By ALISON HAIN
UPPER SARANAC LAKE — A patch of wild cranberries grows on the southern edge of Upper Saranac Lake.
I can't divulge the exact location; it's a closely held secret.
Tradition sends us to the spot year after year to harvest the berries. The patch lies sheltered in a small, sunny cove on state-owned land — far removed from the casual hiker, it is accessible only by boat. Acres of forest and undergrowth lie between these bushes and the closest trail or road.
For us — my husband, Frank, and me, and my younger sister, Lucia Hrinyak, and her husband, Michael, searching out and harvesting the wild cranberry is as important as tasting and savoring it.
TREASURED TRADITION
The wild cranberry is firm, round or oblong, red and yellow in color and smaller than its commercial relative. It grows inconspicuously on low-lying bushes found in scattered patches along the shores of a select pond or lake in the North Country. And it also thrives in bogs — high boots are recommended for picking the berries there.
A versatile fruit, it can be used in a sauce, jelly, tart or pie. Eaten raw, it has a tart flavor, though not as tart as the domestic cranberry.
Our annual adventure takes place at the whim of nature, in late September or early October. Neither Frank nor I can ever set a precise date for the harvest, as the timing each year is variable. Overall weather conditions, the immediate weather forecast and an instinctive sense that "this is the right time" all play a role in selecting the ultimate day of departure.
After an exchange of e-mails and a phone call, my sister and I decide that we will all rendezvous the following morning. We come from opposite directions. With a canoe strapped to each car roof, each party has about a two-hour ride to our destination. Time, gas mileage and any other related costs are immaterial. The wild cranberry harvest is a treasured tradition, and one that comes with a marvelous taste but also brings back cherished memories at the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner tables.
FREEZE THE BERRIES
After off-loading the canoes from the roof racks and carrying them over to the water's edge, we pile in provisions for lunch, vinyl cushions and paddles. Testing the water temperature with a finger, one of us remarks, "It's freezing cold. Let's not fall in today."
We paddle for about 30 minutes and arrive at the cove. If cranberries are here, they are hidden beneath foliage.
We unload the contents of the canoes and then scatter, each to a different location for optimum site coverage. If it's a good year, there are exclamations of delight. Even if the pickings are slim, memories of plentiful harvests remain and lessen the disappointment. We scour the patch and find enough at least for Thanksgiving.
Back home and with Thanksgiving nearly two months away, the optimum next step is to freeze the cranberries. We spread them on a cookie sheet, clean off the debris and freeze in several medium-size bags depending on quantity. We keep the berries frozen until needed, then defrost and, only then, rinse off the fruit in cool water, drain and dry.
The wild cranberries are ready to use.
ALL WET
For years, our traditional cranberry-picking expedition went without incident. But on one occasion, my husband and I set off alone. The day was fine, sunny and windless. We found an abundant crop of cranberries — ample to fill the two requisite one-pound coffee tins. My husband took off to explore, ostensibly to find more crops to harvest in years ahead. Not long afterwards, the sky filled with ominous grey clouds, the wind picked up, and I knew that those changes meant wet weather ahead, and soon. With two cans brimming with berries, I decided to take off in the canoe and find him.
Eyeing my rain slicker under my seat and paddle tucked under the bow, I stepped into the canoe — or I thought I did. I missed and went flying. All I cared about was saving those cranberries. The cans flew into the canoe, but I didn't. Landing on my back and covered in lake water, I shouted and I can hear myself still: "Ye gods, this water is frigid "¦ freezing, absolutely freezing!"
I thought the end was in sight.
But the sodden but miraculous Irish fisherman's sweater I was wearing did just what it was supposed to do and kept me warm. So that's why the Irish women used this type of wool and knitted these sweaters for their men when they went off to sea.
Those Irish! Those cranberries!
