An early harbinger to summer, and a finicky byproduct of climate, the huckleberry is relentlessly pursued when the berries ripen in summer. Huckleberries are nature’s true Sweet Tart candies. Naturally sweet, combined with a wild sour flavor, the berry is about the size of a pea. The fragrant sugar-laden berries provides calories for wildlife and has historically been another food and medicinal source for First Nations people who introduced their allure to settlers. Ritually stalked in the summertime by those with feathers, fur, and human hands, the moody and seasonal huckleberry plant finds respite in the wintertime. Yet, it is in the winter that the huckleberry plant decides what the summer yield will be. 

When the lakes start to gurgle, moan, and burp, signaling the water is beginning to freeze and deep winter snow is coming, the western wild huckleberry plant has already delivered its summertime fruit, and the leaves have finished their photosynthesis. As snow covers the landscape, torpid animals retreat into their winter homes, seasonal birds migrate, and humans have moved on to other activities of the next season. The purplish-red berry rush – a different kind of western gold rush – is over! The last fresh, wild huckleberry has been consumed. 

Cemented in insulating snowpack, anorexic branches flare above the snowline without rhyme or reason. Their wiry stems poke up through the snow seeking what little light winter has to offer, while extensive underground root systems are preserved under forest duff and slightly acidic soil. Huckleberries are long-day photoperiod plants, meaning they are dependent on longer days of light. Shorter days and long nights signal it is time to rest, a required survival strategy within the harsh climate of northern latitudes. 

For several years now, I’ve watched the rhythms of nature from my home office in Montana’s Swan Valley. The entire room is surrounded by windows and affords me a front-row seat in monitoring the changing seasons. The lake that we live on is surrounded by forest, and the majority of our acreage is covered in huckleberry plants. Some years we have a great huckleberry crop and other years we have zero berries.  Every spring I monitor the plants and try to guess what kind of crop will occur in the summer. With late springtime freezes, limited snowpack, blight, rust fungus, and insects all contributing adversely to the crop, I’ve found that my predictions are not accurate.

While huckleberries are found throughout the United States, the western huckleberry is classified under the separate Vaccinium genus. Within the Vaccinium genus, various types of huckleberries grow throughout the northwestern United States. A relative of blueberries and cranberries, the western Montana huckleberry produces single, smaller, berries in the axil of leaves on new spring shoots, making these berries more time consuming to harvest. 

Wild huckleberry plants grow in moist sub-alpine forests, often in steep terrain, taunting the picker, “come and get me if you can.” The plants follow swaths of old burn scars leveled upon the land. Historical fires and volcanic dirt provide the correct balance of minerals required for the plants to thrive, and Montana fits the bill. The Great Burn of 1910 reduced much of western Montana to ash, but as devastating as the wildfires were, the fires opened up forest canopies allowing for other plant systems to emerge.  Expansion of wild huckleberry plants was an unintended consequence of the massive wildfires, though First Nations people already knew of the relationship between fire, the landscape, and the beloved huckleberry plants.  

First Nation people including the Blackfeet, Bitterroot Salish, and Kootenai traversed western Montana in search of food. Heavily dependent on this northwestern Montana ecosystem, the hunt for wild animals and subsistence gathering of various berries were necessary for sustenance. As documented in various tribal Seasonal Round calendars – which show tribal activities centered around seasonal food sources, such as wild game and berries, as well as sociocultural aspects with respect to the seasons – and decorative clothing, First Nations people listed huckleberries as an important food source and a reason to congregate and celebrate in the summer months.  

Many current hiking trails up and over the Mission Mountain range were trails used heavily by Indigenous people in the summertime. These trails were abundant in grizzly and black bears, elk, moose, deer, wolf, ground rodents, and other wildlife, as well as berries, roots and plants that were of great importance to the tribes. According to historical maps from the 1930s, one stream between Hemlock Creek and Windfall Creek on the eastern side of the Missions was named Berry Creek. The name has since been changed, but the early moniker speaks to the historical importance of identifying great huckleberry picking spots. In modern times, secret huckleberry spots are held closer to the vest than secret fishing spots.  

Indigenous tribes dried huckleberries in the sun, as well as smoked them over wood fires. The berry bounty was then wrapped in bark or leaves for future use during the dormancy of winter. Aside from consuming handfuls of berries, pastes for seasoning meats and flour-based cakes were created for immediate use. All parts of the plant – leaves, stems, flowers and roots – were used for various medicinal purposes. Historical uses have been replaced with the availability of modern medicine, food mechanization, and the commercial availability of huckleberry products. Today, tribes focus on keeping sociocultural histories alive, including stewardship of ancestral lands where many of the huckleberry bushes reside.

From seasonal subsistence to modern-day commercial harvesting, pressures on the huckleberry plant have existed for centuries. Increased automobile use, migration of settlers into the valleys, and the furious pace of commercial logging has escalated the demand for huckleberries since the 1920s. While demand has waxed and waned over the past hundred years, over-exploitation persists. Today, if you walk into almost any store in Montana, including gift shops within the two National Parks that are visited by millions of people each year, there will be a wall of huckleberry products: jams, jellies, syrups, candy, and soaps. If you are lucky to find an establishment that sells ice cream, huckleberry ice cream is the best. One can just imagine the number of small berries required to meet the demand.

Pests, diseases, climate change, animal consumers and mankind have reduced the number of viable huckleberry patches. It takes years for plants to bear fruit, and if the weather patterns don’t cooperate, the cycle is elongated. Designated wilderness areas, such as the Mission Mountain Wilderness near my home, dotted with prevalent lake beds and moisture-laden sinks, have helped retain some of the historical harvest. Wild mountain huckleberries are resistant to domestication, preferring higher elevations and acidic soil littered by thousands of years of glacial activity.  

As I sit writing this article, I am hunkered down in the first significant snowstorm of the season. Huddled in a cocoon of white, this winter storm has already dumped an additional three feet of snow on the huckleberries in my yard. Observing a sea of crystalline-laden white, I stare at the lake and think back to the summer when I heard and observed an eagle swimming across the lake with a fish. I remember being on a conference call and seeing what I thought was a dog out of the corner of my eye. As I stood up to get a better look, I saw the animal scratching. My movement alerted the “dog,” and it briefly looked up to stare at me. Turns out it was not a dog. It was a grizzly bear cub just passing through. Summer memories remind me that soon migrating  trumpeter swans will circle our cabin belting out their glorious honks that are matched by the haunting sounds of the common loons who briefly fish from time to time, as well as call for mates. I know that spring will come. What I don’t know is if the conditions will be ideal for a great huckleberry crop this year. Will there be enough berries to satisfy the competition for the Montana gold? 

One problem is certain: we will have a constant barrage of trespassers after the berry crop. There are human thieves, as well as those with fur and feathers eking out a living. In the past I have blamed the birds, particularly the red-breasted robins, for the lack of berries. As soon as the first leaves pop, the robins are constant yard inhabitants. I’ve tried scaring them away. It was no use. The flying squirrels, ground squirrels, and chipmunks will launch an assault as well. Then there are the grizzly and black bears that frequent the area, and they love berries too. As a wildlife photographer, I don’t mind sharing with bears. 

My summertime picking ritual will begin in July. Armed with bug spray, sunscreen, and plastic containers, I will go on the berry hunt. Hopefully I won’t have to travel far, nor will I be disappointed again. Even though I am stingy with the byproduct during the winter, and after two years of a dismal crop, my frozen berry supply is almost depleted. I need to replenish my stash for huckleberry pancakes, pie, cobbler, and other sweet delights. Summer guests have come to expect them. Watching today’s winter storm elevates my hope for a great summer crop. It is time!

Over the years I have learned that wild huckleberries are just that: wild! They can’t be tamed, and they are not a dependable crop. Every winter I am intrigued by the stems that look dead. I wonder how they can come alive again after being buried in snow, with a few shoots sticking out above the snowline. And yet, every year in late May and early June, signs of life appear: blooms, buds, leaves, and ultimately, berries. Winter snow is their insulating security blanket and allows the plants to rest, recharge, and reshoot. Without the snowpack, and winter’s shorter days, huckleberry plants would not be able to propagate. Dormancy is not death. Dormancy is a time of revitalization.