It’s almost huckleberry season in Eastern Oregon.

Huckleberry. The very word drips sweetly from my lips.

Actually, that’s inaccurate. Among fruit tartness levels, huckleberries rank somewhat high.

But, well, beauty is in the mouth of the taster.

Huckleberries ripen at the perfect time of summer. The thrills of camping, swimming and puttering in the garden have waned, everyone’s sticky from the heat, and boredom begins to reign.

It’s not quite county fair time and no one is ready to think about school yet. (Well, almost no one).

Most folks seem to have a huckleberry picking story or two. Here’s mine.

When I first moved to Prairie City, the town held an annual “Huckleberry Fest” in early August. I knew nothing about huckleberries then, except the “huckleberry friend” reference in Andy Williams’ crooning classic “Moon River.” But, I soon learned two things:

1. There was indeed such a thing as huckleberries and they grew in the area!

2. No one was about to tell me where to find them or even what they looked like.

Huckleberry patches are like fishing holes — everybody’s got a secret one. They’ll strut and boast about it to anyone who’ll listen, but guard its location like they’ve found the long-lost legendary Blue Bucket Lode.

Hmph.

After finally squeezing some “juice” out of a coworker, I had a general idea of where to go and what to look for.

At last, that very evening, I found the elusive berries and my joy overflowed. Unfortunately, my berry container did not. My enthusiasm was crushed when I saw how small they were. Mighty small. I was used to blackberry picking back in California, where you could fill a couple of pails in no time at all.

With these minuscule molecules, I despaired I’d never be able to fill even a half-pint container at this rate — and that’s if I picked until midnight! What a seemingly fruitless endeavor.

The next day at the office, I learned what I’d found were “grouseberries” — a teeny tiny huckleberry variety meant for small animals. Much chuckling ensued, which I took in stride; making me all the more determined in my pursuit of REAL huckleberries.

At last (again), that very NEXT evening, I found the elusive berries. Real ones this time, bobbing their purplish redheads, beckoning me to take them home — which I gratefully did, in abundance. Evening after fruitful evening.

It’s a sweet venture I enjoy year after year. It’s “The Christmastime” of summer. As July readies to shake hands with August, the anticipation and thrill bursts all over again. Containers and snacks in tow, I begin making preliminary “status checks” at my favorite patches, my secret hideaways. Which, let’s face it, probably aren’t really a secret, But since I never see anyone else when I’m there, I chose to believe it is so.

And then glorious — tiresome, but glorious — days and days of picking, picking, picking. Until all too soon, it’s over for another season.

I savor my time with my “huckleberry friends,” stained fingers, bug bites, scraped legs and all.

And, humming “Moon River” as I pick.