In the Cranberry Isles, August and September are great months for harvesting things that grow in the wild. Mushrooms and berries reach maturity and people are eager to pick.
Chanterelle mushrooms, with their slightly smoky apricot flavor, grow in a number of places on the islands. Not everyone is adventurous enough to gather wild mushrooms, but these are easily identified, and there are plenty of island chefs who enjoy adding them to their menus. Chanterelle areas are kept very secret among those who pick mushrooms. I asked our fire chief, an avid mushroom picker, if he ever divulged his secret spots to his neighbor, who is also his uncle by marriage. “We have shown them to each other, but it’s a rule between us that we won’t go and pick in each other’s spots unless the other one is there.” When asked where to find chanterelles, people who know suddenly become very vague. These mushroom always grow back in the same spot.
Twenty-nine years ago, when I was a new bride, two summer residents stopped by to bring me a wedding present. After a few minutes of sitting on the back deck of our recently built house, one of the women said, “You know, you live next to one of the best mushroom patches on the island. Want us to show you?” A bond of secrecy was implied with the offer, and the owner of the land with the promising supply of fungi was not in residence at the time. We filled one of my brand-new large cooking bowls with the mustardy yellow wonders.
For many summers I never had to look farther than my neighbor’s back yard to find chanterelles. Eventually he cleared his land to create a lawn. With the disruption of their habitat, the chanterelles disappeared. I’ve never really looked to find another source, though I will pick them if I come across them, “somewhere.”
Berry pickers outnumber the mushroom harvesters on the islands. Lucky are those who have spots on their own property, but when these patches are near the road it is necessary to post signs: “Please don’t pick. Private.” A handful of berries doesn’t seem like much of a loss until you multiply it by 100 or more daily visitors and a quadrupled island population.
Berry pickers are also somewhat secretive about their favorite spots, with the level of secrecy relating to the species of berry being sought. Blueberries grow profusely in some fairly public places, so there’s no harm in saying, “I picked a whole bunch in the town field yesterday.” Ask about raspberries or blackberries and you might be invited to pick the next time the person goes, but you probably won’t be told where to go on your own.
The tiny wild cranberries, for which our islands are named, grow all around, but some of the better picking spots are on private property. The unspoken rule is to ask the homeowner if you can pick after they have left the island for the season. I once had a friend call me a few days before she left to say, “If you’re going to pick cranberries you’d better get down here, now, before Rosamund picks them all!”
Some of the stiffest competition is among the few who like to pick gooseberries. It is illegal to bring currant or gooseberry plants into the state of Maine because of the white pine blister rust quarantine, so there is no way to create your own gooseberry patch by purchasing plants from a local nursery. The only way to pick gooseberries is to find the plants where they grow in the wild, get there before the deer and the birds eat them, and don’t tell anyone else where they are.
The picking is not easy since the plants have plenty of thorns and they often grow alongside the equally prickly Rosa rugosa. It is best to use one hand to hold the branch up while the other hand picks berries, avoiding the thorns as much as possible. This does not leave a hand free for swatting mosquitoes, so it can be daunting, itchy and painful. Still, for those of us who love the slightly tart plumy flavor of gooseberry jam, it is well worth it.
The secretive and proprietary nature of island berry picking has created some amusing stories. One of my favorites came from a time, years ago, when my father-in-law had stopped on his way home from a day of lobstering to pick some blueberries for a pie. Crouched low in the vegetation, Warren went unnoticed by a prominent summer resident who was riding down the road a few feet away singing softly to himself, “My bicycle, my bicycle, I love my little bicycle!”
In the same era, an older couple, originally from eastern Europe, Claire and George were recognized as the most knowledgeable and prolific foragers on Islesford. Whether it was berries or mushrooms, they frequented all of the best places to pick. Once, as they ventured into a private cranberry patch, the unseen homeowner turned on the hose and started to spray them. Claire merely said, “Oh look, it is raining,” and she went right on picking.
The first time I ever picked gooseberries with my friend Lisa, we heard that another picker named Dick was frequenting the same patch. We found enough berries for one batch of jam, but when we returned to the spot a few days later the rest of the berries were gone. Because we beat him to the first batch of berries, we labeled our precious jars, “Beat Dick Jam.” To this day, Lisa is the only person with whom I pick gooseberries and our jam always features Dick on the label.
This summer, the gooseberries ripened early, and there were so many, I actually contacted Dick suggesting he might want to check his favorite picking spots on the island. A week later, I came home to a beautiful jar of dark purple jam on my kitchen table bearing the label, “Stuck by Barb.”