ENHS Nature Trails January 2002 Article 3

Blackberries in January
by Tom Titus

January is an odd time to be writing about blackberry picking. In the dead of a western Oregon winter, especially one that is typically gray and sodden, summer can be a difficult season to remember. Facts are that midwinter is a slow time for herpetologitsts and Nature Trails isn't published during the height of blackberry season, so humor me.

On this trip I am alone, travelling a logging road between the upper reaches of the Siuslaw and Smith Rivers in the Oregon Coast Range the last week of June. I stop to make a deposit into the local nitrogen cycle and since the road doesn't get much traffic I simply walked to the edge to do my duty. As luck would have it, there was a wild blackberry vine replete with berries, a dozen or so red and purple jewels, four of which were just barely ripe. I pick the ripest ones, put them all in my mouth at once, and bite down.

That first rush of tart, musky, blackberry flavor transports me back through over a century of collective blackberry consciousness. My grandmother's goal was always to have enough blackberries for a pie by Fourth of July, no small task--they usually don't peak until mid to late July. And although I don't have the oral history to support it, I'm certain that this early summer ritual goes back one more generation, to my great grandfather and grandmother who homesteaded on Smith River in western Douglas County in 1880.

Not all blackberries are created equal. In fact, there are at least three different species of blackberry that can be found in western Oregon. Two of these, the Himalayan blackberry and the evergreen blackberry, are imports from Asia and Europe respectively. Some botanical sleuthing has revealed that the Himalayan backberry is actually the Armenian blackberry (Rubus armeniacus) and was brought to North America as a cultivar in 1885 from Germany by that most famous of horticulturists, Luther Burbank. The evergreen blackberry (Rubus laciniatus) was also introduced as a cultivar, but from England in 1850. The only species native to western North America is what I grew up calling the wild blackberry (Rubus ursinus), otherwise known as the trailing blackberry or dewberry .

When most people in the Pacific Northwest start talking blackberries, they are referring to the Armenian blackberry that is taking over fencerows and entire hillsides west of the Cascades Mountains. Armenian blackberries have a lot to offer, at least for a weed. Those impenetrable bramble piles are great habitat for birds and small mammals who know good and well that no predator with any sense will come in after them. The berries are plentiful, large and very juicy, and during August you can fill a bucket in 30 minutes and for no more trouble than it takes to get to the nearest vacant lot. But the seeds are boulder size, and anyone who uses Armenian blackberries for anything other than seedless concoctions like jelly and wine is asking for an emergency trip to their dentist.

Wild blackberries are a different beast altogether. Everything about them is petite compared to the Armenian species. The vines are much thinner and the thorns are smaller, their presence under the skin often being felt rather than seen. The berries are about one quarter the size of Armenian berries, and one the size of the last joint on your pinky is a real trophy. Size alone would translate into four times as much picking time compared with their larger relatives, but the berries are also more widely scattered, so in reality it requires an order of magnitude more time to pick an amount equal to the Armenian blackberry.

Wild blackberry picking is not for the fainthearted or the greedy, but the trade-off here is flavor. Chemistry isn't my strong suit, and I don't have a clue what sort of aromatic compounds make a blackberry taste like a blackberry, but whatever they are, the tiny wild blackberry was first in line when they were handed out. They have a blackberry flavor that shames not only the Armenians but any domestic version you care to name, and the flavor from a cup of wild blackberries mixed with any other berry will shine through in a pie or cobbler.

Wild blackberries grow in open areas in the forests of western Oregon. Logging has actually increased their habitat, and I'm certain there are more now than before the region was settled. A new clear-cut functions in much the same way as fires did prior to the age of Smokey the Bear. Shade-loving shrubs are wiped out in an ecological blink of an eye, and those dry, sunny hillsides represent a vast opportunity for colonization by wild blackberries, which are fast growing, sun tolerant, and drought resistant.

This invasion is Borg-like. Most of the energy goes into growing more vines that are genetically identical to their progenitors. It takes sex to make berries, which means flowers and pollen, not to mention the cooperation of pollinating insects, and blackberries don't waste their time and energy on such luxuries when the universe is waiting to be conquered. When exactly they decide to settle down and engage in a little blackberry tryst might be one of the great mysteries of the plant world and seems to depend on a complicated network of genes interacting with environmental cues. From my point of view it doesn't happen often enough, and a fruit-laden patch of wild blackberries is a secret worth keeping.

Peak season for wild blackberries is earlier than for the Armenian berries, usually in July. During wild blackberry season it's easy to tell whether you are in the presence of another person blessed with True Knowledge, Understanding, and Enlightenment. Just tell them you are headed out for a day of blackberry picking. Those who know nothing will smile and respond with something trite like "Well that sounds like fun!" Those who think they know will become mildly embarrassed for you, kick the dirt and say, "It's a little early, isn't it?" Those who really know will look you in the eye, recognize instantly that they are in the presence of the Truth, look to the horizon, and say nothing at all. As I said, it's a secret worth keeping.

I continue down the road which forms a green crevasse in the dense summer foliage, lined on both sides by foxglove in the peak of its bloom. Four blackberries do not make a pie, and besides, I ate those. I have no expectation that the day will lead to more than a mouthful of berries and wistful remembrances. But in fact there are more berries. They are scattered along the roadside in small patches, and I find that if I drive very slowly, with the window down, I can spot them from the car.

The mist turns to a steady drizzle, drenching the foliage. It's too early for lunch, but I eat my sandwich anyway and start to fill the empty container with blackberries, beginning to hope that I can find enough along the next six miles of road to make a pie. It takes four cups for a nine-incher. I have an informal date to meet Mom and Dad at their place on upper reaches of the Smith River, still nine miles distant.

After an hour and a half of stop and pick traffic, the sandwich container is heaping full. It really is close to lunchtime now, so I eat the piece of chocolate cake in the quart-size ziplock bag and start to fill it. It's very early in the blackberry season and they aren't plentiful. During the course of the day I've figured out that only the berries along the edge of the roadside are getting ripe, and I have developed an hypothesis that the extra heat from the pavement has created a slightly warmer microhabitat that has accelerated the season by a week or two, a microcosm of global warming.

The scarcity of ripe berries causes me to go light on quality control. In lieu of eating my hard-won fruit, I periodically stick my stained fingers under my nose and let the smell crawl up my nostrils, sending every blackberry-wired pleasure center firing on overdrive. I take every berry that has any prospect of adding something positive to the pie that is burning itself into my imagination with the intensity of a hot, fragrant, purple iron. Somewhat ripe to partially fermented, tiny or large, half eaten by grouse and chipmunks, all go in the hopper. Out loud I promise the animals that I'll leave the rest for them, but words are cheap and I search for every dropped berry as though I've lost my wedding ring. I suspect this mix will give my pie what the wine folks call complexity.

The sun begins to burn through the mist. I stop at a turnout stop at the top of a three mile downgrade toward Smith River where, for reasons known only to the berries, they are especially plentiful. Weaving from one side of the road to the other like a delirious bear, I pop berries into my ziplock bag. Arriving back at the car, it's time to take serious stock of my situation. Bouncing around on the floor of the back seat are, by my very crude estimate, enough berries for one, unadulterated wild blackberry pie.

Tom Titus

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