While biking through the hills and along the shore of Mystic and Stonington the other day with my friend Spyros “Spy” Barres and son Tom, I began to regret that I neglected to bring along a water bottle.

I may not have been suffering the desperate, parched-throat thirst you get on a scorching summer day when the sun beats down and you’ve been sweating for hours – after all, it was a cloudy, chilly day in mid-autumn – but still, after nearly 15 miles of steady pedaling and about 10 more to go I would have given anything for some refreshment.

Just then, as if reading my mind, Spy called out, “Hey, here’s that tree I was talking about.”

We wheeled our bikes off the pavement just outside Lord’s Point and rolled up to a scraggly tree that was more of a tall bush with gnarled branches and thin, oval leaves. Hanging from these branches were clusters of bright red berries – thousands of them.

“Manna from Heaven!” I exclaimed, grabbing a handful and stuffing them in my mouth. Sweet and tart, they exploded with flavor and also satisfied my thirst.

“I’ve read that whenever you eat something wild for the first time you should exercise moderation,” Tom said as he plucked cluster after cluster. “But I think in this case I’ll made an exception.”

“Don’t eat the fermented ones. It’ll make you drunk,” Spy cautioned, but it was too late – I already was intoxicated, not by alcohol but by tangy succulence.

We were feasting on the fruit of the autumn olive, sometimes simply called autumn berry (Elaeagnus umbellate), an Asian import that though considered invasive is widely tolerated because its berries are so tasty to birds and humans alike.

I read later that autumn berries are loaded with vitamins and nutrients including the antioxidant, lycopene. Prized as a powerful medicine in Asia, the berries are cultivated and consumed in tea, wine and jam.

I can’t attest to any medicinal benefits after having gorged myself on autumn berries, but at least I wasn’t thirsty the rest of the ride.

Our experience evoked memories of similarly fortuitous bounties.

“Remember that time …” Spy began.

“The pear!” I replied.

He, Maggie Jones and I had spent the better part of a summer day kayaking and running, and were hot, tired and hungry. I’m not going to report our location, because I still feel a little guilty, but anyway, as we loped along we spotted a pear tree with one lone piece of fruit hanging tantalizingly at eye level.

We realized that someone must have left that pear to ripen, but it was far too tempting. We looked at each other and sprinted for the tree.

It was a little messy sharing it without a knife, but we made short work of that pear, and I can still taste its sweet, juicy pulp.

On another occasion, Maggie, a botanist and director of the Denison Pequotsepos Nature Center in Mystic, introduced us to pepperidge berries that we consumed during a break from running at Haley Farm in Groton. As I recall they were just as tasty as autumn berries.

Tom also reminded me of our introduction to another fruity morsel while on a long kayak trip down the Erie Canal from Buffalo to Albany.

By chance we had pitched our tent in a meadow in Palmyra, N.Y. not far from the spot where Joseph Smith claimed the angel Moroni directed him to a buried book of golden plates, which led to Smith’s publishing the Book of Mormon and the founding of a new religion.

Our discovery was perhaps less spiritual but nevertheless quite fulfilling.

Tom and I awakened at dawn to the sound of rustling leaves, and I crawled from our tent to investigate.

A man with a basket was picking fruit from a tree directly overhead.

“This is the best mulberry tree in the area,” he informed us.

Neither Tom nor I had eaten mulberries before, and they were an extraordinarily delectable – like giant blackberries, sweet and juicy. Some day I’m going to go back to Palmyra and try to find that tree.

On yet another occasion Tom and I were rewarded after a long day of hiking not by one variety of wild fruit, but two.

Atop Saddleback Mountain in Maine, just at sunset, we stumbled upon wild cranberries growing next to a raspberry bush. The two mixed together, freshly plucked: ambrosia.

Having spent countless hours cultivating blueberries, strawberries and – alas, still fruitlessly, table grapes – in a backyard garden, I’ve found it especially rewarding to feast on berries in the wild. Every so often nature offers a tasty treat – but no matter how hungry or thirsty you are make sure you can make a positive identification before popping anything in your mouth.

Until this week I’ve pretty much limited my intake to raspberries, blackberries, cranberries and concord grapes, but now I’ll be on the lookout for autumn berries. They should be available for a few more weeks before the birds gobble them all up.

Bon appétit!