Mid-summer on Gohere Bay is marked by long daylight hours when even novices feel comfortable with long boat rides after dinner. Games of horseshoes or pinochle begin after dinner and last into the late night hours with very little lighting assistance. These long days provide the energy for a surprising lush growing season of juniper, pine, aspen, birch and even maple and oak trees as well as tastier treats such as gooseberries, strawberries and blueberries. Very few treats are as satisfying, after a long summer day, as a bowl of vanilla ice cream covered in fresh blueberries.
Blueberries are the most challenging, and often the most rewarding and tastiest of the treats. Right off the vine, they are cool and mildly sweet. The challenge comes from the growing habits of the blueberry bush. They grow mixed among juniper berries and at first glance, the mass of green dotted with little globs of blue seems an easy target, especially from a safe distance. Blueberries and juniper both enjoy sunlight so are found in open patches between groves of trees. These openings usually occur where there is insufficient soil to allow trees to grow such as mossy rocks or outcroppings, where soil collects between the cracks of granite. These open patches allow the sun to beat down on the would-be blueberry pickers while the evergreen stands block cooling breezes off the lake. The combination leads to an intense heat when reflected off the rocky field.
Perched on hill sides, the juniper are evergreen type shrubs and taller than the deciduous blueberry bushes. Juniper are small berries with white flesh and a bitter taste. To reach the sweet and juicy blueberries, requires reaching through the prickly juniper and rolling the larger, round blueberries. Between the prickliness of the juniper and the ever-present mosquitoes (as there is no breeze to keep them at bay) long sleeves are a necessity. Because of the sun's northerly arc and constant presence, long sleeves are hot. Many are the days where hours are spent collecting a can of juicy berries, only to watch them tumble down the hillside, knocked over by an errant elbow or while swatting mosquitoes or adjusting cramping legs.
While all this sounds very romantic and sweet, such is truly not the case. I HATE picking blueberries!!! Perhaps 'hate' is the wrong word, maybe 'despise' or 'dread' or 'would rather shove juniper needles under my fingernails' (actually that happens a LOT when picking blueberries, but I digress). So when Mary suggested that there were no chores that needed to be done and it was a lovely afternoon, she would like blueberries for her morning corn flakes, I tried to blend into the carpet. Willard assembled a variety of tin cans and a pail while I grabbed a denim work shirt and baseball cap. As we headed to the boat house, I hit my head on a low hanging branch from a fallen pine tree that leaned over the path and rested atop the motor house. My indignation rose as I stomped down the wooden steps and grabbed the chainsaw to end this problem once and for all.
The saw roared to life and in short order, the tree lay squarely across the path. Willard shook his head "You can't leave that there." I accepted the challenge with another burst on the throttle and before the fuel tank was empty, I had limbed the offensive beast. Willard returned from the motor house with lopping shears as I divided the trunk into tidy six-foot sections. We hauled the logs to the wood pile, tossed the branches on the compost heap and raked the path, clearing the debris of our afternoon's work.
About that time, Mary appeared, surprised we were back already. Willard gave me a sheepish glance as he began to explain that I had 'distracted' him by playing lumberjack, though he did note how the path was now clear. Mary huffed and said dinner would be ready in ten minutes and we'd best not be late.
It was a quiet evening that ended with plain vanilla ice cream, no blueberries. The next day began the same way, plain corn flakes, no blueberries. The morning required a trip to the Falls for mail and such. After lunch, Willard began to round up the cans and such again when I appeared at the wood pile, saw in hand. "Just want to block this for you, then in the spring it'll be ready to go." I smiled and started the saw. The afternoon passed in a blaze of sawdust and flying woodchips. The woodpile grew from a single low pile to a four-sided arrangement of neatly stacked, fire-place length logs, nearly five feet tall on every side. I looked around and suggested we put a roof on for an extra sleeping cabin. Willard finished raking the pine needles and shavings as Mary appeared with her hand out. I anticipated the sheepish glance.
After breakfast on the third day of blueberry avoidance, I bounced out of bed and headed to the wood-pile once again and sharpened my splitting maul. I sent chunks of evergreen and birch and aspen flying in an impressive display of lightning-fast hands, strength and dexterity. By the time Willard joined me, I was in full swing and on my second sharpening. By the time lunch rolled around, we had the split wood piled once again and the pile cleaned up with enough wood and kindling for an entire season or more. Satisfied at a job well-done, I showered before lunch and dressed in shorts and t-shirt. My joy was short-lived as Mary served my lunch in a plastic pail and hung my work-shirt on the back of my chair. Willard, looking sheepish once again, said "I don't think there's any more wood to cut or block or split anywhere on this island". His steely grey eyes looked straight into mine, mostly to avoid the triumphant gaze Mary wore.
That evening, as I applied lotion to my mosquito bitten ankles and wrists, Mary served ice-cream with fresh blueberries and when she set out the cereal bowls, each pre-filled with corn flakes, they were each topped with a handful of fresh Sabaskong Bay blueberries. The rest went in the freezer for later. LATER??
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