The “Pole Line” at the end of a long dirt road didn’t sound like a remarkable place when my dad first told me about it. In the evening after a long summer day spent in the sun, I hoped in the truck with my parents and dog, and we headed down to the river valley. Sure enough we came to the end of a dusty gravel road that lead to a gravel pit.
We wandered in and my dad pointed to a gravel ridge in the corner. To my surprise I saw a sea of blue covering the ground. It was not often that I had found a patch of blueberries that thick; usually just a bush here and there. We had hit the ultimate jackpot. After a while of picking we had a few honey pails overflowing with juiciness, even though only a few would hit the bottom of the bucket for every couple I tasted. It was hard to resist the fact that such an itty bitty berry held a package of so much flavour inside.
On the way home I asked my dad how he had found that patch and he went on to explain how when he was a very young boy his grandmother would make blueberry pie with berries from that very spot. Then years later his mother would go there to pick berries. My aunties and grandma would head out for the afternoon with ice cream pails to fill while my dad stood guard for bears. Who could blame them for wanting to snack on these delicious berries.
I could not believe that this patch could have lasted at least eighty years. How such small plants merely ten centimetres in height could survive so long in a desolate environment and sustain themselves is beyond me. One day I hope to show my children the patch and keep it as a family pasttime.