[McPilchuck]

Huckleberry Hill... Ken James McLeod (photo of McLeod kids: Stella, Ken J., Susan) Huckleberry Hill was just what the name implied...a partially forested hill where the huckleberries grew in a rather abundant and prolific manner. Though the name was a local one and didn't appear on any maps, the hill was more or less a mountain and was well known as part of North Mountain, which was situated in the Cascade Mountains near the small hamlet of Darrington, Washington. And like many other postwar (WW II) families of the 1950s - 1960s era, traveling and camping was something almost everyone did in the summer time, especially when the berries were ripe in the mountains. Then, the car was packed up and we went camping, fishing, and berry picking. The huckleberries were to make pies and jam out of, but many were just eaten raw by the tiny hands the picked them. Up the hill the old Chevy "Woody" rumbled with dad at the wheel and mother sitting beside him as the copilot. "George, please watch the curve and that chuckhole," she could be heard saying from time to time as we drove the mountain road...with three young kids in the back seat eager to pick and eat the red-hued succulent berries so promised. For us kids, there was always a sense of "indulging" as we neared a patch we intended to pick, as it was like going into a candy store with unlimited funds to buy all the sweets one could muster. How many could we eat before mother or father would tell us to stop? How sweet they tasted those red-candied blobs! In the hours that followed, after my sisters and I had had our fill and the cartons or buckets were full enough to our parents content, our fingers looked liked red orbs...our lips the same. And when the blueberries were ripe, we all looked like children of the "Purple People Eater" a hit song that came to be about a monster of sorts. Of course all the children sang it and the parents began to unconsciously whistle it... Today, it's no wonder why I have an inert desire to pick and eat huckleberries when I see them growing in the mountains. And on occasion, when stooped over a bush, when the wind is just right, I swear I can hear mom and dad saying, "save some of those berries for the pies and jam or you'll get eaten by the Purple People Eater just over the hill." McPil

Huckleberry Hill

[Newt]

Thank you Mr McPilchuck. Your way with words continues to reflect on the important things in life. Life it self. NN

[Mike E.]

Ken, I sure do like your writing. This one really hit home. It brings back memories of picking berries at Larch mountain, east of Portland when I was a kid. While reading your story I swear I could smell the deep forest and feel the cool breeze of fall. It also explains that "Huckleberry psychosis" that overtakes me each fall. Pam thinks I'm nuts, but every week is spent in planning the best place to go pick and every hike has to include a decent picking spot. By the way this looks like it's goinig to be a good year. The huckleberries have had lots of bloom every place I've been so far. Thanks for the story.

[McPilchuck]

Thanks much Mike, I enjoy writing them, especially when people like you comment "positive" back...that tocuhes me. McPil

[pappy-]

Brings back some Huckleberry memories for me too. Used to go to a place called Monumental Mountain somewhere out of Metaline to pick berries. As a 9 year old, I knew we were quite remote, even though we'd driven there.