Sometimes in the early morning, I could hear Stellar sea lions honking and hollering, complaining about their in-laws’ bad breath as they rafted together in the calm sea. Burly and powerful beasts, they’d raise their flippers into the sun above the slick reflective surface of water so smooth, it reflected only the cloudless blue.

My open window let in these sounds and a glow, harsh to gritty morning eyes, that promised a stinking hot August day. I’d turn my pillow over to enjoy the cool side beneath, but pretty soon it was time to hop to it.

Barefoot and barely dressed I’d reach up on tiptoes to grab a bowl, then run out across the gravel and under the trellis that held spider webs and a rose bush covered in fragrant buds just about ready to pop. Hop down the uneven sandstone pavers, green grass pushing up between, and gingerly pad across a dewy soft lawn. It was important to avoid the ripe banana slugs – no fun stepping on those with bare feet! I arrived at the stump, slowly rotting away, that was crowned by a gigantic huckleberry.

Some years the scraggly branches flecked with tiny round leaves were weighed down by a glut of berries, small as my pinky fingernail, pale watery red. I’d pick a handful, then shove them into my mouth all at once for an explosion of flavour. Other times I would taste them one at a time. My tongue felt the smooth skin, the dimple where a tiny green stalk had tied the berry to the bush, the rough part underneath where the flower had fallen off. Popping the taut globe between my milk teeth, the tart juice released the delicate gritty seeds and soft flesh.

Eventually, I’d start to pick in earnest, teeny tiny berries pink plonking, the first ones softy ringing against the bowl, and later the nearly soundless thuds as the bowl filled.

Perhaps it was only once that Heidi and I picked enough for my mom to make huckleberry pie. But that one time was exciting enough to inspire us every summer, and for me to remember three decades later. Usually, the handful we collected before we were distracted by Sunday morning cartoons was just enough to sprinkle into the sticky tops of pancakes as they fried in the pan. When the pancakes flipped, the berries hit the hot pan, blackened and caramelized slightly, their smooth skins bursting to reveal the tiny red seeds within.