Summer in Northwestern Ontario is a glorious time for a forager. June brings long daylight hours, the hum of life returning after winter, and the forest offering up its first tender treats of the year. By July, the woods and meadows are in full swing – berries burst from sunlit clearings, mushrooms peek after warm rains, and wild herbs scent the air. In this post, I’ll walk you through what I (an avid homesteader and forager) look for in June and July, sharing personal tips on identification, foraging notes, and safety for each plant or wild food. So grab your basket (and bug spray!), and let’s wander into the bush together.

Before We Begin: Foraging Safely and Responsibly

Foraging is about both enjoyment and respect – for nature, for your own safety, and for others (human or animal) who rely on these wild foods. Here are a few ground rules I live by:

• Know Your Plants: Positively identify everything before you pick or eat it. When in doubt, leave it be. Use field guides or local experts to confirm finds. Some wild edibles have toxic look-alikes, so take the time to learn the differences. Safety first, always.

• Harvest Ethically: Never take all you find. A good rule is to harvest no more than 10% of a patch. Leave plenty for the plant to recover, for wildlife to eat, and for other foragers. On my outings, I often repeat the mantra, “some for me, some for the woods.” It keeps me honest!

• Mind the Law (and the Land): Make sure you have permission if you’re on private property, and be aware of regulations in parks or protected areasLuckily, Northwestern Ontario has loads of Crown land where personal foraging is allowed, but it’s on us to know where we stand.

• Avoid Contaminated Areas: I avoid picking plants next to busy roads, sprayed fields, or polluted sites. Plants and mushrooms can absorb toxins from their environment, so choose clean locations for harvesting. That vibrant dandelion by the highway or those cattails in a runoff ditch? Better to skip them.

• Stay Safe Outdoors: In summer, we share the bush with black bears, moose, and armies of mosquitoes and blackflies. I carry bear spray or make noise when berry-picking in dense bush (bears love berries as much as we do – a black bear can gobble 30,000 berries in a day! Dress for bugs, let someone know where you’re going, and carry water. Foraging should be fun, and a bit of preparation goes a long way.

With those basics covered, let’s dive into the seasonal bounty! I’ll break it down by month, since nature’s offerings change quickly as the weather warms. In June, we enjoy the tail-end of spring’s offerings and the first taste of summer. By July, the buffet really explodes. Each entry below includes how I identify the plant, notes from my foraging adventures, and important safety or ethics tips. Ready? Let’s head into the bush.

June Foraging

June in Northwestern Ontario is a time of new growth and first fruits. The forest floor is lush and green, wildflowers bloom, and the first berries start to peek out. The mosquitoes are certainly out in force too (I won’t sugarcoat it – a head net and smoky campfire are my best friends in early summer!). Despite the bugs, June is one of my favorite times to wander. Everything feels fresh and hopeful. Here are some wild foods I seek out in June:

Spruce Tips – A Citrus Burst from the Evergreens

If you see spruce trees in early summer, you’ll notice the bright lime-green spruce tips at the ends of branches. These are the soft new needles of the spruce (white spruce and black spruce are common up here). Identification is straightforward: look for clusters of fresh, tender needles lighter in color than the older dark green needles. They’re soft to the touch and break off easily. I often nibble one straight off the branch – the taste is like a Christmas tree with a twist of lemon! Indeed, spruce tips are high in vitamin C and have a mildly piney, citrus flavor. Native peoples have used them for generations as a scurvy remedy and spring tonic.

When foraging spruce tips, I usually gather from various trees, taking just a few from each so as not to stunt the tree’s growth. A little goes a long way. I might collect a small jar full and later steep them into a tea or syrup. One of my early summer rituals is making a simple spruce tip sun-tea: just a handful of tips in a jar of water left in the sun. It’s refreshing over ice after a day of working in the garden. Safety note: All our native spruces (and pines and firs) have edible needles, so there are no deadly look-alikes in the conifer category. Just be sure you’re not picking off yew or something (yew is not common wild here, and it has different, broad needle leaves). Also, don’t boil spruce needles; steep them in hot water instead to preserve vitamin contentAnd as always, avoid trees right beside roads or sprayed areas to keep things as pure as possible.

On a personal note, harvesting spruce tips in June makes me feel like a kid raiding nature’s candy store. The first time I gave my husband a spruce tip to chew, he looked skeptical but then his eyes lit up at the unexpected orange-like zing. Now he asks every year if I’ve “got any of that spruce tip stuff” for his summer cocktails. Little does he know how good it is for him too!

Wild Rose Petals – Floral Snacks with a Side of Caution

The wild roses in our region (usually prickly wild rose and pasture rose) begin blooming in late June. You’ll know them by their sweet scent drifting through sunny clearings and roadside thickets. Identification is easy: wild roses have those classic pink five-petaled flowers about the size of a toonie (or larger), and of course, the stems have prickles (thorns) – careful when reaching! The leaves are pinnate (multiple leaflets on a stem) and toothed. I often smell a wild rose patch before I see it. They tend to grow along forest edges or old logging roads where they get plenty of sun.

I love to pluck a few rose petals and nibble them or toss them into a salad. The taste is as lovely as the smell – subtly sweet and perfumed. For a fun trailside snack, I sometimes make “rose petal sandwiches” by folding a petal around a few wild blueberries (when they’re in season) – a tiny floral taco! Aside from eating fresh, I also dry rose petals for tea. A cup of wild rose petal tea in the middle of winter, with a bit of honey, instantly brings me back to June. Some folks candy them or make syrups and jellies (I’ll leave the recipes for another time, but trust me, they’re divine).

Safety and ethics: Make sure any rose petals you forage haven’t been sprayed with pesticides (common along some road crews or if near farms). I only gather from areas I know are wild and clean. Also, take petals sparingly – each rose will turn into a rosehip later in summer, and those hips (orange-red berry-like balls) are valuable food for wildlife and a great source of vitamin C for us (rosehip tea, anyone?). I usually take a petal or two from a flower and leave the rest so that the plant can go to seed. Watch out for look-alikes like wild peony or other pink flowers – actually, not much truly looks like a rose up close, especially if you check for thorns and the characteristic rose scent. Still, if it doesn’t smell rosy or the petals aren’t in that single-row-of-five arrangement, double-check. And as always, watch those thorns! I have come home more than once with scratched arms after reaching too zealously into a rose thicket because I had to get the perfect bloom.

Red Clover – Sweet Blossoms for Tea and Trail

Those little purple-pink puffballs dotting the June meadows? That’s red clover, an unsung hero of wild edibles. Red clover (which actually looks more purple) is common in pastures, ditches, and any grassy open area. Identification: look for a round flower head comprised of many tiny pea-like purple petals, sitting atop a stalk with three-part leaves. The leaves often have a pale chevron marking. If you’ve ever made a wish on a four-leaf clover, you know the general look – though red clover is taller and showier than the lawn shamrock type. Chances are, if you have a rural homestead like me, you have clover growing everywhere nearby.

As a kid, I learned from my grandmother that you can suck the nectar out of clover flowers. We’d pick the flower heads and pull them apart, and indeed there’s a drop of sweetness at the base of each tiny floret. Nowadays, I’m more likely to pluck a whole flower head and nibble it. The taste is mildly sweet and grassy. In June, they’re young and tender; by later summer they can get brown or tough. Red clover makes a lovely herbal tea – I collect the blossoms and dry them. A jar of dried clover is a staple in my winter pantry, since I find the tea soothing (some say it has health benefits for colds and such, being high in vitamins and minerals).

When harvesting clover, I usually pinch off the flower heads, or sometimes include a few leaves. Bees love them, so I always leave plenty (you can literally hear the meadow buzzing on a warm June afternoon). In fact, safety note: look before you grab, because a bee might be busy on that bloom! Clover has no dangerous look-alikes that I’ve encountered – white clover is very similar and also edible, just smaller. One thing to note: people on blood-thinning medication are sometimes cautioned about consuming a lot of clover (it contains coumarins), but for a casual snack and tea it’s perfectly fine. As with any new wild food, moderation is a good idea at first. Personally, I’ve never had an issue, and I drink clover tea off and on all year.

Field note: Clover is abundant in my goat pasture, so much so that when I walk out there in June my boots turn yellow from all the pollen. The goats ignore the blossoms (picky eaters, go figure), so I often collect a basketful while I’m out checking the fence. It’s a peaceful evening routine, and I’ve come to associate the faint honey-like aroma of clover with those calm sunset hours. If you’re out hiking and need a quick nibble, a clover head or two is like a little piece of candy from Mother Nature.

Wild Strawberries – Tiny Treasures of Early Summer

Come mid-June, I start scanning the ground for little red jewels – wild strawberries. These are nothing like store-bought berries; they’re tinier (often the size of a fingernail), but pack an intense flavor that’s like strawberry essence on overdrive. In Northwest Ontario, wild strawberries (Fragaria virginiana) carpet sunny clearings, meadow edges, and even sandy road embankments. Identification is straightforward: look for the trifolate leaves (3-part strawberry leaves with serrated edges) low to the ground, and white five-petaled flowers in spring. By June, the flowers give way to red berries often hiding underneath the leaves. The berries have the telltale strawberry seeds on their surface, just like domestic ones, only these berries are usually much softer and juicier (if very ripe, they’ll squish between your fingers as you pick them – not that I mind licking strawberry juice off my hands!).

Early summer hikes always turn into strawberry-picking sessions for me. I’ll spot one, then another, and suddenly I’m crouched down, carefully lifting leaves to find more. They tend to hide under the foliage and at the edges of grass clumps. In good years, by late June you can find them everywhere. According to local phenology, wild strawberries sometimes start as early as the beginning of June, are abundant in July, and can stick around into August if conditions are right. Around here, I find the peak is end of June to mid-July. I have vivid memories of one Saint-Jean-Baptiste Day (June 24) where I sat on a warm rock outcrop stuffing myself with wild strawberries that were carpeting the area. The smell alone – sweet, summery, with that wild hint – is something you never forget.

Foraging notes: be patient and gentle when harvesting these. They’re often too soft to tug; I kind of roll them off the stem with my fingers. More often than not, they never make it into a container – I eat them as I pick. One for the basket, two for me… or truthfully, none for the basket, all for me! If I do gather enough to bring home, I like to sprinkle them on yogurt or just eat with cream. They are a rare treat – it takes a lot of tiny berries to fill you up. That’s part of why I cherish them; they’re nature’s reminder to slow down and savor.

Safety-wise, wild strawberries are very safe with no poisonous look-alike. There is a thing called mock strawberry (Duchesnea/Potentilla) in other parts of the world which has yellow flowers and tasteless red berries, but we don’t really have those up here. If it looks like a strawberry and has that heavenly smell, you’ve got the real deal. Just be sure the patch hasn’t been sprayed by someone (for example, occasionally folks try to poison “weeds” on their rural property – tragically that might include innocent strawberry plants). Also wash or at least blow off any dirt; these grow low and can be dusty. But honestly, I often eat them straight off the ground – maybe with a casual shirt wipe if I’m feeling prim. The biggest “hazard” with wild strawberries is that you’ll lose track of time and end up with a sore back from hunching over to pick them. I speak from experience – but it’s so worth it.

One more tip: keep an eye out for critter sign. If you see lots of tiny nibbled strawberry tops or berry bits, it means the chipmunks, mice, or birds have been feasting. They’re competition for these gems, and they usually win! I often get up early to beat the critters to the patch, dew-soaked boots be damned.

Lamb’s Quarters – The “Weed” That’s Better Than Spinach

Not all foraging in June happens deep in the woods – some of it happens right in my messy garden or around the barnyard. Case in point: lamb’s quarters (also called wild spinach or goosefoot). This humble plant is a common “weed” in disturbed soils, gardens, compost piles, and anywhere there’s rich soil with a bit of shade. Identification: Lamb’s quarters has green leaves that are kind of diamond or goose-foot shaped (hence the name goosefoot), often with a white powdery coating on the underside or near the growing tips. The leaves sometimes have a reddish or purplish tinge on the stem. The plant can grow 1–3 feet tall and eventually gets a greenish flower spike that’s pretty nondescript. If you rub the leaf, that white powder will come off on your fingers like a fine flour. To me, the leaves also have a slightly velvety feel.

On my homestead, lamb’s quarters pop up in my carrot rows and along the manure pile. Many gardeners ruthlessly pull them – I gleefully harvest them. Why? They are incredibly nutritious, arguably more so than cultivated spinach. Lamb’s quarters are packed with vitamins (A, C, K) and minerals like iron and calcium. More importantly to me – they taste good! The young leaves and tender stems in June are mild and reminiscent of spinach or chard, with maybe a hint of nuttiness. I use them raw in salads or sandwiches, and I cook them like any green. A quick sauté with garlic and butter, and you have a side dish that would put store spinach to shame. I’ve even made pesto from lamb’s quarter leaves – it was one of those “use what you have” experiments that turned out delicious.

Foraging (or rather, weeding) notes: I usually harvest in the morning when the plants are perky. I pinch or cut off the top clusters of leaves, which encourages side growth (meaning I can come back and harvest again in a couple weeks). If a plant is very dusty or has been visited by pets or livestock (you know what I mean), I give it a wash or just find a cleaner specimen. Safety: Lamb’s quarters has a few relatives like pigweed (Amaranthus) or nightshade seedlings that some might confuse it with if new to plants. But pigweed/amaranth leaves are usually not white-dusted and have different flowers; nightshade seedlings have more egg-shaped leaves and often a purple hue and must not be eaten. Once you see lamb’s quarter a few times, it’s quite distinctive. Also, lamb’s quarters (like spinach and chard) is high in oxalic acid – so people with kidney issues or prone to kidney stones shouldn’t overdo it raw. I typically eat it in moderation raw and cook it to reduce oxalates. Cooking or blanching also removes any slight bitterness in older leaves.

Ethically, I don’t worry about overharvesting this one – it’s so abundant and frankly invasive that using it up is doing your garden a favor. In fact, I often joke that this is the universe’s way of giving free food to gardeners. You plant one crop (like lettuce) and nature gifts you another (wild spinach) right alongside it. Can’t complain about that! Just be sure if you’re foraging lamb’s quarters outside your own garden that it’s not in a sprayed area. In towns, people sometimes spray “weeds” along fences – you don’t want those. Otherwise, enjoy what many overlook. One person’s weed is another’s supper.

Cattail Shoots – Wild “Asparagus” of the Marsh

If you venture near marshes, ponds, or lake edges in early summer, you can hardly miss the cattails. They’re those tall, grass-like plants with the brown cigar-shaped seed heads that appear later in summer. Early in the season, cattails don’t have the brown tops yet – they’re green and the flowering parts might be green or yellow with pollen (more on that in a sec). Two common species here are broadleaf cattail (Typha latifolia) and narrowleaf cattail (Typha angustifolia), but both are used similarly. Identification: long flat blade-like leaves emerging from a rhizome in mud, typically in colonies. If you grab the center of a young cattail and tug gently, you can often pull up a cattail shoot – a tender, white inner core that’s amazingly crisp and mild. This shoot is sometimes dubbed “Cossack asparagus,” and for good reason: you can eat it raw or cooked and it has a mild cucumber-crossed-with-corn flavor.

To harvest cattail shoots, I wade a bit into the mucky edge (old sneakers or rubber boots recommended!). I select young cattails that are about 2-3 feet tall. Grasp low and pull up – the shoot slips out from the basal sheath. Peel off the fibrous outer leaves, and you’ll get to the white inner stalk, maybe 6-12 inches long, about as thick as a finger. This is the prize. I often rinse it in the water right there, then take a bite. It’s pleasantly crunchy and refreshing on a hot day. You can also bring a bunch home, chop them into salads or stir-fries. They remind me of hearts of palm or artichoke stem in texture.

In June, another forageable part of cattail appears: cattail pollen. If you see a yellow dust coating the tops of the cattails when the wind blows, that’s pollen – a high-protein wild flour substitute. The top of the cattail has a spike; when mature, you can shake it into a bag to collect pollen. I’ll admit, collecting cattail pollen is fiddly and you need a lot for significant flour, so I only do it occasionally for fun (and bright yellow pancakes!). Still, it’s a neat wild food footnote. Mostly, I go for the shoots.

Safety and ethics: Cattails are incredibly nutritious and were staple survival food for many indigenous peoples and pioneers (rhizomes can be processed into flour too). But they’re also nature’s water filters. That means if the water or mud is polluted (think industrial runoff or heavy farm fertilizer areas), the plants may contain nasty stuff. So only harvest cattails from clean wetlands. I avoid any near cities or downstream of mining/agriculture activity. In our pristine northern lakes, I feel good about gathering a few. Also, mind your footing – wetlands can have deep mud or unstable footing. I’ve gotten a soaker or two when a “solid” patch of grass was actually a quagmire. Take a friend if you’re going off-shore.

No real look-alike concerns with cattail shoots – they’re pretty distinct. One plant called wild iris or blue flag can grow in similar marshes and has sword-like leaves, but once you know cattails you won’t mix them up (and iris won’t have that onion-like layered shoot). Still, if you see pretty purple iris-like flowers, that’s not cattail. Cattail flowers are green turning brown and are on the same stalk as a spike. Just in case, wait for flowering if you’re unsure; or better, go with an experienced eye first time.

Oh, and remember that removing plants from some protected wetlands might be illegal – so again, check regulations if in a park. On Crown land or private property with permission, reasonable harvest of common cattails is fine. I usually just take a few shoots from each stand and leave the majority untouched. Cattails spread like crazy, but all the same, wetlands are sensitive habitat. Plus, many animals (muskrats, ducks) use cattails, and red-winged blackbirds love to nest in them. I often get scolded by a territorial blackbird if I linger too long in “his” marsh – he’ll dive-bomb within inches of my head! So I harvest and then politely bid the marsh residents adieu.

Labrador Tea – Boreal Brew (But Handle with Care)

In the peaty bogs and damp conifer woods of the North, you’ll find a low shrub with leathery leaves and a spicy smell – this is Labrador tea (Rhododendron groenlandicum). It’s one of my favorite wild teas, and June is a perfect time to identify it because it often has showy white flower clusters then. Identification: Labrador tea is an evergreen shrub, usually one to two feet tall. Its leaves are thick, leathery, lance-shaped, with edges that curl under. Crucially, check the underside of the leaves – Labrador tea has fuzzy, woolly orange-brown fuzz underneath mature leaves (younger leaves may have whitish fuzz). The top of the leaf is deep green and shiny, underside rusty wool. The plant’s white flowers come in umbrella-like clusters and have a gentle, slightly medicinal fragrance.

If you crush a leaf, you get a strong aromatic smell – some describe it as medicinal or “foresty.” I quite like it. I gather a few leaves (not too many, the plant is slow-growing) and later steep them in hot (not boiling) water for a lovely herbal tea that tastes a bit like a mild black tea with a piney twist. It’s rich in vitamin C and has traditionally been used as a tonic and to treat colds by Indigenous communities (hence one of its nicknames, “trapper’s tea”). I personally enjoy a cup in the evening; it has a calming effect on me.

Now, important safety notes for Labrador tea. First, it has a couple of wicked look-alikes in the wild: bog laurel (Kalmia) and bog rosemary (Andromeda). These can grow in the same habitat and look somewhat similar (especially to the untrained eye). However, bog laurel and bog rosemary lack fuzz on the underside of leaves and usually have pinkish flowers, whereas Labrador tea has the fuzzy orange underside and white flowers. Bog laurel and bog rosemary are poisonous – even a small amount can cause nasty symptoms. So never consume any bog plant if you aren’t 100% sure it’s Labrador tea. I always double-check the leaf fuzz and smell. If it doesn’t have the fuzz, into the bucket it goes (and by bucket, I mean away, not into my teapot!). The good news is once you’ve seen them side by side, it’s easy – bog laurel has bright pink star-shaped flowers and opposite leaves, bog rosemary has pink bell flowers and very narrow leaves with whitish underside, whereas Labrador tea’s white blooms and brown underleaf fuzz stand out.

Second safety point: even genuine Labrador tea should be used in moderation. The leaves contain ledol, a compound that in large quantities can be toxic (causing dizziness or illness) Don’t let that scare you off a cup of tea – just don’t brew it super strong or chug it by the liter. And never boil the leaves, as boiling may release more of the toxic compounds. Just steep in hot water for 5-10 minutes. I use maybe 3-5 leaves for a pot. I’ve enjoyed Labrador tea for years with no ill effects, but I respect it like I would any medicine – because it kind of is one.

When harvesting, I pluck a few leaves from each plant, or sometimes clip a small branch tip. Labrador tea is slow-growing, so I handle it gently and sparingly. It’s evergreen, so you can pick it year-round, but I find the aroma strongest in summer. The flowers themselves can also be dried for tea – they’re quite pretty. I recall one misty June morning, I came across a whole bog dotted with the white flowers, like stars on the moss. I brewed some of those flowers later and the tea had a delicate floral note on top of the usual spice.

To sum up: Labrador tea is a fantastic wild find for June (and beyond), connecting you to a long tradition of northern foraging. Just be absolutely certain of your identification (fuzzy underside = good; smooth underside or pink flowers = no go and enjoy in moderation. Whenever I sip a cup, I like to imagine trappers and voyageurs of centuries past doing the same around their campfires, savoring that unique boreal flavor.

(I once gave a friend a pouch of Labrador tea as a gift. He loved it and drank it daily… until he started getting woozy headaches. Turned out he was brewing it way too strong. We dialed back his dose to just a couple leaves per cup, and no more headaches – just enjoyment. Lesson learned: respect the tea!)

Those are some of my June favorites. There are others I haven’t covered in detail – by late June you might still find a few late morel mushrooms if spring was cool (though their prime is May), or stumble on young nettles re-sprouting (I harvest nettle tops for soup until about early June before they get too mature). You may even encounter fireweed shoots toward the end of June, which leads us into July’s bounty. Speaking of which, let’s move into the full swing of summer foraging…

July Foraging

July in Northwestern Ontario is prime time. The woods are bursting with berries, the mushrooms are just starting to pop after rains, and many wildflowers and “weeds” are at peak edibility. It’s the time of year I find myself torn between fifty foraging tasks: picking raspberries in the morning, collecting fireweed blooms in the afternoon, maybe checking my chanterelle spots in the evening. The mosquitoes have usually calmed down a bit by mid-July (thank goodness), but deer flies and horseflies might take their place – ah, the joys of the bush! Still, nothing beats a July day of gathering food under the sun and then enjoying a handful of fresh berries still warm from the sun’s rays. Let’s look at the highlights of July foraging:

Wild Blueberries – Boreal Blue Superfruit

When I think of July, I think of blueberries. Wild lowbush blueberries (Vaccinium angustifolium and its relatives) thrive in Northwestern Ontario’s rocky, acidic soils and sunny clearings. By late July, barrens and Canadian Shield outcrops can be carpeted in sweet little blue or purple berries. Identification: lowbush blueberry plants are small shrubs, often only ankle- to calf-high. They have glossy green leaves that are oval with tiny teeth, and if you look close in spring, they have cute little white or pink bell-shaped flowers. The berries, of course, are blue (sometimes with a bit of white dusty bloom on them) and have a five-pointed “crown” on the bottom – a key feature of blueberries. If you break one open, the pulp is greenish or translucent (not red like a huckleberry). They usually grow in clusters on wiry reddish stems.

In our region, blueberry picking is almost a cultural pastime. Come late July and early August, you’ll see vehicles parked on the side of remote roads – folks off in the bush filling ice cream pails. I scout for blueberries in sunny, open areas, often on south-facing slopes, rocky ridges, or areas where a forest fire occurred a few years back. Blueberries love the sun and do well in recently disturbed areas (fire or logging can lead to boom crops a couple years later). They’re abundant across the boreal forest, especially where jack pine and spruce barrens are found. When you find a good patch, you’ll know – the low shrubs dotted with blue, stretching as far as you can see.

Foraging notes: I usually bring a container (who am I kidding – I bring multiple yogurt tubs because I’m optimistic!). I get down at blueberry level (which means crouching or sitting) and gently roll the berries off into my palm. Some people rake them, but I prefer hand-picking to avoid leaves and unripe ones. It’s meditative work; hours can pass without me noticing, except my back notices later! The reward is worth it: wild blueberries are deliciously sweet with a tart punch, and they seem to have more flavor than bigger cultivated blueberries. Maybe it’s all that sunshine and struggle on the rocks that concentrates the sugars.

One foraging hazard (besides the aforementioned bears – do make noise in dense berry patches or carry bear spray just in case) is that you can get sunburned or dehydrated out there because you’re so absorbed in picking. I always wear a hat and bring water. Another “hazard” is stained fingers and tongues – a badge of honor really. My kids often come with me; they invented the rule that you have to sing occasionally while picking, both to let any bears know we’re around and to entertain ourselves. Off-key camp songs aside, it works – we’ve never had a negative bear encounter while picking.

Safety: Blueberries are distinctive. Poisonous look-alikes? Not really – there are other berries that are blue, but few that grow in the same way. For example, black crowberry has black berries on a low evergreen mat (edible but tasteless), blue bead lily has blue berries on a stalk (poisonous, but the plant has broad leaves and the berries are larger and few – easy to tell apart). Also, saskatoon/serviceberries are blue-purple but those grow on a tree/shrub (we’ll get to those next). So when you’re crouched in a patch of many small blue berries on low shrubs, you’ve got blueberries. Do make sure of the habitat and leaf – occasionally people confuse juniper berries (actually cones) for blueberries, but juniper grows on a prickly evergreen shrub and the “berries” are often a bit larger, with a piney taste. Blueberry leaves are soft and deciduous, and the stems are not sharp.

One tip: wild blueberries ripen unevenly. You’ll have green, pink, and blue on the same plant. Try to pick the fully ripe ones (deep blue, a bit soft to the touch). The green/pink unripe ones are very sour and won’t sweeten much even if you take them home. I often do a first pass in a patch for the ripe ones, then return a week later for the next batch.

Ethically, I never strip a patch bare – partly to leave some for animals (and other pickers), and partly because unripe berries left will ripen later. If I’m in a really productive patch, I might pick a few gallons (visions of winter pies and jams dance in my head), but I spread out the harvest. Blueberry bushes also live many years, so not damaging the plant is important – I avoid trampling them. I’ve seen areas where careless pickers stomped whole sections down. Not cool! Treat the patch like a friend’s garden – gently.

If you come home with buckets full (some years are that good), resist the urge to rinse them if you plan to store – they keep longer unwashed in the fridge. Or freeze them in a single layer then bag them. But honestly, the best way to enjoy wild blueberries is right there in the bush, by the handful. Sometimes I bring a little carton of yogurt or a muffin with me, pour fresh berries over it, and have a blueberry picnic on the spot. Life doesn’t get much better.

Wild Raspberries – Sweet Rubies in the Thicket

Hot on the heels of blueberries, or sometimes even earlier in July depending on the year, come the wild red raspberries. If you’ve ever picked raspberries in a garden, the wild ones are very similar, just usually smaller and perhaps a tad more tart (but still sweet). Around old homesteads or forest edges, you might also find wild black raspberries (with dark nearly black fruits and arching canes), though those are less common in the far northwest of Ontario – they prefer a bit more southern climates. I have mostly reds on my property. They’re Rubus idaeus (var. strigosus, the American red raspberry). Identification: Raspberries grow on arching canes that are covered in fine prickles (thorns) – not as hefty as rose thorns, but they’ll scratch you up just the same. The leaves are pinnate (multiple leaflets, usually 3 or 5) with serrated edges and a soft white fuzz on the underside. The berries are aggregates of many little juicy droplets and are hollow in the center when you pick them (the core stays on the plant). Ripe raspberries are usually bright red (or black-purple for black raspberries) and come off the receptacle easily when ripe. If you’ve got a thicket of brambly canes with remnants of dry white-ish flowers in early summer and later red berries – you’ve found raspberries.

My foraging for wild raspberries often happens incidentally – I’ll be walking a trail or checking fence lines and suddenly realize I’m in a raspberry patch. Come July, you’ll often notice raspberries along sunny woods edges, logging roads, overgrown clearings, and especially where soil was disturbed (they love areas after a fire or logging, much like blueberries do, but they need a touch more soil and shade than blueberries). They thrive in forest edge situations – enough sun to fruit, but some shelter too. Around my area, mid to late July is prime for reds, stretching into August for stragglers or higher elevation spots. Some years, the crop is lean (late frosts can kill their flowers), but other years the canes are loaded.

Foraging notes: Raspberries are easier to pick than blueberries in terms of volume – the berries are larger, so your containers fill faster. But they exact their “payment” in flesh – those thorns will snag your sleeves and skin. I’ve learned to wear long sleeves despite the heat, or at least to be mindful and move deliberately. Many times I’ve come out of a raspberry tangle looking like I got in a fight with a barbed-wire fence (and the fence won). That said, I can’t resist plunging in when I see clusters of those ruby-red berries. The flavor of wild raspberries is fantastic: sweet, a bit perfumed, sometimes with a hint of wild tanginess. They tend to be more aromatic and less watery than cultivated ones. I’ll eat them straight, sprinkle on cereal, or if there’s enough, make a quick jar of jam or a dessert. Honestly, though, fresh is my favorite way – by the handful.

Safety: Not many dangers with raspberries themselves. If you can identify a raspberry plant, there’s no toxic doppelgänger. One thing to be cautious of, however, is wild parsnip or poison ivy that might co-mingle in overgrown areas where raspberries grow. I have seen wild parsnip (which causes serious skin burns upon contact with sun) growing right alongside raspberry canes on road edges. Know your problem plants and leaves (poison ivy has “leaves of three” somewhat like raspberry from a distance, but raspberries have thorny stems and fuzzy leaf undersides; ivy is a vine or low plant with glossy leaves and no thorns). In short, as you reach for berries, just glance at what else is brushing against your arm or legs. Also, remember those bear friends – raspberries are a bear favorite too. They tend to frequent berry patches in July. I look for bear scat (often full of berry seeds) as a sign that a patch is actively being used by animals, and I make noise or pick in pairs in those spots.

Harvest ethics: Wild raspberries can form large colonies via their root systems. They’ll produce for many years if treated well. I always leave some easy-access berries behind (maybe I’m superstitious, but I like to think the wildlife appreciates it). I definitely leave any that seem overripe or buggy – no sense taking those. Raspberries often ripen in waves, so I might pick a patch one week and come back next week for the next flush. The plants also provide shelter for birds and other critters; on more than one occasion I’ve scared up a grouse or a rabbit hiding under the canes. So I try not to trample the patch – I find natural little “doors” or gaps to step in and gently navigate around. Also, pro-tip: wear gloves or wrap a bandana around your picking hand if the thorns are nasty. I sometimes use lightweight leather gloves when reaching deep into thickets, then remove them to actually pluck the berries (because smashing berries with gloves is a mess).

One funny memory: I was picking raspberries along an old fence line when I heard rustling and a rhythmic thumping. Peeking through the brambles, I saw a mother grouse with a bunch of chicks, and she was stomping her feet and fanning her wings in a little dance. I realized she was trying the old “fake injury” trick to lead me away from her babies. I backed out and left that patch mostly untouched – some harvests are better left to the original residents.

Serviceberries (Saskatoons) – Juneberry in July

Up until now, we’ve been mostly talking about plants that grow at ground level or on low bushes. Let’s not forget the trees and shrubs that offer wild food. One of the best in early-mid summer is the serviceberry, also known out West as Saskatoon berry or sometimes Juneberry (though in our climate they often ripen in July). Serviceberries are from the genus Amelanchier, and in Northwestern Ontario we have a few species (like Alnifolia out west, canadensis or others in various areas). These are actually small trees or shrubs that often grow on forest edges, around riverbanks, or poking up through rocky clearings. Identification: Serviceberry trees have smooth gray bark and oval green leaves with fine teeth. In spring, they have beautiful white star-shaped flowers in clusters. By summer, they bear small round berries that start green, then go red, and finally a deep purplish-blue-black when fully ripe. The ripe berries look a bit like blueberries or little crabapples (they even have a tiny crown on the end like blueberries do). They typically grow in clusters on reddish stems. Height-wise, a mature serviceberry might be anywhere from 6 feet to 20 feet tall.

I often encounter serviceberries on hikes along rocky ridges or road cuts where these hardy little trees pop up. When ripe, the berries are delicious – sweet with a nutty, almond-like undertone. Some describe the taste as a mix of blueberry and cherry with a hint of almond. I adore them. They were an important food for Indigenous peoples and early settlers, often dried for winter or used in pemmican. The name “serviceberry” supposedly came because they ripened around the time people would hold memorial services once the ground thawed in spring, or possibly because they were used in syrup for “services” (there are multiple lore stories). The name “Juneberry” implies June ripening, which might happen in southern Ontario, but in the cooler parts of NW Ontario, think late June to mid-July for the first ripe ones.

Foraging serviceberries feels a bit like a treasure hunt because the trees are scattered. I have a few favorite trees I visit each year – one by an old rail line, another on a lakeshore trail. I’ll gently tug on a berry cluster; if the berries are ripe, they come off easily. If not, they’ll cling and I know to come back later. The ripening on a single tree can be staggered over a week or two. Birds love serviceberries (cedar waxwings in particular will strip a tree in no time), so often you have to be quick. I’ve learned to share – I pick what I can reach and leave the higher ones to the birds. Once, I brought a small step-stool to get up into a taller tree’s bounty – that might have been overkill, but it was a really good tree and absolutely laden with fruit up high!

Safety: Serviceberries are very safe to eat raw. The only caution is to ensure what you have is indeed a serviceberry. A few other shrubs like chokecherry or buckthorn might superficially have similar berry clusters. But chokecherries (and pin cherries) are usually red to dark purple-black and have a single pit, and the leaves are very different (cherries have longer, finely serrated leaves). Buckthorn berries (which you should NOT eat) are black and occur later in summer, and on a thorny shrub with alternate leaves – quite different. If you saw the serviceberry’s distinctive white flowers in spring, that’s a great confirm. Also, serviceberries when ripe are a dusky purple-blue and often covered in a slight whitish bloom like blueberries; cherries are usually shiny. The taste will also tell you – serviceberries are sweet and mild, whereas something like a chokecherry is very astringent (drying your mouth) unless fully ripe and even then mostly pit.

One thing I do when picking serviceberries is to look down: the ones that fall or get pecked and dropped can carpet the ground under a tree. If I see purple stains on the ground or lots of bird droppings with berry remains, I know I’m a little late or that birds are actively feeding. It’s also a way to spot a tree from a distance – you might see the purple splats or just the movement of feasting birds. I’ve literally found trees by following the sound of happy waxwings chirping away as they gorge.

I eat serviceberries fresh by the handful, or toss them into pancakes and muffins like one would with blueberries. They also make a fantastic jam or fruit leather (their high pectin content makes them thicken nicely). A homesteader friend of mine ferments them into a fruity wine. In my household, fresh is usually how they go – between me, my kids, and the birds, none make it to the preserving stage! One year I did manage to dry a trayful in my dehydrator, and those chewy sweet dried serviceberries were like natural raisins that we added to trail mix.

Ethically, since these are trees rather than ground plants, I don’t worry about the plant’s survival from berry picking – you’re not harming the tree by taking fruit. It’s more about leaving some for others. These trees are often few and far between, so if you find a goldmine tree, be respectful if it’s a public area (others may have been eyeing it too). On our own land, we planted a couple of Saskatoon shrubs to have a steady supply – but ironically the wild ones still taste better to me, maybe because of the adventure in finding them.

Chokecherries & Pin Cherries – Tart Summer Cherries

Not all wild berries are sweet – some are powerfully puckery but still valuable for foragers. Two such examples are chokecherries and pin cherries, which are native wild cherries found in Northwestern Ontario. Both are in the Prunus genus (related to domestic cherries, plums, etc.). They often grow in the same kinds of places: road edges, clearings, and young forests. Here’s how to tell them apart and how I use them:

• Chokecherry (Prunus virginiana): a shrub or small tree, often 6–15 feet tall, that produces clusters of dark purplish-red berries (technically drupes) on a raceme (a long string-like cluster). The berries start red and ripen to almost black-purple when fully ripe (usually late July into August). Leaves are oval with fine teeth and often slightly folded in. If you crush a leaf or pit, it smells like bitter almond (that’s the cyanide compounds – more on safety in a moment). Chokecherries taste bitter/astringent raw – when you bite one, it might dry your mouth out. But they have a richness to them and can be made into excellent jelly, syrup, or wine when sweetened. Indigenous peoples dried and ground them (including the pits) into pemmican cakes – the pits impart an almond flavor when crushed.

• Pin Cherry (Prunus pensylvanica): a small tree (often taller, 15–30 feet) with bright red cherry fruits that are usually single or in small clusters (not long racemes). The fruits look like tiny pie cherries, very bright translucent red with a single seed (pit). They ripen mid-summer (July to early August). The leaves are longer and more lance-shaped than chokecherry, with fine serrations, and the bark on pin cherry is often reddish-brown with “lenticels” (little horizontal line markings). Pin cherries are also very sour and astringent raw – they’ll make you pucker big time. But they can be sweetened and used similarly for jellies or lemonade-like drinks.

I group these together because for foraging purposes, I treat them similarly: I typically don’t eat handfuls raw (unless I’m amusing myself by daring someone to try a chokecherry and watch the face they make). Instead, I’ll collect a bunch and process them. Chokecherries I find easier to gather in quantity because of the clusters. I lay a sheet or tarp under a tree and gently shake the branches – ripe chokecherries will fall off. Then I pick out the leaves and twigs and take the cherries home for jelly making. Chokecherry jelly, once sugar is added, is divine – it has a gorgeous deep purple color and a wild cherry flavor with a hint of almond. For pin cherries, I’ve made a bright red syrup by boiling them with sugar and straining, which I then used to mix with sparkling water for a wild “cherry soda,” or to drizzle on pancakes. Pin cherry jelly also sets nicely and has a beautiful ruby color.

Now, safety is crucial with these wild cherries: the leaves, bark, and especially the pits contain cyanogenic compounds (amygdalin) that can release cyanide. Never eat the leaves or bark (livestock have been poisoned from munching young chokecherry leaves). With the fruit, swallowing a whole pit or two isn’t going to kill you – they usually pass through. But you do not want to crush and consume a bunch of pits. When making jelly or syrup, I always strain out the pits (and I don’t crush them unless I’m doing a traditional preparation where they’ll be cooked/dried properly). If you were to grind raw chokecherries pits and all (as some traditional pemmican recipes do), you must then dry or cook the result thoroughly to break down the toxin. For beginners, I recommend just keeping it simple: use the juice/flesh and discard the pits. As a rule, I never chew the seeds of any cherry or plum. I have eaten the odd chokecherry whole (soft ripe flesh and then spit the pit) – that’s fine. Just don’t chew and swallow pits. The flesh and skin of the fruit itself (the juicy part) is safe and has a lot of antioxidants; it’s just not very palatable without processing due to the astringency.

When preparing chokecherries for jelly, I simmer the fruit in water, mash them a bit, then strain through a jelly bag. That way I get all the flavor but none of the seeds in the final product. The resulting juice, when sweetened, has no detectable bitterness – it’s lovely. Pin cherries I do similarly, but since they’re so small and round, I often just boil and mash them gently, then strain.

Foraging locations: I often find chokecherry stands along old fence lines, edges of fields, or near streams. They like moisture but also sun. Pin cherries I see after forest fires or in young aspen stands; they are a pioneer species that comes in after disturbance. One summer after a controlled burn near our area, a whole hillside was covered in flowering pin cherry trees the next spring – it was a sight (and the following summer, a bounty of fruit). The blossoms of both species are pretty: chokecherry has white cylindrical clusters of blooms in late spring, and pin cherry has clusters of white blossoms that look like little bouquets. I sometimes note where I see them flowering in May, and check back in July for fruit.

Wildlife absolutely devours these cherries. Birds, bears, foxes – you name it. I often find bear scat full of chokecherry pits in late summer. So again, be bear-aware when harvesting. I’ve never had a bear conflict while picking cherries, likely because the trees are more spread out and they tend to feed at dawn/dusk. But I keep my ears open and usually pick with a partner if in deep brush.

In terms of quantity, these cherries can be super abundant or sparse depending on the year. They’re quite dependent on weather during flowering (a bad frost can ruin the crop). When there’s a heavy crop, you can smell fermenting fallen cherries on hot days and hear the wasps buzzing around them. Those are the days to fill your buckets – but do it soon, because a few days later they might start to rot or all get eaten. If I have extra chokecherries, I’ve made a spiced wild cherry jelly with a bit of cinnamon – tastes like Christmas! And extra pin cherry syrup I’ve canned for winter to pour over snow (a poor man’s snow cone for the kids).

To wrap up on these: Yes, you can eat chokecherries and pin cherries – the flesh is safe – but don’t chew the pits and don’t eat buckets of them raw because the astringency will give you a tummy ache (and unprocessed pits could be harmful in large amount). Properly prepared, they are delicious. Also, your hands and cookware might get a bit stained from the deep-colored juices – wear an apron when processing! I learned that after tie-dying a favorite shirt with chokecherry splatter.

Common Milkweed – A Forager’s Dilemma (Friend to Monarchs and Feeder of Humans)

One plant that often piques curiosity in mid-summer is common milkweed (Asclepias syriaca). You’ll see its spherical purple-pink flower clusters blooming in July in fields, ditches, and along roadways. Milkweed is a controversial edible – yes, parts of it are edible with careful preparation, but it’s also the only food source for monarch butterfly caterpillars. So I approach milkweed with a sense of reverence and caution. Let’s break down the essentials:

Identification: Common milkweed is a stout herb, often 2–4 feet tall, with opposite broad oval leaves that are smooth-edged. If you break a leaf or stem, a white sticky sap (hence “milk”) exudes. The flowers are arranged in globular clusters and are a dusty pink to purplish color, very fragrant (a heavenly perfume that on hot days you can smell yards away). Later in summer, it forms spindle-shaped green seed pods that exude silk when opened. Milkweed often grows in colonies, linked by creeping roots.

Edible parts and timing: Traditionally, the young shoots (when they are 6–8 inches high, in late spring), the flower buds (tight green clusters that look like broccoli, before or just as they start showing color), and the young pods (when they are small, under 2 inches) are gathered and eaten – after proper boiling. In July, the stage of interest is the flower buds and the just-forming small pods. I’ll admit, I don’t heavily forage milkweed, but I do occasionally take a few buds or pods to cook as a wild vegetable, because they can be quite tasty – akin to asparagus or green beans once prepared. The flower buds, when boiled, taste a bit like artichoke. The young pods, when the inner “silk” is still clear, are like okra/green bean hybrid in texture and taste.

Foraging notes: This is where field expertise and caution come in. Milkweed has a toxic milky sap containing cardiac glycosides (which are what make monarchs distasteful to predators). However, common milkweed’s young parts are generally considered safe to eat after boiling in a couple changes of water. Many old foraging texts insisted on multiple boils, though some modern experts like Sam Thayer have argued that common milkweed isn’t bitter and one boil is enough I usually boil the buds or pods in one or two changes of salted water out of an abundance of caution – at least for the psychological benefit if nothing else. The resulting veg is quite good with butter or sautéed.

Crucial safety: Proper identification and differentiation from dogbane (Apocynum) is paramount. Dogbane, also called Indian hemp, often grows in similar areas and at a glance can look like young milkweed shoots. Dogbane is poisonous. How to tell: Dogbane is usually slimmer, more branched, and when flowering has clusters of small whitish bell flowers (very different from milkweed’s big pink balls). The leaves of dogbane are opposite like milkweed’s but generally smaller and the plant has a reddish tinge on stems. Also, dogbane’s milky sap is much less copious. The key difference at shoot stage: milkweed shoots are thicker and have fuzzy leaf undersides sometimes, dogbane shoots are thin and often in clumps. As a rule, when harvesting milkweed shoots, I only pick in patches I know are milkweed, and I double-check each stem for developing flower buds that are clearly milkweed or later for pods, etc. “The young shoots of milkweed look a little like those of dogbane… beginners sometimes confuse the two, but they are not prohibitively difficult to tell apart. Dogbane shoots are much thinner than those of milkweed, which is quite obvious.”. That quote from a wild foods expert sticks in my head. In July, it’s easier because milkweed will be blooming or budded – dogbane might have already bloomed small white flowers and formed skinny pods. If it’s got the big spherical pink flower cluster, it’s milkweed.

Another safety note: Don’t eat too much milkweed even when prepared. It’s a foraged vegetable, not a staple to gorge on daily. I’ve never had an issue, but some folks report slight stomach upset if they didn’t boil it properly or ate a large quantity. Moderation is key, and always boil it – never eat it raw.

Now, the ethics: Monarch butterflies depend on milkweed to lay eggs and feed caterpillars. In recent years, their populations have been struggling, and many people are planting milkweed to help them. So as a responsible forager, I take very little and only from abundant patches. I also usually avoid taking milkweed from any area where I actively see monarch activity (eggs or caterpillars on leaves). If I see a caterpillar chewing away, I basically salute the little guy and leave his plant untouched. I also tend to harvest buds rather than pods, because by the time pods form, the monarchs have done their thing (laid eggs during the flowering stage typically). And I never dig up roots or anything that would kill the plant – just the renewable bits. In fact, nowadays I cultivate a small patch of milkweed on my land for the monarchs, and I feel I can sparingly take a few buds from there for my dinner knowing plenty remain.

Preparation anecdote: The first time I cooked milkweed buds, I was nervous due to all the warnings. I boiled them in two changes of water. They turned a lovely bright green and I sautéed them in butter with a sprinkle of salt. My husband and I tried them – and they were good! Like broccoli meets green bean. Since then, every year if the patch is plentiful, I’ll pick maybe a pint of buds or a handful of young pods. But some years, if I notice the monarchs are having a boom or the patch isn’t as dense, I skip it. It’s one of those foraging choices where I weigh the enjoyment vs. ecological impact heavily.

Lastly, no discussion of milkweed is complete without mentioning that the plant itself is not just edible – it was historically used for fiber (hence “Indian hemp” for dogbane, similarly milkweed has fiber in stems). The fluff from mature pods was used to fill life jackets in WWII due to its buoyancy. But I digress into the historical lore. For eating purposes: Yes, you can eat milkweed (shoots, buds, pods) as a delicious wild vegetable, but only if you take the time to identify it correctly (versus dogbane) and prepare it properly by boiling. And please, forage it thoughtfully with our winged friends in mind. To me, milkweed is a treat but also a reminder that foraging isn’t just about us – we share this resource with other creatures. So I always smile when I see a milkweed patch in bloom, teeming with bees and beetles on the flowers and maybe a monarch flitting about. Even if I harvest nothing from that patch, I feel rich just witnessing that summer spectacle.

Fireweed – From Shoots to Blooms, the “Asparagus of the North”

If you’ve ever driven through Northern Ontario in late July or August, you’ve likely seen entire hillsides awash in purple-pink flowers. That’s fireweed (Chamerion angustifolium, also known as rosebay willowherb). It’s called fireweed because it’s one of the first plants to colonize burned areas – after a forest fire, fireweed can blanket the cleared land with its bright blossoms. But even in unburned areas, it pops up in ditches, along river gravel bars, and other open ground. It’s a striking plant: tall (3-5 feet), with lance-shaped willow-like leaves up the stems, and a spire of purple-magenta four-petaled flowers at the top that open sequentially.

Now, many people don’t realize fireweed is edible. In spring/early summer, the young shoots can be gathered when they are maybe 6-12 inches high (before the leaves fully spread out). These shoots are sometimes dubbed “wild asparagus” because you can cook them similarly and they have a slightly asparagus-like flavor. I’ve picked fireweed shoots in June, peeled the reddish skin (optional), and sautéed them – indeed, they were a pleasant green vegetable. They can also be eaten raw when very young, though I find them a bit on the bitter side raw. As they grow taller, the stems get fibrous, so by July, I don’t take the shoots anymore. However, the plant offers something else then – flowers and young leaves for tea or jelly.

By mid-July, fireweed is usually starting to bloom here and there. I’ll collect some of the open flowers (a few from each plant) and also the top sets of young leaves. These I dry for a fragrant herbal tea. In fact, fireweed leaves can be fermented and dried to create “Ivan Chai,” a traditional Russian tea substitute. I’ve experimented with that – it’s a bit of work to ferment them (rolling and sweating the leaves), but the result is a delicious black-tea-like herbal brew. Even without fermentation, plain dried fireweed makes a nice tea, supposedly with health benefits (high in vitamin C and antioxidants). The flowers I sometimes use fresh to make a brilliantly pink fireweed jelly (the color is unreal). Basically, you steep a bunch of flowers to make a magenta infusion, then add sugar and pectin to form a jelly. It’s a northern classic in some regions (notably Alaska, where fireweed is the state flower and they make syrup and jelly from it).

Foraging fireweed is straightforward. Find a patch (not hard, the bright color guides you). I always ensure it’s not on someone’s yard that might be sprayed or along too busy a road. Then, if going for shoots in early summer, I snip or gently pull a bunch. I never take all from a colony – fireweed is an important nectar plant for bees and its fluff feeds birds, plus it’s beautiful! So I keep my shoot harvest modest, maybe a dozen shoots from a large stand, spread out. They often grow in dense clusters, so you won’t miss a dozen out of hundreds. For flowers, I pinch off a few from various stalks; each fireweed plant has dozens of blooms and will keep blooming upward, so taking a few doesn’t diminish the show much. The plant will continue to seed later (the pods that form will split into silky tufts that carry seeds on the wind).

Safety: Fireweed has no poisonous look-alike that I’m aware of in our region. When not flowering, one could perhaps confuse it with some willowherb relatives or great willow-herb which are similar and also edible as far as I know. When flowering, it’s unmistakable. Just be sure you’re not accidentally grabbing stinging nettle that might grow nearby (I’ve seen nettle and fireweed together – one will bite you, the other won’t!). Fireweed stems and leaves are smooth, not hairy or spiky.

One thing: don’t eat fireweed later in summer once it’s really matured. By then the stems are tough and the leaves bitter. Early is key for edibles from this plant. The tea leaves can be picked through the season, but I prefer early ones too (they ferment better).

I recall the first time I tried fireweed shoots, I was a bit skeptical – “flowers as food, really?” But an older Finnish neighbor swore by them. We cooked some up with a cream sauce (Finnish style), and it was quite good, somewhat like asparagus or green beans. Nature’s asparagus of the north indeed. The flowers, on the other hand, make our kitchen smell amazing when I steep them for jelly – like a field of honey. And the jelly itself – aside from the stunning color – has a delicate, almost fruity flavor. I often give jars of it as gifts; people can’t believe it’s just made from “weeds.”

One more tidbit: fireweed is considered a calming tea and also used topically for skin (some natural skincare uses it). But I mostly just appreciate it as a bridge between wild food and wild beauty. When I see those pink blooms, I know summer is peaking. It’s like the grand finale of July fireworks in slow motion across the landscape.

Wild Mint – Aromatic Ally by the Water’s Edge

Often as I’m crouched picking berries or fishing along a creek in July, a breeze will carry a sudden whiff of cool, sharp mint. That’s the signal to look down and around – chances are there’s a patch of wild mint (Mentha arvensis, also called field mint or wild bergamot in some texts, though true wild bergamot is Monarda). In our region, wild mint typically grows in moist soils: think stream banks, lakeshores, the edges of marshes – basically anywhere damp. It has square stems (as all mints do), opposite toothed leaves, and clusters of pink or lilac tubular flowers that often appear in whorls at leaf junctions or the stem tip. Rubbing the plant between your fingers releases that unmistakable minty aroma.

I’ll never forget washing camp dishes on a canoe trip and suddenly smelling mint – I thought someone had spilled toothpaste, but no, I was kneeling in a patch of wild mint that overhung the water! The leaves ended up in our evening tea that night, a perfect wild peppermint flavor.

Foraging wild mint is a simple pleasure. I pluck a handful of leaves and young stems (usually from multiple plants so I don’t denude one). It’s quite prolific where it grows, forming clonal patches. I’ve transplanted a bit to my home herb garden too, where it (predictably) thrives like a happy weed. The leaves can be used fresh or dried for later. In July, the oils are at their peak, especially if it’s flowering. The flavor of wild mint is very similar to peppermint or spearmint you’d grow, though ours tends to be a bit milder than spearmint – sometimes with a slightly earthier undertone.

Uses: Primarily, I use wild mint for tea and flavoring. A few crushed leaves in hot water make a soothing tea that’s great for upset stomach or just a refreshing pick-me-up. In summer, I like to throw fresh mint leaves into my water bottle or brew sun tea with mint and maybe some birch sugar or a bit of honey – so good iced! I’ve also chopped wild mint leaves into fruit salads and desserts (minted watermelon, anyone?). You can dry bunches of it for winter use; I tie stalks and hang them in a shady spot until crisp, then jar the dried leaves.

Safety: There’s not much in the way of dangerous look-alikes for mint if you use your nose. Creeping charlie (ground ivy) is somewhat minty and also has square stems, but its smell is more pungent and different; plus, that one creeps on the ground and has different flowers. Watermint or other wild Mentha species are all used similarly. One plant to watch out for is American pennyroyal (Hedeoma or Mentha pulegium in Europe) – it’s a small creeping mint that has a minty odor but is high in pulegone and not recommended for consumption, especially for pregnant women. However, our common wild mint is fine and widely used. I identify by smell primarily – if it smells like good mint, it likely is wild mint (Mentha arvensis) which is common here. Of course, be mindful of where it grows – near water could mean beaver fever (giardia) cysts on plants, though typically that’s from ingesting water, not chewing a leaf. I still usually rinse or at least shake off stream water before using wild mint from right at water’s edge, or I pick from a bit upland if possible.

Wild mint is one of those plants that connects you viscerally to a place. That bright scent, mid-pick, is like nature tapping your shoulder and saying “inhale, remember this spot.” I often find mint near labrador tea or cattails, so I mentally map that “minty corner” of the marsh as a special spot. My kids quickly learned to recognize it and would excitedly yell, “Mom, mint!” and stuff a leaf in their mouths to have the breath-freshening chew. It became a natural tic-tac for them. Just as an aside, another similar plant in drier areas is wild bergamot (Monarda fistulosa, sometimes called bee balm) – that has a minty oregano flavor and pretty purple shaggy flowers, also common in July on dry slopes. I sometimes use that like oregano in cooking or as tea too. But the true water-loving mint is what I seek for that classic pepperminty kick.

One more use: wild mint as an insect repellent. Crushing mint and rubbing it on your skin doesn’t rival DEET, but it can help deter some mosquitoes for a short while, and at least you’ll smell better than with DEET! I’ve done this in a pinch – the menthol cools the skin and makes you a bit less appetizing to bugs (perhaps more appealing to other humans, because you smell like a candy cane). In any case, wild mint is a gentle, generous plant – easy to find, easy to use, and it definitely earns a spot in the summer wild food pantheon.

Chanterelle Mushrooms – Golden Prizes of the Forest Floor

Thus far, we’ve focused on plants, but July often brings the first flush of certain wild mushrooms. One of the most beloved (by me and countless chefs) is the chanterelle. Golden chanterelles (Cantharellus cibarius group) are those beautiful funnel-shaped, egg-yolk yellow mushrooms that smell a bit fruity, like apricots. They typically appear in mid-summer after adequate rains, continuing into August. In Northwestern Ontario’s mixed forests (especially around birch, aspen, and spruce), chanterelles can often be found on mossy ground or among leaf litter. Identification features: chanterelles have a distinct yellow-orange color, a wavy cap, and false gills (meaning the ridges running down the underside are blunt and forked, not true separate gills). They are thick, solid, and the flesh is white inside. The smell is sweet and fruity. They grow from the ground (not on wood) and often in scatterings or fairy ring patterns.

I still remember the joy of finding my first chanterelle patch. It was a humid late July day after a week of rain. I was actually out picking blueberries when I looked under some nearby aspen trees and saw a glimpse of bright orange. Investigation revealed several chanterelles popping through the moss. I let out a whoop of excitement! These mushrooms are not just delicious; they’re relatively safe for beginners because they have few look-alikes that are hazardous once you know the differences. (The main look-alike often cited is the jack-o’-lantern mushroom, which is orange and has true sharp gills and grows on wood in clusters – not common in our far northern area, but we should still be aware).

Foraging chanterelles is like an Easter egg hunt. Once you find one, slow down and look around – more are likely hidden nearby, often partially covered by leaves or moss. I carry a basket or mesh bag (so spores can spread) and gently twist or cut the mushrooms off at the base. I brush off dirt on the spot. A good patch can yield several pounds, but even a handful is a win in my book. They often recur year to year if conditions are similar, since the underground mycelium persists.

Safety notes for chanterelles: As far as wild mushrooms go, chanterelles are one of the safest and easiest to positively ID. Key things: the false gills (wrinkled ridges that fork and run down the stem), the solid fleshy stem (not hollow or brittle), the absence of a ring or volva (chanterelles do not have a skirt or bulb, eliminating any confusion with Amanitas). The color can range from pale yellow to rich orange, but generally if you’ve got a fragrant, meaty, yellow mushroom with those blunt ridges, you’re holding a chanterelle. Jack-o’-lantern mushrooms (Omphalotus) are a poisonous orange look-alike in other parts of North America; they usually grow in big clusters on rotting wood (often buried wood) and have real knife-like gills and no fruity smell. We do not commonly encounter those in our immediate area (more of an eastern/southern species), but it’s good to keep in mind. Another benign look-alike is the false chanterelle (Hygrophoropsis aurantiaca) – it’s orangish with true gills and thinner flesh, not as tasty and can cause mild upset in some, but it’s not deadly. When in doubt, I stick to the textbook chanterelle features and if something is off, I leave it.

One might ask, why talk mushrooms in a foraging guide focused on summer plants? Because to me, mushrooms are a wild food category of their own that really starts in summer. And chanterelles in July are a forager’s gold. I treat them with as much enthusiasm as any berry. Eating them is simple: I usually just sauté in butter with a bit of garlic or onion and salt. The flavor is apricot-y, woodsy, and the texture is lovely (they don’t turn slimy; they stay firm). They pair excellently with eggs, cream sauces, or just on toast. I’ve also pickled chanterelles and even dried some (though drying can diminish flavor; I prefer to sauté and freeze if preserving).

Ethics with mushrooms: I harvest freely if there’s abundance, but I always leave some small ones to mature and some big ones to drop spores. There’s debate about cutting vs pulling – I usually cut to keep the base in the soil, but either way is fine if done carefully. I try not to trample the area, since the mycelium can be delicate. For chanterelles, it’s also nice to leave a few for other foragers – it’s a friendly unwritten code in some communities, though obviously in the middle of crown land it’s finders keepers. Fungi are renewable in that picking the fruit doesn’t kill the organism (the main body is underground), so it’s fairly sustainable, provided habitat isn’t destroyed.

The biggest challenge with chanterelle hunting in July? Mosquitoes and deer flies love those damp woods too, and you often need to go off-trail. I suit up with a hat, head net if needed, long sleeves, and definitely some bug spray or a smoky smudge stick. It’s all worth it when you come home with that basket of golden goodies. Cleaning chanterelles is generally easy – they tend to be clean if picked carefully, just a brush off or quick rinse (some folks avoid water, but a light rinse doesn’t hurt in my experience, especially if you cook them right after). And the aroma in the kitchen – man, if they could bottle that as a perfume, I’d wear it.

One more nice thing: chanterelles have no worms or maggots usually (their dense flesh and some antibiotic properties deter insects), unlike some other mushrooms. So your harvest is usually 100% usable. It’s such a joy to share them too – many people have never tasted wild chanterelles. I brought some to a potluck once (in a creamy dip) and felt a bit like I was introducing folks to a celebrity of the forest.

Chicken of the Woods – Neon Orange Fungal Feast

Another impressive mushroom that can appear in mid-to-late summer (July through September) is Chicken of the Woods (Laetiporus spp.), also called sulfur shelf. While not as frequent as chanterelles, when you do find one, it’s usually a bounty because they grow in large shelves. Identification: These are bright orange to yellow shelf fungi that grow on wood (often on dead or living trees like oak, aspen, or birch). They have no gills on the underside – instead, tiny pores. The top surface is smooth and vibrant orange, edges yellow. They really stand out like a big orange fan or cluster of overlapping plates. The texture when young is moist and tender, becoming chalky and brittle as they age or dry out. They are called “chicken of the woods” because when cooked, the texture is said to resemble chicken meat (and it does pull apart in strands). Some even say the taste is like chicken, though I find it more mild, somewhere between chicken and mushroom.

I’ve found chicken of the woods in July mainly on oak stumps or standing dead aspens in the southern parts of NW Ontario (where some oak or more hardwoods are present, like near Fort Frances or Kenora areas with oak, or around old homesteads with planted trees). They can also grow on conifers but those species (if it’s Laetiporus on conifer) some people avoid as it may cause stomach upset in some (perhaps due to compounds from the conifer wood). I only harvest from hardwood hosts to be safe.

Foraging it is straightforward: if it’s at a reachable height, you slice it off near the base with a knife. Choose younger, pliable brackets (older ones are woody and bitter). You might get a huge yield – these things can be 5-10+ pounds in one growth. I usually take what I can use and leave some, especially if the shelf is massive. Sometimes “chickens” will re-sprout in the same spot over years until the wood is fully consumed by the fungus.

Safety: Chicken of the woods has a pretty distinct look – nothing else that is orange and in big shelves is really poisonous. One could maybe confuse it with jack-o’-lantern mushrooms if they are in a rosette on a stump, but those have gills and individual stems, whereas chicken is a polypore with no real stem, just attached flush to wood. Also jack-o’-lantern is softer with more distinct caps. Honestly, the neon-orange, yellow-edged chicken of the woods is unique. Still, stick to basic mushroom rules: if it doesn’t exactly match the description or something feels off, don’t eat it. Also, a minority of people have allergic reactions or indigestion from chicken of the woods – especially if undercooked. The first time you try it, have a small portion to ensure it agrees with you. And avoid if it’s growing on conifer or eucalyptus (not an issue here) as those seem more likely to cause issues according to some sources.

Cooking: This mushroom, when young, is juicy and tender. I love cutting it into “nuggets” and sautéing or frying them. True to its name, I’ve made “wild mushroom wings” by breading and frying chicken-of-the-woods pieces – absolutely delicious, crispy outside and tender inside like chicken strips. Also great in curries or stews. Do cook thoroughly; undercooked can be upset-stomach inducing. Any mushroom is better cooked for digestibility, but especially this one with its fibrous nature.

I recall one July where I was walking a trail and a fluorescent flash caught my eye from the woods. I bushwhacked over and found a fallen log with the biggest chicken-of-the-woods I’d ever seen – probably 2 feet across. I was alone and without a big bag, so I ended up using my flannel shirt as a bundle to carry chunks of it home. We ate “chicken” for days, and I still froze some. If you freeze it raw, it can get a bit strong over time, so I prefer to lightly cook then freeze, or dehydrate (though rehydrated texture isn’t as good). Best is to feast fresh and share with friends.

One more note: ethically, because it’s a wood decay fungus, you’re not affecting future populations by harvesting the fruiting body aside from spore spreading maybe. But these are abundant spore producers and will usually come back if the wood source remains. So take what you want. However, make sure the wood it’s on isn’t some hazardous old toxic telephone pole or something. If it’s a yard tree that may have been sprayed, be cautious. Wild forest finds are ideal.

To wrap up mushrooms: Always be 100% on identification before consumption. Mushrooms require more knowledge than plants in many cases. I only included chanterelles and chicken-of-the-woods here because they are reasonably distinctive and in season for summer. If you’re new, consider going with an experienced picker or cross-referencing multiple field guides. And never assume an unknown mushroom is edible. There’s an old forager saying: “When in doubt, throw it out,” and another: “There are old mushroom pickers and bold mushroom pickers, but no old, bold mushroom pickers.” Translation: don’t take risks with fungi.

Phew! As you can see, July is a cornucopia. Berries, greens, herbs, and even fungi are all coming into their prime. On any given day I might have a tough choice: Do I head to the blueberry barrens or check the chanterelle oak grove? Do I gather red clover blossoms for tea or pick wild raspberries for pie? Often, I end up doing a bit of everything, returning home with a motley but glorious harvest – a basket might contain blueberries, some chanterelles, a bundle of mint, and a few fireweed flowers all jumbled together.

One thing I’ll say: foraging enriches your summer like nothing else. It tunes you into the subtle changes – you notice how one week the strawberry fields turn to tiny green berries, then white, then red ripe, then they’re done. You watch the progression of blooms: when the wild roses fade, the raspberries are coming on; when the raspberries wane, the blueberries are peaking; as blueberries fade, cranberries and highbush cranberries are forming (for fall). The forest and fields have a rhythm, and by foraging year after year, you start to dance to that rhythm naturally.

Another delightful aspect is the element of surprise. Maybe you set out to look for one thing and instead stumble on another. I’ve gone out intent on berry picking, only to come home with a hat full of wild mushrooms I didn’t expect to find. Or set out to gather fireweed flowers for jelly and ended up snacking on a trove of pin cherries that were suddenly ripe along the way. The land offers, and we receive – but not always what we planned on. There’s magic in that.

In Northwestern Ontario, summer is precious and short. By the end of July, you can already feel hints of autumn in the cool nights. But June and July – these are the golden months where the effort of enduring a long winter and bug-infested spring pays off in spades of wild bounty. I feel such gratitude wandering these woods and waters, filling my hands and heart with nature’s gifts. It’s not just about food for the body (though trust me, it’s a lot of tasty food); it’s about food for the soul. There’s a deep satisfaction in knowing the land enough to feed yourself from it, even if only supplementally. Each berry or plant I forage comes with a story – of the place I found it, the day I had, perhaps the people I was with.

As an experienced homesteader-forager, I also love sharing this knowledge. I hope this blog-style journey through June and July foraging in Northwestern Ontario not only informs you but inspires you to go out and explore (safely and respectfully) on your own. There’s a whole world of flavors and experiences literally under our noses and at our feet in the wild. From the tart zing of a chokecherry to the sweet burst of a wild strawberry, from the spicy aroma of Labrador tea to the savory chew of a chanterelle – these are gifts you just can’t buy in a store.

So as July winds down and we inevitably look to what autumn will bring (hello, highbush cranberries and wild rice – but that’s another post!), let’s raise a metaphorical glass of wild mint iced tea to the summer we’ve had so far. May your June and July foraging be fruitful, educational, and above all, fun. And if you ever find yourself with purple-stained fingers, a mosquito bite on your neck, pine pitch in your hair, and a goofy grin on your face – well, welcome to the club. That’s the mark of a summer forager in Northwestern Ontario, and there’s no place I’d rather be.

Happy foraging, and see you on the trails (I’ll be the one with the berry bucket and the faraway look, scanning the bushes)!

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