From above I saw them: Two little girls, about 7 years old, lying on the tundra, talking. One on her belly, the other on her back. The sun was out. There was a breeze strong enough to keep the mosquitoes away. It was a perfect early fall day in Unalakleet. The girls’ quart-sized plastic buckets hung on the branches of a nearby 8-foot-tall spruce tree, and the color on the spruce reminded me of Christmas. Their adult person was just a bit farther down the hill, near the alder bushes, picking blueberries.
I stopped the four-wheeler. Seeing those little girls caused my lungs to soften, my belly to relax. I didn’t realize how much tension I was carrying, and I smiled. I had just picked a gallon of blueberries on the east side of the hill and was heading back home. It was a hill my mom and her friend Nancy used to pick berries on, a hill I probably followed Mom to when I was the same age as those girls.
From a distance, I couldn’t tell who they were or who their adult person was, but the moment was so precious I took a photo. And remembered how at 7, 8, 12, heck, even 20 years old, I didn’t enjoy picking berries. I was 4 years old when television came to Unalakleet, and I’d rather have been home, watching The Mickey Mouse Club or even The Price Is Right. Being on the tundra leaves you alone with your own thoughts. But I didn’t have the attention span for my own thoughts. I’d rather, like those girls, hang my bucket in a tree and lie on my back, telling stories. Or practice handstands and cartwheels and my front handsprings on the squishy tundra. Or, more likely, I’d ask my Mom if we could go home. When she’d say no or answer no by just ignoring me, I’d wish I was back home on the couch, watching TV.
But now, lying in bed, happy I had four more quart-sized Ziploc bags of berries in our freezer, I scrolled through my photos and found the one of the girls. The red- and turquoise-colored buckets lent a bit of whimsy to the calm and comforting scene. I smiled again, happy that the girls were out with their adult person that day with every intention to pick berries, but instead, were lying on the ayuu, or Labrador tea, and lichen and all the little plant beings that make up the tundra. Though they probably didn’t pick many berries that day, I knew that one day they would likely find themselves walking the tundra, picking berry after berry after berry after berry and not wanting to go home until their buckets were full. Because a full bucket means fruit all winter long.
I know, because that’s what happened to me. One day, in my early 20s, while out picking berries, I found I didn’t want to return home until my gallon-sized plastic bucket was full. It was a strange urge. And annoying, honestly. I didn’t want to be out there any longer, but the urge to stay until my bucket was full was strong and, on that day, the urge won out. I stayed. And picked. And picked. And picked. Even when I was tired and ready for a hot bath, I picked. That was the day I realized I had kind of grown up. Or something like that. A Native girl’s rite of passage? An entrance into some sort of adulthood? It was odd. And while, yes, I was overly proud of myself for filling my bucket that day, I wasn’t completely comfortable with this new sense of responsibility.
I’m going to have to fill my bucket every dang time, I thought.
I laugh now, but in those early adult days it felt like a lot of pressure — to do things you don’t necessarily want to do, but know are good for you and those around you. After a few decades of serious adult picking, I’ve gotten faster. What was once a chore, ahave-to-do, is now mostly enjoyable. I don’t know exactly when that shift happened, but it did. Sure, the mosquitoes get really annoying. Sure, there are times when I leave the house forgetting to pack snacks or water, and halfway through the picking I realize I’m thirsty. Sure, there are days when I’m exhausted — from work, from family or life stresses, from the fatigue that comes with whatever as-yet-unidentified autoimmune issue I have. But the joy of August wouldn’t be the joy of August without getting out and picking gallon after gallon of blueberries, day after day.
Those girls will know this life. This good life, I thought, looking at my phone. And I realized that’s why my lungs felt light immediately upon seeing them. I loved that they were outside, in the fresh air, feeling the breeze, feeling the heat of the sun on their beautiful brown cheeks. I loved that they were feeling the scratchy tundra plants through their pants and on the backs of their necks as they lay there on the ground. I loved that they were enjoying the day. The hill. The smells. The tart punch of the Alaskan wild tundra blueberry. The sounds of wind and the feel of delicate blueberry skin against their fingertips. And I loved that they weren’t even trying. That’s what makes me smile the most: They weren’t even trying.
I loved that they were outside, in the fresh air, feeling the breeze, feeling the heat of the sun on their beautiful brown cheeks.
Eventually, they’ll know the goodness that comes from days spent living in relationship with the little plant beings on the tundra. Because on some level, they experienced that goodness on a very normal August day in Unalakleet. A day when the land taught them, in little whispers, that it will provide as long as we protect it. That it will heal and reveal life truths, if you share your thoughts and listen. Or just get lost in the somehow therapeutic act of picking berry after berry after berry. They’ll learn that the land gives food, beauty, life and physical, emotional and spiritual nourishment.
I drove home grateful that day. Grateful that Mom took me picking even when I was a whiny, annoying kid, wishing I was home. Even when I didn’t pick much more than a cup or two. Even though I’d whine so hard, trying to get out of picking berries, trying to get my Mom to drive us back to town. She never did, of course. Not until her own bucket was full. And so I’d lie on the tundra. Or practice my handstands and handsprings. Or simply stare up at the sky and wait.
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This article appeared in the August 2024 print edition of the magazine with the headline “The tundra provides.”
