One for the Bucket, Two for Me

Every summer, when the mountain air turns sweet and the trails thread through forests alive with birdsong, the stories begin.

They’re tucked into jam jars and picnic baskets, hidden in daypacks, and woven into the folds of family tradition. They are stories about huckleberries—but really, they’re stories about people. About time. About the wild sweetness of a summer well spent.

Last winter, my daughter came home for a weeklong visit. After a couple of days, she gave me that mischievous look I hadn’t seen in years—the one that always meant she was about to talk me into something. With a sly grin, she coyly lifted a small bag she’d been hiding behind her back. She’d been rummaging through the chest freezer and discovered my secret stash of huckleberries.

“Please,” she begged, her chin tipped and eyes wide, “I haven’t tasted these in three years.”Of course I said yes. Who could say no to that face—or to the gift of something so sweet, so rare?

I still remember my first taste of huckleberry, almost forty years ago. I was on a horseback campout with friends when we stumbled across a patch of tiny purple berries high in the mountains, hours from basecamp. We ate until we couldn’t eat another bite, but I wasn’t ready to let the magic go. With nothing but my old metal canteen slung across the saddle horn, I filled it with berries to carry back. Long after the last berry was gone, the water inside held the lingering flavor of that sun-warmed sweetness—my first lesson in how huckleberries leave their mark.

Years later, my father-in-law reintroduced me to huckleberries, and picking them became one of our family’s summer rituals. The kids would wait for Papa John’s call letting us know it was time. He’d already been scouting his favorite spots, and together we’d head into the mountains to gather as much as we could.

Papa John picked the whole season long—sometimes with us, usually on his own—and word got around. Every year, friends would offer top dollar for his berries, hoping for just a quart or two of that hard-to-find treasure. But he always refused. He wouldn’t turn one of his favorite pastimes into a job he felt obligated to do. Instead, if someone asked, he’d simply smile and gift them a bag, no strings attached. For him, it wasn’t about the money. It was about the joy of the mountains and the satisfaction of sharing something so rare.

Some years, when life got in the way and we couldn’t make the trek ourselves, he would still show up at our door with surprise bags of purple gold, his eyes twinkling as if he’d smuggled home treasure.

Papa John passed away a few years ago, but his love of huckleberries lives on in us. I learned where to look. I started picking again—sometimes with my grown kids but usually with the two youngest still at home—always grateful for the stillness of the mountains, the tart taste of the berries, and the new memories we’re creating along the way.

Never tasted a huckleberry? Maybe now’s the time to start your own tradition. It starts as a walk in the mountain woods. Before long, your steps slow, your eyes sharpen, and your fingers start reaching for those telltale bursts of deep purple hiding in the green. Congratulations: you’ve officially caught huckleberry fever.

Foraging for huckleberries is more than just a summer pastime—it’s part treasure hunt, part outdoor relaxation, and part sweet reward. In late July through August, the high-country trails and

secret roadside patches come alive with pickers of all ages, armed with buckets, bug spray, and a hopeful sense of direction.

Here’s what you’ll need if you go:

• A few containers, bags, or pails (I prefer to rig up a belt-hanging water bottle with a flip lid so I don’t drop any. There are few things worse than spilling a whole pail of precious huckleberries!)

• Sturdy shoes and layered clothing

• Bug spray, sunscreen, and a hat

• Plenty of water and snacks (because you’ll eat more berries than you think)

• Bear deterrent and berry-picking buddies—it’s wild country, after all

And, most importantly: patience. Huckleberry picking is slow, deliberate work. You might spend an hour crouched in one patch, plucking the last few berries hiding beneath the leaves. You might get skunked and wind up with more scratches than sweets. But when you hit the motherlode? It’s magic.

Locals swear the best patches are the ones you stumble on by accident… and then keep forever secret. These wild mountain berries hold a special place in the heart of our region, so if someone offers to take you, don’t pass it up. But if you have to set out on your own, go for it! The berries wildly sweet yet unmistakably tart flavors are just waiting—if you know where to look:

Festival Fame 

• Celebrated for over 40 years, the Annual Huckleberry Festival in Historic Downtown Wallace takes place in August. Enjoy a weekend of live music, local vendors, family fun, a scenic 5K, and plenty of huckleberry delights. Don’t miss this sweet summer tradition!

Summer’s Signature Flavor 

• Whether at roadside stands, farmers markets, or downtown cafés, you’ll find huckleberry everything—milkshakes, syrup, scones, ice cream, lemonade, and even huckleberry martinis. If you can dream it, there’s probably a huckleberry version of it!

Elusive and Wild 

• Huckleberries are famously finicky, growing only in the wild—usually above 4,000 feet, in just the right soil, beneath the dappled shade of coniferous forests. Unlike store-bought fruit, you can’t farm them, and you can’t predict them. You just go. You hope. You taste.

There’s something deeply satisfying about gathering food with your own hands. Something grounding about being in the forest—guided by scent, sound, and the quiet thrill of the find. And when you get home, with purple-stained palms and maybe a few berries left in your bucket, there’s joy in turning your harvest into something sweet to share.

So if you find yourself in the mountains this month, keep an eye out for that splash of purple along the trail. Whether you’re a seasoned forager or picking for the very first time, everyone knows the golden rule: one for the bucket, two for me. 

Because huckleberry season isn’t just about the yield—it’s about the experience. And a little purple on your fingers is proof you’re doing it right.