Around the tenth mile of any hiking trip, I start pining for a blackberry milkshake. Whether I’m trudging along the last stretch of a winding, dusty trail through sagebrush, reaching out now and then to run my fingers through the dry, tall grass cracking in the heat; or descending a glacier with an ice ax in one hand and my crampons jingling in my backpack while each step kicks up snow and I have to squint against the sun-blazing snow; or whether I’m plodding through mud and shoelace-deep puddles as a downpour thunders on my hood and soaks through my jacket, wool shirt, and long underwear—it doesn’t matter. I want a blackberry milkshake. Never chocolate, or vanilla, or peanut-butter-marshmellow-huckleberry. Always blackberry.
Blackberries: A Love Song
