes absolutely toppling over with fruit, begging me to take them. Handful upon handful went into my willing mouth, their flavor bursting from the skins with it’s tantalizing, sweet - sour flesh. I gorged until I could stand it no more, but my body called for something more. I made my purchases and doused myself in the crisp and cold well water from the old fashioned pump, drinking down gulp after gulp to drive the thirst from my skin. Down the cliff I went, along the winding road where the deep canopy of trees reached out to wave me along. I drove down the road to a little diner in Stockholm, mowed through a soul and hunger satisfying burger and then slowly drove back so I could take in the beauty of Lake Pepin where sailboats dotted the waters with their pristine white sails and the sunlight drew diamond sparkles from the sky blue waters. I could have stopped and drank of it’s pure delight, leaving me in such a stupor that I would have been unable or unwilling to return to my concrete world. Now the fruit awaits….for jam, syrup and bag upon bag for the freezer to get me through the fruitless days of winter. And of course, for the multiple handfuls that will simply be stuffed into my mouth as needed to replenish me and conjure up images of pristine waters and warm, breeze filled hours in God’s country.