Blackberry times.

Rich memories and a lifestyle rooted in wild things and places were the legacies of this wonderful couple.

Sometimes tradition is a ritual handed down from generation to generation; sometimes it grows in a wild and out-of-the-way place.

When I moved to the mountains of upstate New York in my 20s, kindred spirits took me under their wing. Dutch and Louise, though in their 70s, were playful, wise, and curious. It seemed that Mother Nature had cast a spell over them, and they responded to her rhythms unaffected by time and convention.

Moving through the woods with ease, they could discern hedgehog quills on a littered forest floor and the place where a deer had bedded down for a nap. They were as much a part of the forest as the chickadees and whitetail deer, and although I had loved the mountains since childhood, I felt that these mountaineers were privy to a magical side of nature of which I had only dreamed.

"This is trailing arbutus, and over there Indian pipes," Dutch would instruct. We identified ginseng and goose-looted maple, and collected butternuts. I found pearly everlasting, painted trillium, and evening primrose. And I never tired of listening to wisdom born generations before me:

"Ash wood wet, ash wood dry, the king will warm his slippers by," and "Buttermilk sky won't leave the ground dry," they would forecast. With eyes sparkling, they showed me bear tracks in the soft earth of the creekbed and nourished my imagination with story after story.

Dutch and Louise never shopped from hi-tech catalogues or traveled to Nepal. Pole, paddle, packbasket, creel--their material possessions were simple, their needs basic. On those rare occasions when they "dressed up," they looked quite ordinary. But in their own element--in the garden, alongside a mountain pond, about the business of country living--they were striking characters.

For garden work Louise wore a straw hat; for cutting or stacking wood, a red bandanna topped her wavy, snow-white hair; and for trout fishing it was a baseball cap. She preferred oversized men's shirts for all seasons, loose-fitting slacks, and thick, white-soled "nurse's shoes." Each ensemble was finished with simple drop earrings and a hearty laugh.

Norman, or "Dutch" as his friends called him, was small of stature and quiet. His clothing was comfortable and well-worn, in muted colors--olive-drab twill work pants and shirts and a faded green cap were his uniform of the day--and from spring to fall he blended with his surroundings as naturally as the fallen leaves and pine needles.

And what a worker! He was a skilled carpenter, master gardener, mechanic, hunter, fisherman, lumberjack, and mountain guide. Although busy from sunup till sundown, he set a peaceful pace. Mostly bald, he was never without his glasses or a kind expression.

He had fallen in love with Louise at first sight. It was easy to see why. She was feisty and fun-loving and could see only the best of possibilities. Deaf since a childhood illness, she carved out a full life. In her teens she was the star of a community basketball team. As a newlywed she worked as a housekeeper. When they adopted a child, Louise positioned the baby at her bedside. With one hand inside the cradle while she slept, she was aware of the slightest vibration.

Whatever she did, she did well. Her reputation as a cook was countywide, and as her many friends and family would attest, she was also a woodswoman extraordinaire. With an ax she would chop and split. Then with the hands of an artisan, she stacked each piece with precision, ensuring that the fit was just so--providing stability as well as ventilation to the woodpile. Sometimes, in the dappled sunlight and shadows of a summer afternoon, she would pause from her chores, coffee mug in hands, to admire the wood-toned mosaic that she and nature had created together.

Born at the beginning of the century, together since the '20s, Dutch and Louise were best friends first, husband and wife second, and a remarkable team. Over the years, they didn't watch the seasons pass; they celebrated them, with a zest for life that was contagious. Spring meant planting and trout fishing. Summer routine held gardening, fishing, woodcutting, and berry picking. Fall was for harvesting, canning and freezing, woodcutting, and a time to prepare. In the northern mountains it is said that there are eight months of winter and four months to get ready. It was a cycle that left little time for counting the years.

When it was time to "get in" wood, Dutch would start up old "Nelly-Bell." I can still hear the engine of that '32 Ford humming and the tire chains ringing. I learned to recognize cherry, ironwood, beech, ash, hard and soft maple, and the difference between gray, yellow, and paper birch. Dutch cut only the culls and deadwood, never wasting a scrap.

"Every little bit added to what you got, always makes a little bit more," he loved to repeat. And as we struggled with those anything but straight pieces, he would add with a chuckle, "This wood's so crooked, it won't lay still."

Their sense of humor was something you could count on. One particularly bitter January, Dutch confided to me that Suzie, their beagle pup, slept curled up on Dutch's bald head at night--and that they were both quite comfortable with the arrangement.

Enjoying every moment, we dug potatoes, canned jams and jellies, and pickled cucumbers. Around their kitchen table at the end of a long day, we savored our friendship along with mouth-watering meals featuring milkweed tops, fiddleheads, dandelion greens, and wild-berry pies. It seemed that our appetites for the outdoors were never satisfied.

The phases of the moon and the temperature foretold when the time was right, and only then would we strap on packbaskets for a harvest of one kind or another. Heading out in the misty near-light of dawn, we'd hike miles over an unmarked trail. After uncovering an old "john boat" hidden some distance from the trail, Dutch would ease it into a pond, where he would row gracefully and tirelessly for hours. Trolling with a special rhythm and using a time-honored technique, we caught brook trout on every visit. And when they were "bitin'" in those dog days of summer, we made that seven-mile trek two or three times a week.

My neighbors fed my passion for the wild, out-of-the-way places, and I learned to reel in trophy-size brook trout, pickle and preserve a summer's bounty, and stack a tidy woodpile. Their bright-eyed view of mountain life was contagious, and in the years of our friendship, they added a rich dimension to my life.

Together in the great outdoors, we were witnesses and participants both. One April morning, with winter seeming to have relinquished its icy hold overnight, we stood in a balmy breeze on a swinging, hand-made bridge and watched in awe as Stony Creek became a raging river of ice floes and uprooted trees. We were together the morning the beaver dam broke in the calm after a storm. In the chill of spring, we stood in the meadow at twilight to hear the first mating songs of the woodcock and the clear ringing of the saw-whet owl. And we stopped from our chores on crisp October afternoons to admire long lines of geese that called from overhead. In my youth and their maturity, we shared our days freely.

For years in late August, as Dutch would put it, we went "up the airy mountain and down the rushy glen." Carrying noisy metal buckets, partly as a precaution, we never knew whether the next thicket would yield blackberries or a 300-pound bear. But after a pleasant exhaustion, we would return home with stained fingers and quarts and quarts of deep purple fruit. At the end of each golden summer, as I preserved a winter's supply of berries, I stored away rich memories as well.

My children have heard of those excursions, and they shiver at the thought of picking berries where black bears shop for fruit. But now they too carry buckets and wear pricker-resistant clothes and bravely wade armpit deep through thorns and burdocks to find the juicy big ones where they're always hidden--under leaves and beyond slippery logs. But they haven't yet experienced the heart-pounding exhilaration that accompanies a ruffed grouse exploding into the air within a yard of your next footstep. "Hold onto your berry bucket," Dutch would warn with a grin.

Often when I'm alone in those mountains, echoes of long ago voices are like melodies. I hear Louise's laughter, a sound as beautiful as the music of the waterfall behind her cabin. I picture a woman playful as a freckled fawn, with a determination as inspiring as a North wind roaring across the pine-covered peaks, and I hear Dutch speaking his quiet wisdom.

In the secluded mountains of Hamilton County, within the "Blue Line" of Adirondack Park, the Putnam place still stands, just a short hike from my home. As summer's vibrant days begin to mellow and the birds' ambitious morning symphony dwindles to a simple tune, I celebrate blackberry times. The aroma of sun-baked pine needles and summer-warmed soil, the cry of the hawk and the wildflower-decorated landscape are woven into the fabric of my life. And when my family and I roam those mountain meadows and forgotten logging roads in search of a last taste of summer, I carry my metal bucket and memories of Dutch and Louise.

Donne Green lives in Hope Falls, New York, within the "Blue Line" of Adirondack Park, and writes most often about life in the "woods."