Fingers of sunlight break through the treetops, scratching at my face. Beads of sweat cascade down the crevice of my spine.

The buzzing of bugs tickles my ears. My knees dig into the dirt.

I reach into the maze of leaves with my bruise-colored hands. Everywhere I look, jewels of violet are sprinkled across the verdant foliage surrounding me — each bush, a cupcake, bearing the countless miniature plum-onion concoctions.

Pick one, two more shall take its place.

Huckleberries.

I love huckleberries. I love picking huckleberries. It really is a therapeutic remedy. Picking huckleberries is one of the few things that numbs my mind. It is so soothing.

For me, it serves as a refuge of solace for the tumultuous lives we all live — a calm at the center of the storm we call our reality.

The biggest challenge that I have to overcome when picking huckleberries is to not eat them at a faster rate than I can pick them.

I remember going huckleberry picking for the first time when I was about 10 years old. It was a family outing up Eagle Creek, somewhere near Richland, Oregon. I have been hooked — no, obsessed — ever since.

Jam. Smoothies. Milkshakes. Ice cream. Cheesecake. Pies. Pastries. Pancakes. Salads. Lemonade. Margaritas. Marinade. Barbecue sauce.

So versatile! What can you not add huckleberries to?

You will never find out if you don’t try it.

All you have to do is go pick some for yourself … but good luck prying a specific location out of someone who knows where to go. A gold mine is not something most people will let just roll off the tip of their tongue. The combination to someone’s vault is not so easily procured.