A quiet day in Washington. A wondrous surprise lay in waiting when I crossed a gravel road and suddenly felt the urge to poop. As it was already the second time that day, I really didn’t want to dig a cathole again. So I went to a nearby parked car and asked the driver if there was a pit toilet nearby. There was, a quarter mile down the road. On my way there and back I noticed a lot of people standing in the bushes next to the road. A couple, hunched down in the vegetation, big white buckets next to them, explained they were picking huckleberries. I climbed up the incline next to the road and my heart leapt. In front of me was a whole field of huckleberries. I grabbed, I ate, I gorged, I stuffed myself with as many berries as I could pick. For every bush I picked clean I found 4 more. I stayed there for 40 minutes until I was satisfied.
The couple, Kelly and Brian, told me huckleberries can’t be grown commercially because they need dappled sunlight, with trees nearby, making them extra special. Across the gravel road people weren’t allowed to pick. That was reserved for the native americans living in the nearby reservation. Knowing that left a sour taste in my mouth, that we are out here hiking and picking berries on what used to be their land.
The rest of the day was very short, only twenty miles. It felt almost weird to get to camp before 5pm, but oh so nice to relax a little before sleep.