Batter-Splattered: Mother Nature kicked my ass today.

{my apologies in advance for yet another post about berries but I just can't help myself. It's that time of year. One of these days I might get to a point where I'm willing to admit that I am spookily-obsessed with berry-picking and that I have a problem, but currently I'm still firmly-rooted in the denial stage. I like it here. So what if my berry-picking-companion occasionally lies to people about where we're going when asked what she's doing on Saturday and she first hems and haws and then says she's going for a hike when in actuality we're going to pick more berries in spite of the fact that we already have more berries in our freezers than two humans have a need for... Stop looking at me like that.}

Look at these instead:

Low bush blueberries, a few glossy black crowberries, and one bright red bunch berry

So this local girl posted on her blog about a hidden-away blueberry patch that no one but no one knows about. I found the post by digging through links to my own blog. She didn't tell exactly how to get to the patch -- the post was a bit cryptic, I'll give her that -- but she did give the name of a mountain. You know I tracked it down and headed straight over there tout suite (that's French for you better hurry your ass over there before someone else picks the berries God himself meant for you to have).

It's unheard of what she did -- this posting of a hidden jewel of a berry patch, outing it on the world wide web. Why would she do it? Good berry patches are a closely-guarded secret. You don't share. The same person you would donate bone marrow to has another thing coming if they think you're gonna tell them where you pick your red currants.

The only explanation I can come up with is that this bloggin' gal must be one of those quart-bag berry-pickers. You know the type. They head up the hillside a short distance, plastic baggie in hand, maybe even carrying a handbag over one arm. She fills her little ziploc in a leisurely manner, stopping here and there to admire the fluffy clouds or the pretty mountains (focus, girlfriend! F-O-C-U-S). She doesn't mind telling crowds of people where the really good berries are because once her bag's filled up after thirty minutes of berry-picking she heads back to her sedan and thinks to herself: "Whew! That was fun. I'll have to do it again next year."

Not my kind of berry-picker.

The trailhead is hard to find. It's not marked or publicized in any way because there's not much parking available. You drive and drive and drive up and down and around. One of the landmarks along the way is 'whimsical mailboxes.' The trailhead is marked by a small white sign written in black magic marker. You even have to tip-toe around -- and possibly straight through -- private property, knowing all the while that the landowner might come out and either yell at you or perhaps even take a shot as you flee screaming through the willows.

Now that's awesome.

Oh yeah, and there are a couple of grizzly bears known to live in the area. A smile broke out on my face as I set off, assured in the knowledge that should I live through this trek, that blueberry pie is gonna taste brilliant.

The fall colors were in full bloom -- gold, yellow, red, pink, etc. etc. An aqua blue glacial river ran through the valley below us. The trail was amusingly steep. It went straight up. And it was muddy, which made things very interesting. The bushes and trees alongside the trail were stripped bare of leaves because everyone clings to them as they struggle up the mountainside.

But the berries! Oh! The berries. Once we cleared the treeline, they were everywhere. As far as the eye could see. Blue. Blue. Blue. Blue. Blue.

We fell to our knees and began to pick and pick and pick. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk! went the berries into our milk jug. A light but steady drizzle was falling. A persistent breeze was blowing down on us, occasionally turning into what could safely be described as a gust. There was a definite hint of fall in the air.

Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.

Then I noticed I was getting a little cold in spite of my layers of clothing -- lightweight pants, waterproof pants on top, a t-shirt, a long-sleeved shirt, a raincoat and a hat. A month ago I would have been sweating like a pig in all those clothes. My gross motor skills began to decline and my hand was a little resistant to doing what I wanted it to do which was grab as many berries as possible so I could fill up the jug and get the hell off that cold, wet mountain.

I kept picking.

Then I noticed how pale the flesh on my hand looked compared to the green and gold of the berry bushes.

I kept picking.

Then for a second I thought my thumb had gone totally numb because I had no sensation on my thumbprint. I panicked a little and shook it around before realizing there was just a leaf stuck to my thumb which was why I couldn't feel anything.

Whew! I kept picking.

Then I thought to myself that my raincoat must be leaking because I was cold all over. Closer examination however proved that I wasn't wet -- I was just very, very cold and a little clammy.

I kept picking.

Then my picking partner sat down hard and cradled her cold, cold hands in her lap and she hated to admit it but: "I think I may need to stop soon."

I kept picking. There was just no way I was going to walk away from such a sweet-ass patch of berries.

Then the drizzle turned to rain. And then the rain sort of started falling sideways. Oh, and there was bit of thick fog rolling in.

I kept picking, clumsily thrusting my numb hands into the bushes and only half the time coming out with a berry to put in my bucket.

After an hour or so, we gave up the ghost and had to walk away, shivering uncontrollably, shaking our stiff, lifeless hands, telling each other where rigor is, mortis is sure to follow. As I struggled back down the muddy path, the sinking sensation in my gut was similar to how I feel when I accidentally spill a glass of wine. Oh! It's not fair! The wasted potential! Like someone drowning an unwanted litter of puppies (or something a little less gruesome).

We swore that we'd head straight back there at the first sign of sunny skies. It wouldn't have been so bad if the bushes weren't soaking wet. And call me crazy but from where I'm sitting I can see a little patch of blue in the sky and I'm thinking I need to call the berry-picking partner and ask if she's thawed out yet and ready for more...