Often mistaken for a wild cousin of the insipid blueberry, huckleberries hide high in the Rocky Mountains and bring out devotees with buckets when they ripen every August. Montanans hunt huckleberries like the French hunt truffles, except the berries are much easier to find and we don’t use pigs. Come the first couple weeks of August, when the berries at lowest elevations are already plump and purple, we bump our cars up seldom-used roads to sniff out our favourite varieties: intensely-flavored large, deep blue berries; tiny, purple-black ones that have a hint of raspberry; and the dusky red berries, full of sweetness. Like greedy baby bears, we sit on pine needles, pawing the heavy bushes for berries.

Huckleberry-picking might sound like a sweet anachronism (think berrying parties in early 1800s England), but if you want huckleberries you’ve got to either pay through the nose for someone else to gather them, or get out and pick them yourself. Unless a Montanan is desperate or ignorant, gathering your own is the only option. All attempts to domesticate the huckleberry have so far failed. It only grows wild.

A day of picking buckets of huckleberries for my mother to freeze, preserve, and make into jams and pies is a scene that punctuates my childhood: sitting or kneeling in a silent forest, occasionally passing comments with my sisters or parents, the plink as a bucket first starts to fill and the dull plop as the level of purple rises. The pounding heart as I came, now and then, face-to-face with a palm-sized spider sitting placidly in the middle of a perfect web.

To reward — or, more accurately, bribe — us for spending a day performing what at the time seemed dull labor, my parents ended the midday picnic with a favorite meal: huckleberry sandwiches. We spread my father’s homemade bread with fresh butter, and layered huckleberries with sugar on top. The sugar dissolved, creating a sweet, tangy juice that the bread soaked up. I haven’t had one of those in years, but recently I took a bite of my niece’s huckleberry-sprinkled Frosted Flakes and the flavor came rushing back.

Visitors to Montana can buy fresh berries from roadside stands. If you’re just interested in huckleberry products (jam, ice cream, milkshakes, syrup, pancakes), Western Montana restaurants and stands overflow with these items during the short berry season. If you are anywhere near Glacier National Park, however, you must make the effort to visit The Huckleberry Patch. Located in the almost-not-there town of Hungry Horse between Glacier Park and Columbia Falls, it’s been the household name in huckleberry products since 1949. Almost 20 years I’ve been stopping off there for a post-mountain-climb huckleberry milkshake and have still had none better.

If you’re lucky, you might find a local willing to show you a huckleberry patch where you can eat until your lips are stained blue. That’s what I did recently when we were visiting Montana. There are no secrets about the huckleberry bounty on Big Mountain, the ski mountain in Whitefish, Montana. Hiking the 3.8-mile Danny-On trail up to the summit house on top, you can’t help but stop and pick handfuls of berries if you know what they look like. If you don’t, just ask one of the many families dotting the slopes filling buckets for their freezers. As one tourist from Texas told me in passing, “So that’s what they’re doing. All I could see all over the hill is all these butts sticking up in the air.” Indeed.

Like many people, I used to think huckleberries were simply a wild version of blueberries. However, I recently found out that they are in fact a different genus, which might explain the vast difference in taste. Huckleberries are more closely related to what’s known as whortleberries or bilberries in England. A dwarf red whortleberry (often called grouse berry or grouse whortleberry where I’m from) is often found growing near huckleberries. They are mini little shrubs with red berries to tiny they’re almost unnoticeable (grouse whortleberry is what’s pictured here, huckleberry at the top of the post). But if you have the patience, it’s worth gathering a handful. The flavor is intense and fresh, somewhat like a huckleberry, in fact, but more concentrated.

Gathering wild berries allows the nature visitor a curious sort of deep satisfaction. When I picked my container on Big Mountain, I was reveling in the delicious desert and breakfast the household would be eating out of it, while at the same time feeding on the nostalgia of long quiet days gathering berries with my family in the woods. Beyond that, there was the gleeful human survival instinct. I had found not just taste, and something rare, but something to eat: wild food, there, free, for any of us to eat and sustain ourselves, living in some sort of harmony with the land we’re walking on.

Sometimes change requires a little rant. In this case, change over an obscure and confusing position taken by Delta Airlines, which is currently sucking Northwest into its maw (or vice versa).

I thought it was a fluke last May. I thought I was mis-hearing, that I was too distracted traveling alone with a toddler to catch the announcement. But this time I know what I heard, and I asked to make certain.

Delta Airlines now boards First Class passengers and Elite members before calling families and people in wheelchairs. This policy, which they have every right to pursue, makes me just a little sick.

Some of you might think it doesn’t matter so much. But try it sometime, being a parent or parents herding small children and babies, with all the damn strollers, diaper bags, car seats, sippy cups, beloved and droppable toys, and life-saving crackers onto a sardine can of a plane and hoping nobody goes too crazy.

Or try being in a wheelchair, disabled or shaky or injured or elderly, it doesn’t matter. You need a little extra time to maneuver and manage yourself and your things, and personally I’d prefer it without a lot of already seated, buckled, iPod-listening people rolling their eyes at the minor delay I’m causing them.

I might not like flying with my toddler so much, but there’s relief when I can finally herd him into the airplane and stop chasing him several miles all over the airport while trying to squeeze in water bottle filling and — heaven forbid — time to pee. At least once he’s on the plane he’s contained and sometimes even entertained.

Delta might not have thought much about this decision before they acted on it. Maybe they were trying to please their frequent flyers and higher paying customers in a shaky financial time. I get that.

But the message it sends is clear: If you’re traveling with kids, or need extra help or time getting on the plane for any reason, we don’t care about you. Unless you’re rich. Or working for a rich company.

It doesn’t matter that this message is unintended. Every other airline that I know of asks families, people in wheelchairs, or “anyone who needs a little extra time” to board the airplane first. And I’m sure Delta used to, too. There’s a good reason for it. Because these people need a little extra time.

The policies of several US airlines have been confusing me recently, but Delta’s above all. There was the flight attendant who told me, kindly, that I wasn’t allowed to use the Ergo carrier while in flight, and definitely never during takeoff and landing. Sorry? How else am I meant to keep a small person who doesn’t understand “sit down and shush” still?

Which reminds me of my shock when I found that no US airline seems to provide infant seat belt extenders for children riding on an adult’s lap. “You just hold him,” said a flight attendant. “No, you can’t put the seat belt around him.” When I flew British Airways with John at 8 months old, I was required to attach an extra seat belt for him. To me, “just hold him” makes about as much sense on an airplane as it does in a speeding car: none.

And then there’s the new enforcement of an odd rule that forbids passengers from using the seat pocket in front of them as a storage unit. “The pocket is not for your personal items,” one flight attendant announced. What the hell else is it for? Sure, I can see some people might overstuff it, but a small water bottle and a trade paperback? Take out the idiotic SkyMall catalog and there’d be room for plenty.

What really makes me laugh now, though, is the specific position in which you’re meant to hold a child riding in your lap during take-off and landing: they must sit quietly in your lap, sideways, with one of your arms half-hugging them and the other hand pressing a head against your shoulder. You try it, I want to tell them every time, with a wiggly, fussy, extremely strong toddler. I’ve received no less than 8 instructions on this position by now, and each time the attendant walks off, the occupants of all surrounding aisles turn toward me, roll their eyes, and whisper, “They have no idea what they’re talking about.”

Whoever makes these rules must not have children. I understand safety, but safety is a moot point when its directions are impossible to follow.

Not impossible would be to show respect to people who need more time to get on a plane. To many healthy young people traveling alone, it might not matter, but to me the preference shown for First Class passengers while letting families and wheelchairs and everyone else join the herd smacks deeply of injustice. And stupidity. Because as of Saturday I’m going to be paying for my son’s seats. And they won’t be on Delta.

If you haven’t already checked out this month’s articles over at Perceptive Travel’s online magazine, this weekend might be a good time to do so.

The three new travel articles are a mixed bag and definitely worth reading.

 Perceptive Travel editor Tim Leffel looks at Atomic Tourism in Tennessee and New Mexico, exploring the convoluted and complex histories of Oak Ridge, Tennessee (also known as “America’s Original Gated Community.”) and Los Alamos, New Mexico.

Regular contributor Edward Readicker-Henderson has an Untitled Story from Asolo, Italy. What appears to be a strange title becomes crystal clear as you read this multifaceted story about dealing with your own mortality and others in a small town in Italy.

And new contributor Eliot Stein debuts with Running with Faith, an entertaining  story of an American Quaker doing the annual Corsa degli Scalzi,  (the barefoot pilgrimage run) in Sardinia.

Plus as usual, there’s a roundup of New World Music Reviews guaranteed to get your feet tapping.

And don’t forget, if you’re a newsletter subscriber, you’re in with a chance for this month’s giveaway, one of two handmade sterling silver Wallet Pens.  Tim apparently swears by them which is a good enough recommendation for me. Of course, in order to win, you have to read the newsletter and answer a question or two. 

Not a newspaper subscriber? Then head on over and sign up.

When I was 16 I got my first job. Not that I hadn’t worked before — babysitting and light housecleaning had been standard since I was about 8 — but this was the first one that required a time sheet and a paycheck and Social Security contributions. I worked at a place called Belton Chalet Dining Room, at that time a dusty and rundown antique building that missed being overrun by hungry visitors by planting itself on the highway just past the main entrance to Glacier National Park. There was also the risk of food poisoning, but most tourists wouldn’t have known about that. (For liability’s sake: Belton Chalet is now run by completely different owners and is reportedly a fun place to hang out with excellent food.)

Waiting tables and microwaving “baked” potatoes, I worked alongside a 19-year-old girl who had come from out of nowhere and was unclear about what she was doing next. Three years my senior, Amy taught me how to smoke pot, drink tequila, and lived with a sort of fierce independence that kept me in awe of her. There are a lot of stories about that summer that possibly changed the course of my life in small ways, but one of the least important was a conversation that for no particular reason has always stuck with me.

Amy hadn’t planned on staying in Montana. She was on a road trip from her home in Oregon to the home of a friend on the East Coast, where she planned on staying for the summer before heading off to Africa to travel. She and her friend had been forced to stop driving on Going-to-the-Sun Road in Glacier National Park because its tight curves and precipitous drops were too perilous to drive on a dark night in thick fog. They wedged the car into one of the scenic overlooks that I rarely park on because I’m scared my car will just tip over the edge, and in the morning they woke up to a clear sunrise and a view that, in ancient times, may have caused a person to fall on their knees and worship whatever gods roamed their imaginations. “When I saw that view,” Amy said, “I knew I had to stay.” I knew how she felt.

Going-to-the-Sun is the only road that cuts through Glacier National Park, from the domineering Rocky Mountains looming immediately overhead on the western side to where the Rockies’ foothills spill out onto the the prairie and the Two Medicine geological formation. Most people drive it with either a sense of thrill and abandonment (these people are known as nutcases, akin to taxi drivers whipping you down the corniches on the Cote d’Azur to see if they can give you a heart attack), or with white knuckles and short breath (that’s the rest of us).

The road was carved and blasted out of the mountainsides, an engineering feat few would consider today because the expense would never pay off. But in the 1930s men were desperate for work and grand civic projects were popular. Pictures can never do it justice; you have to drive it yourself. Barely over 16 feet wide, Going-to-the-Sun doesn’t exactly hug the plunging mountains: it’s more like seeing a rock climber inch up a sheer cliff face, handhold by foothold, wondering how on earth they stay put and waiting every moment for the miracle to collapse.

In other words, we drive this road only at the whim of the mountains and the weather.

Nearly a century has passed since three men died to give tenuous automobile access to a view of Glacier that finally explains its nickname “Crown of the Continent.” The low rock walls that station gangs painstakingly cemented together began slipping and crumbling years ago, bit by bit. They’re the only things keeping cars from careening spectacularly over the edge.

Over the past few years, the National Park Service has begun to repair it, also bit by bit and likely at enormous expense. Half-hour delays in traffic are common during daytime peak hours (four-hour delays at night) while earth movers and construction crews edge their way around a terrain you’d hardly want to revolve a bicycle in. There’s nowhere for impatient drivers to pass on an edge, or even to turn around in disgust. Some curves are so tight I wonder how large SUVs don’t scrape their sides. As it is, no vehicles over 21 feet long are allowed on the road, nor any over 8 feet wide (including mirrors), and those over 10 feet high are discouraged due to low rock overhangs.

I used to be terrified of heights, and only drove Going-to-the-Sun under duress, never moving my eyes an inch from the road, and refusing to drive it at night. That fear has abated somewhat, but keeping a bit around on this drive is, I think, healthy. When I took my husband up to Logan Pass (the highest point at 6646 feet) this week I marveled at the nonchalance of construction crews dangling their feet over the ledges during a lunch break, and remembered to take deep breaths. It’s worth it, every time, for access to some of the best hiking and mountain-climbing trails in the park, and for the view that grabs you by the throat.

Watching the construction, though, I wondered how long this road can continue. At some point rockslides and avalanches will shave enough inches off the edge that only small cars will be able to get through — whittling down to admit a Smart car, a horse, a donkey, and finally the path will be left only to the mountain goats and small creatures who always owned it in the first place. Unless, of course, the Park Service continues to invest in its upkeep. I am sure they will for many decades to come, but part of me wonders how quickly, if left alone, this paved intrusion will slip and crumble into its natural state. For now, it allows us access under proud sufferance.

(Watch a short video clip of driving down Going-to-the-Sun here.)

In my last post about Whitefish, Montana, which I’m currently visiting, I recommended a number of places to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The list included Pollo Grille, which unfortunately turns out to be closed. A pity, as it was a great place to go for a special dinner.

However, Lisa Jones from Whitefish commented and had a couple other recommendations instead. Try out Pescado Blanco, she says, or Wasabi Sushi Bar and Ginger Grille. Pescado is a Mexican fusion restaurant gathering its cuisine from the geographical stretch including Southern Mexico and Northwestern Montana. The menu includes taquitos and and Mexican Caesar salad, but also beet soup. And Food & Wine magazine says the Wasabi Bar’s “Montana rolls (smoked rainbow trout with mountain whitefish caviar) are not to be missed.”

And for purely selfish reasons I chose not to include the Great Northern Bar & Grill. It’s always been one of my favorite places for a cold Moose Drool after a long day of hiking and some years ago I got tired of tourists invading the real local hangout because they’d read in the guidebooks that it was a “real local hangout.” But for a grungy-looking bar, it’s surprisingly family friendly and smoke-free. Kids are more than welcome, when accompanied by parents, and the afternoon to evening time reverberates with families playing pool and ping-pong in the games room. Menu is standard burgers, fries, etc., but they’re tasty and reasonably priced and especially satisfying when accompanied by beer and consumed in the ivy-covered outdoor patio.