Morel Uncertainty

Once you find yourself cast under the heady spell of the morel mushroom, things can get a little out of hand.  You roam the woods, undeterred by sheets of rain and creepy little ticks, dreams of morels resting on rare venison loin swirling around in your head much as the partnered pinot will swirl in the glass.  Miles click by in the truck and on foot, fueled by the future memory of that one perfect meal.  It is spring after all, time to be in the thick of it with all the promising new green and furtive songbirds returned from winter haunts, even if your mushroom bag might remain unfilled sometimes.  Should you be lucky enough to find the meaty springtime morsels, you'll need not search high and far to meet company willing to join you at the table.

There are many ways in which one walks through the woods, from the jostling rush of the weekend hiker to the controlled, glacial pace of the stalker.   A still-hunter crouches and creeps, often crawls as a stalk reaches its climax, his movement almost undetectable, his wish to meld completely with his surroundings.  As his title denotes, he spends more time still than moving, yet he slowly makes his way forward in search of prey.  I once read the still-hunter should imagine himself as the minute hand of a clock, in motion but nearly imperceptibly so.  A day hiker, at the other end of the spectrum, covers much more ground, making time over terrain to reach a predestined goal.  Our friendly day hiker (birder, backpacker, snowshoe...er?) has miles to go and pressing matters to attend to, it would appear.

Somewhere in the grey middle we find the wanderer.  I've been both the still-hunter and the rambling hiker, as have many who make their way through the wilds.  I enjoy the entire range of purposes and their relative velocities, but the happy caste of the wanderer is where I most often find myself.  We uplanders pass days following working dogs, we fly fishermen spend hours fighting current and stubbing toes, and we deer hunters invest small eternities simply waiting for a deer to happen by.  Still, as a bloke who enjoys as much time outside without a rod or gun in hand as with, much of my time is spent happily bushwhacking as one of the wanderers.

It behooves us to remember here, as Tolkien taught us, not all those who wander are lost.  Many times, a good ramble can and will put us in the hunt, whether it be for mushrooms, a cute Badger girl in pink Wellies, or fresh cheese curds.  Though I suggest hopping in the truck to find the curds.  This, then, is precisely where the morel hunter finds himself, a wanderer.

Morels are supposed to grow most commonly in certain places, near certain things.  Any article or forum discussion on the topic will quickly lead the casual reader to believe the he or she need only seek out dead or dying elm trees.  Or fruit trees and the shady side of poplars.  Or the un-glaciated sand of a dry creek bed where a prehistoric heron once took a crap.  The lording mysticism can get a little daunting sometimes.

The truth is, morels can pop up nearly anywhere within their native range when they deem the weather acceptable.  Almost every year, somebody within our little mycological cult has a story of morels being discovered in somebody's lawn or down in the sand by the dump.  It happens.  Often, the only way to find them with any consistency is to put your boots in the dirt, and get to gettin'.  So the hopeful morel hunter ambles slowly from one likely looking haunt to the next, stopping often to peer into the thick brush or under the may apples.  Wandering with purpose if there is such a thing.


Confession time: I've got a ringer.

I want to say that I've been under the morel spell for six or seven years, which probably makes it about a decade in truth, considering the way memory works.  Those first years were spent happily hiking, but not often finding.  Though I can't recall the exact year, I know the total keep from my rookie season of seeking morels amounted to only the left-side shed from a six-point buck.  As happy as I was with my find, it was pretty crunchy sautéed with spring onions.

Only through the willingness to cover a lot of ground in likely areas did I manage to eek out a few earthy fungi for my dinner in the early days.  Morels began to grace my plate slightly more often than they had, thanks to experience and plenty of walking in the rain. I slowly added a handful of semi-reliable spots to my list of likely check-ins, and a few more that always look good but never produce.  Left to my own devices, I was an avid hunter and opportunistic gatherer of morels at best.

That all changed one day a few years ago.  I was at the University of Wisconsin Varsity Band Spring Concert, a place one might not expect to find a lot of inside information on morels, but they came up in conversation.  As I was happily relating my find of a few morels earlier that week, my friend Woody invited me out to his farm, which happens to be outstanding morel country.  He assured me that if I wanted to up my take from a plateful here and there to something much more substantial, I could do so out at his place.  It was too late for a trip that year, but I made my way out there the following spring, and he hasn't been able to get rid of me since.

To a guy who was used to gathering enough morels in a day to feed himself and a single dinner guest, Woody's farm was an eye-popping revelation.  Morels were measured in pounds, not single digits.

Right on, Woody!

With him as my guide, we scored a few pounds of mushrooms from the soggy slope of a ridge in just a couple short hours that first year.  I couldn't believe it.  He doesn't know this, but I stopped on the way home from that trip at the boat launch on the Wisconsin River to answer the call of nature.  Business taken care of, I suddenly gave an almost involuntary whoop and fist pump to the universe, standing there alone in the gravel turn-out.  To that point in my life, I hadn't known a grown man could fist pump for mushrooms like Kirk Gibson gimping around second base in the '88 Series.

I've been out to the farm three times now for morels, I believe.  Every year we are greeted by rain and thunder in the steep green woods, every year his kids have grown another foot.  And every year morels are gathered by the bag full.  He's more experienced than I am, sees them more readily hiding in the grass, always has a bigger bag at the end of the day, but I'm catching up.  I only need another decade of practice, Woody.

  
There has come from all this mushroom hunting an unexpected outcome I'm grateful for.  Before he invited me to pick morels, I hadn't been seeing Woody much at all.  The addition of one trip a year to walk in the woods together isn't a lot, we really should do more, but it's more than we were getting together before.  And "The Morel Dinner" has become an annual rite in my immediate family.  I call to remind the lucky ones that it's coming when I start to find the first few morels of spring.  They get another call or text when Woody lets me know it's time to head out to the farm with my rain gear.  Finally, we gather to celebrate the harvest of morels every year now, with venison and risotto, fresh asparagus and fiddleheads, wine and cheer.

Little doubt exists in my mind that the morel is the king of the spring mushrooms around here.  The legendary profile, honeycomb obelisk on a stump, leads to ease of ease of identification, the deep musty aroma that fills the truck as I carry them back home, the simple joy of a few of them in an omelet with a dab of goat cheese... all of it is well earned by the humble little fungi.  I believe, though, that I'm most thankful for the fellowship garnered by the hunting, gathering, and eating of morels together.

   

Tree Rat Dreams

I'm steadily approaching four decades bumbling around our little blue marble, and I'm still surprised at how my brain works.  Sometimes at how well it works, more often at how it fails to work at all, but mostly, the tangents and obsessions it frequently enjoys with or without my consent.

Since my last post on the joys of simple squirrel hunting, there has been little but visions of the delicious little tree rats dancing in my head.  I kid you not, there have been dreams about squirrel hunting.  Full-on, I can hear the snow under my feet, dreams!  Other men dream of scantily clad women or soaring through the air.  Sometimes both at the same time.  I dream about buck-toothed rodents through a peep sight.  What would Dr. Freud say about that?

I've made the most of this current unexplained obsession, hunting them frequently.  It's a wonderful time of year to be out in the woods.  They are almost devoid of human presence even in my populous neck of the woods.  There are a few snowmobilers and cross-country skiers (a past obsession of mine), but most of the hunting seasons are closed, so as a dude on a pair of snowshoes with a rifle strapped to my back, I generally have the joint to myself.

I've walked in the sun until I earned raccoon eyes behind polarized sunglasses, and fallen asleep sitting at the base of a surprisingly comfortable shagbark hickory.  I've enjoyed a hot lunch, my legs swinging over the precipice of a sharp gulley like a kid on a bar stool, whispering and basking in the afternoon warmth with a good friend.  I've drunk deeply from a flowing spring, very nearly fallen on my face, and generally had a helluva good time in the past couple weeks.  Made my share of nice shots too.

I even learned a new method for cleaning them, thanks to the wonders of YouTube.  Brunswick Stew, squirrel pot pie, and nutty squirrels fried in butter with shallots and chanterelles have been consumed at my table, alongside a host of the wonderfully dark and strong winter beers we have this time of year. 

In short, it has been squirrel-palooza around here lately.  And it isn't enough yet.  I plan to hunt them at least a couple more times before the season runs out at the end of the month.  I had to buy another brick of subsonic .22 shells.  I had to wash my snow camo jacket after so many outings, lest even the little limb rats smell me coming a mile away.  I've fallen in love all over again with my boyhood rifle.  The occasional missed shot serves only to keep my legs pumping up over the next ridge.  Like Bacchus, my thirst cannot be slaked.

While this latest obsession, approaching unhealthy fanaticism as it is, came rather unexpectedly with a single invite to go hunting, other trance-inducing fixations come at more predictable intervals.  All this tromping around the timber with fluffy-tail fever has cut into my ice fishing, and I do regret that somewhat, but I'm more well prepared to deal with the upcoming annual preoccupations.

One day near the end of February or beginning of March, I will sit at the desk directly behind me in this room, and tie a few flies.  Just a handful to replace the flies I donated to overhanging brush and submerged logs last year, nothing that would require a Zoloft prescription.  Then I will start to frequent an internet fly-tying forum I belong to more often, gazing in wonderment (and a little envy) at the beautiful ties of the other members.  The ice will begin to recede from my favorite bluegill holes, the fly tying catalogs will clog the mailbox, somebody will ask me for a dozen of that fly that worked wonders for them last year, and I will again become transfixed.

The TV will remain dark almost exclusively.  Workouts and after-work fishing trips will be forgone with nary a care.  Dinner will be forgotten.  Gasp!  Phone calls will go unanswered, and a shower or two may even be skipped.  The situation can get a little ugly when there's a short in the wiring, and things slip out of control.  Look at Gary Busey.  

Sometime around the middle of April, I will emerge from this room like a bear from the den.  Eyes bloodshot and weary from precision work and my refusal to admit the possible need for a pair of drug store reading glasses, fingers calloused and sore from packing and prodding, deer hair clippings and feather pieces in my hair.  With fly boxes overflowing and confidence in my smallie ammunition for the year, I will retire the vice for the most part, and take a nap.  Until the ice begins to fade again next year.

Which is convenient because shortly after I've come out of hibernation at the fly tying bench, the venerable morel mushroom will come into season.  Prized for their rich earthy flavor and ease of identification, no other fungi in Wisconsin is pursued with the fervor and passion given to the diminutive honeycomb obelisk of the mighty morel.

Recipes and folklore abound in the cult-like following of the morel.  How to find them, preserve them, cook them; everyone has an idea or an anecdote or two.  There are books, forums, and walking tours dedicated to finding this mycological marvel.  Restaurants are named after it.  Mushroom hunters hide their secret spots with the maniacal zeal of wizened trout fishermen.  As a seasonal locavore, my personal menu varies throughout the year.  No meal, not a single one, is more looked forward to, obsessed about, and fawningly doted over than that first morel dinner of the year.  I dream about that meal, but that somehow seems more sane than dreaming about squirrels.  You'll just have to keep reading this blog to find out what it is.

I searched for years with varying degrees of success before my friend Woody invited me out to his farm in the heart of morel country.  I still grab my favorite walking stick and tour the woods on my own as the calendar slinks up on Mother's Day, and I do well at times.  I can think of little better for the body and spirit than a good long walk in the Spring woods, but I know when I see Woody's name pop up on my phone, it ain't about the hike anymore.  Enough with the romance and foreplay, it's time to get some.

Thanks, Woody!