Good Blood, Bad Blood

“No matter where you go, there you are.”

Anonymous

We arrived first. Clear skies and morning calm portended a hot day. We waited. Montavon’s Farm sits on a plateau atop Trout Creek Ridge. It’s near the small community of Parkdale in Hood River’s upper valley. Mighty Mt. Hood commands the view to the south. West and adjacent to the farm is Red Hill. Its lower slopes are draped with lava beds from a volcanic eruption 7,000 years ago.

One of my homespun ballads features the geography of this plateau. It’s a country lament inspired by the alluring beauty of home. Beauty, which may tip toward regret if taken for granted.

So it goes: with most lives there are points in time where pivotal decisions present themselves. To leave, to stay, to marry or not … The direction of one’s journey through the maze of destiny may be determined by a single choice. Hope, doubt, or affirmation become inevitable. What is yours? Do you have one?

I can recall my own point of inflection. I’m 76. Yet, where I’ve been and why I was parked at that moment in time on the grass of Montavon’s U-pick berry farm is because of a decision I made when I was in my early 20s. For others, it may not be so easy to discern a particular date. But, for me, the turning point is clear.

At Montavons, my wife and I were joined by our youngest son’s family. It’s become something of a tradition to pick blueberries together each July. The grandkids love the family outing. The fresh air, the sunshine, and the musky fragrance of the the crushed berries underfoot combine to offset the work of harvesting. The kids eat nearly as many berries as they pick. Afterwards, their cheeks are stained purple. 

We have different ideas about the best method to fill your bucket. I gently roll the berries off with my thumbs. Others prefer the phrase of teasing them from the stems. My grandkids think of tickling the berries. They imagine chuckling marbles of plump sweet fruit. 

I’ve known the farm’s patriarch for over 40 years. He and I worked together at the Hood River Post Office. He made a choice. He took a chance. He started small and learned the business a step at a time. As the years passed he added 20 acres of land contiguous to his homestead. Little by little his patient work ethic led to a prosperous farm. It is now managed by his son and daughter-in-law.

Within the rows, it’s humid. Mornings are best. You want to reap your bounty before the sun is high. Fortunately, a gentle breeze arose. On successive weekends it helped cool us during the tedious work.

U-pick is $2.75-3.25 a pound. Together, we managed to fill our buckets with 100 pounds of fresh blueberries. Most of what we pick is frozen to provide treats throughout the year.

The Hood River Valley is a virtual cornucopia of fruit and vegetables. Farmer’s markets begin in April. Then, in July, it’s blueberries and cherries. Peaches soon follow. In late summer the clatter of orchard ladders fills the air. Apples and pears ripen. Hood River’s reputation as an agricultural mecca grew with these fruits. Nowadays, the fall harvest is more diverse. With autumn comes pumpkins and grapes. The development of vineyards coincided with the explosion of water sports on the Columbia River.

We moved to the valley in 1978. We took a chance. We have no regrets. We made a good choice.