This is Nuts!

I dumped out my morning haul of hickory nuts today, and they just landed like that.  I swear!

A Tenderloin, Found

I've written here before, a couple times I think, concerning how I often view the calendar year in terms of outdoor milestones.  That first time the chill catches your breath one fall morning when you step out the door, the arrival of morels and ramps from some mystical land where they overwinter, the many openings days of fishing and hunting seasons -- they all hold special places as they roll by.

As I perused the freezer recently, seeking sustenance and taking stock of the available space I'm going to need come meat gathering time, I was confronted with yet another of those yearly moments in the life of an outdoorsman.  And not one I enjoy -- the final pack of venison.



I don't watch a lot of hunting or fishing on TV, mostly because there are very few shows that depict the sorts of hunting and fishing I like to do, and certainly not on a level based in reality.  But this time of year, I do find myself parked in front of the tube at the end of the day, watching some dude pass on bigger deer than I will ever see because they aren't up to his inflated television host standards.

It's a fine diversion, definitely gets the blood flowing for hunting, but it doesn't relate to my personal proclivities very well.  I don't hunt over farm fields because there are none where we hunt, I can't score deer on the hoof mostly because I've never seen anything bigger than a rack the TV hosts would scoff at in the woods, and most of all, because the great majority of the time, I'd rather be following a dog with shotgun in hand.

And while we're at it, a slightly grumpy aside: Would a well shot and produced upland hunting show be too much to ask among the tsunami of Bubba and His Tree Stand deer hunting shows currently flooding the market?  I realize birds like grouse and woodcock would be extremely difficult to shoot with cameras (try it with a 20 gauge), but other than that pesky detail you've got all the makings of great TV there.  The guns and gear, the dogs, the fall woods -- throw some thoughtful Flip Pallot-esque narration over the top, get a slow pull on the campfire or a macro shot of some dew in the grass... boom.  That show is never coming off my DVR.  At the very least, we should give some serious consideration to banning all hunting hosts from recording their own theme song on an ill-tuned guitar in their basement.  Think about it.

Anyway...

If it weren't for the deer camp life, that awesome crew of guys, and the treasured delicious meat, deer hunting would be somewhere in the middle of the pack as far as things I want to spend time in the woods doing.  As it stands now, it remains at the pinnacle of my outdoor year because of those two factors -- the men I love to spend time with next to the glowing fire and the venison.

So, I can say without much of a wry grin that finding the last pack of venison in the freezer is an important moment in my year.  It means that venison will not again grace my table until I spend time in a blind or stand.  Until I wait patiently, shoot true, and spill some blood.  Kinda.

I'm lucky enough to hunt with a group of men who have agreed by long tradition to split all the venison we gather evenly between us.  As it happens, I finished last year's deer hunting endeavors, both during the normal gun season and using crop damage permits on a farm, without ever having fired a rifle shot.  I had a deer in the scope once during gun season, but it was bald and I was without a doe permit.  That was it.  I sat and pondered, I shivered, I got up in the dark and shuffled around with sleep in my eyes, I listened and hoped on the stand; but I was never granted the opportunity.  I believe most of us hunters would grudgingly agree that it should be that way sometimes.

Thankfully, my generous hunting partners had more luck, and I found my freezer full at the end of November.

None of that makes the final chunk of venison loin, wrapped in white butcher paper with a tiny rivulet of blood-gone-brown frozen on one end, any less special to me.  If anything, it makes me thankful for the company I keep in deer camp.  If it weren't for them, this would've been a winter conspicuously void of venison, a privation I do not wish to endure.



I try to have all the unprepared venison (that not made into breakfast sausage, bratwurst, etc.) out of the freezer and into my belly by early spring.  It tastes better that way, and has been a habit for so long that it just seems "right" somehow now.  The brats do taste better on the grill during summer though.

Finding a hidden venison tenderloin, the very namesake of this blog and its profile picture on Facebook, in the depths of the freezer near the end of August is a bit of a blessing in disguise.  Even well cared for, properly cleaned and wrapped,  it will not taste so outstanding as fresh venison.  Nor will it even taste as good as it would've 6 months ago, whether that be a function of time in the freezer or my mindset that I should've eaten it in March.  Probably a bit of both going on there, though it was certainly no longer in absolute pristine condition in this case.

Now, here's the part where the cook in me went just a bit off the rails, I think.  Not that the results weren't completely delicious and satisfying, it's just that I could have chosen a better time and place (and a fresher hunk of Bambi)  for the dish I decided to prepare.



One of the problems with having unlimited access to information at the tips of one's fingers throughout the year is that it can sometimes leave the more adventuresome cooks among us flailing about with grandiose plans of suspect origin.

I'd seen a picture of venison carpaccio somewhere in the vast cosmos of the internet back in early winter, and thought to myself... Oooo... I need that in my face, pronto.  Then it was August and, never having put together the carpaccio, I spied a clump of edible yellow wood sorrel and the thought of it popped back to the fore of that enthusiastic, if slightly capricious, cooking corner of my brain.

Some confuse wood sorrel with clover thanks to those tri-lobal leaves

Which is sort of surprising because wood sorrel, with it's delightfully zingy sweet & sourness, is what most would consider a weed around here.  It grows in the cracks of sidewalks and just about everywhere else.  If you live anywhere around the same latitude I do and can see your yard from where you're reading this, and you aren't maniacal with the application of Weed-n-Feed, I will freely bet there's a bunch of wood sorrel in your field of vision.  Why noticing it for the ten thousandth time suddenly led to a connection with a picture I'd seen more than half a year ago will have to remain a mystery, but there it is.  I set about preparing a raw meat dish with venison frozen for 10 months.  Great plan.

I gathered up some wood sorrel from the edges of the woods, paying particular attention to find some of the minuscule yellow flowers because I wanted them on the plate.  Horseradish seemed like a good idea so I dug up a gob from the corner of the garden where they are currently staging for a world takeover.  Last to join the party was a leftover beet from the garden I'd thrown in the smoker on a whim earlier in the week with some pork.  That seemed like a good idea too, next to the chopped sage and rosemary I planned to roll my tenderloin in.

There's no real story in the cooking of the carpaccio... because there's almost no cooking carpaccio.  I seared it very quickly in a hot cast iron pan, rolled it in the chopped herbs from pots on the deck, and wrapped it in plastic wrap to chill out in the freezer for a couple hours.  Once thoroughly chilled it was ready to be sliced thinly and laid on the plate with the rest of the players.  If you count grating the horseradish and mixing it up with some Greek yogurt as "cooking," I did that too.

Thumbprint, 2 o'clock. Keep yer meat hooks off the plate, numbskull.

Happily, for one of the very few times in my life, I managed to mostly avoid my standard, ham-fisted, subtle-as-a-jackhammer plating style.  It only took a couple decades to learn that if I put about half as much on the plate as I think I need to, it ends up looking a lot less like Jackson Pollock did it while being assaulted by a gorilla.  I even did the spoon drag thing with the horsey sauce because it felt right to be a little fancy pants here.  A little technical knife work on the beet too, simply because that always makes me happy.

The verdict: The horseradish sauce was really quite good, and the smoked beet -- something I'd never even considered until I was walking by the running smoker with a fortuitous armful of beets from the garden -- may have been my favorite part.  Although I will admit that the fun (if a little pretentious) knife work did mitigate some of that smoke flavor.  Most of it was obviously on the outer reaches of the beet, where it was conveniently enjoyed by the chopper guy before the uniform little cubes from the center of the sphere ever made it to the plate.

The venison itself tasted like, well... it tasted like it'd been in a freezer for the better part of a year; sage, rosemary, and sear notwithstanding.  It was still delicious, and every bit was gobbled up with alacrity and horseradish sauce, but my brain and mouth both knew full well that it will be so much more robust and alive come November when it will be that much fresher... more fresh... whatever.  The capers and sorrel added what I thought was just about the perfect amount of zing and salt to the entire gathering.

Bringing us to the point and lesson that every cook worth his favorite knife learns well early on -- cook with the season and your food will be that much better, artfully plated or not.  It remains only to wait for deer shooting season, and to smoke some more beets.  Those things were amazing.

Gratuitous Food Porn

Then the Internet Happened

There's a state of mind that comes about sometimes.  I'm grateful when it does, I actively seek it out, and I believe a lot of us who spend time off the pavement are seeking it as much as anything else.

When I sit in my ice fishing shanty, nothing but the hiss of the heater and the gentle glow of the flasher to keep me company, I find myself sucking into... myself, if you'll permit me the horrible turn of phrase.  The world outside that thin layer of canvas disappears and, for at least a little while, there is nothing to be found in the galaxy other than what I can touch within easy reach.  It's a cocoon, a hideaway.  It is, to me, supremely comfortable.  The catching of fish, at that point, is so remotely inconsequential, it nearly fails to enter the equation.

On the right lake, you can sometimes have the whole place to yourself

When I walk through the woods.  When I walk through the woods until that perfect state arrives in which my feet are not yet sore and barking, my legs are heavy but not yet gone to clay, I'm tired but in the midst of a slow-motion runner's high, and the quarry no longer matters.  I walk to achieve this state as much as I do to powder a grouse in the slanting morning light or put fungi on my table.  And I do it alone a lot.  Not that I dislike the company of those I hunt and fish with, but things just seem to make more sense when I'm on my own most of the time.  There's no keeping pace, subtle competition is nowhere to be found.  If you've ever tried to coordinate a deer drive or bird hunt through heavy cover and over rugged terrain with a large group, you know that it can be, at times, more hassle than it's worth.

And so I remained happily alone in the dark, so to speak, for quite some time.  I've spent time with my "Madison friends" (so delineated not only by their geographic existence, but their relative disinterest in outdoor sports) during the week, and wandered off to chase protein and sunsets alone quite often on the weekends.  It was fulfilling, and obviously interspersed with weekends I treasured with my outdoor buds. 

The difference between alone and lonely is mostly a matter of comfort with oneself, and that works for me.  Whether I ever produce anything worthwhile again or not, the fact is that this ginormous melon on my neck not only barely fits in most hats, there's also a creative mind sloshing around in there that craves quiet time to think -- sometimes deeply about the meaning of things, often about the perfect piece of pie... and redheads.

In the span of a couple years I suffered a great many painfully sickening losses.  So for a time I'd been cruising along in solo mode, adjusting to a life irrevocably wounded.  People worried about me.  They talked of me in hushed tones and "stopped by" a lot.  They used kid gloves with me during the holidays, knowing that almost everyone I'd had was gone.  Somebody gave me a canned ham once, which would've been very sweet if I were a 1970's housewife with a surplus of pineapple rings and maraschino cherries.  They marveled at my "toughness," which never really existed, and when they'd had enough cocktails, awkwardly congratulated me for not becoming a lop of weeping goo.  Insert vaguely uncomfortable man-hugging.

It was all very overwhelming and sweet, and I am forever indebted to every one of them for their love and compassion, but my one true respite throughout it all was grabbing a rod or a gun or a kayak paddle, and pointing my sniffer into the wind, alone.

Eventually we all got on, family, friends and I, with being the ones still above ground together, and things got as back to normal as they ever will be.  I continued my lone jaunts even as I began to treasure my time in deer camp or with the bird hunting boys more and more.

Then the internet happened for me.  A social media explosion, more precisely, akin to the big bang; Google Earth, GIS and all the other useful outdoor cyber-tools notwithstanding.  Before the pulverizing avalanche of heartache beset my family and I, I'd joined an ice fishing forum.  I remember the day.  People were sick and in the hospital.  I wanted to go fishing, but obligations with out-of-date waiting room magazines bound me from the ice.  So I clicked around and found the forum, which will remain nameless here because I was later ejected for being too likable and funny.  Also for toeing the line right up to profanity, quite creatively, I thought. 

While I am and was an electronics junky, far from a stranger to LEDs and touch screens, I'd never joined an internet forum before that.  I'd never used any social media.  I was content to eat my lunch quietly on a stump in the swamp, and look at my own pictures when I got home.  I only begrudgingly use Facebook now to halfheartedly promote this collection of rambling drivel, and then not very often.  My current Instagram addiction may be a different matter, but I try to convince myself that it's only related to my affection for, and envy of, quality photography.

It turns out the sweaty palms and butterflies associated with joining that first ice fishing forum were completely unfounded.  While that community could not abide my penchant for playfully twisting the language right to the edge of acceptable public use, I did meet there a group of outdoorsmen I'm still in daily contact with today.  All of us too fantastic in form and thought to mix with the great unwashed, we formed our own private outdoor forum that still thrives to this moment.  I can alt+tab over to it as I type this, and they will probably razz me for being a verbose, blathering donkey when they read it.

This is a group of men who have grown together, built cyber-camaraderie over the last half decade.  And not just over the ether of the interwebs.  I've flown halfway across the country to fish with some of them.  One guy actually had the impudence to move to Montana without taking the rest of us.  I hope to sully his home with my presence and frightening fly casting someday.

It has become more than an outdoor forum.  It's a community.  I know their kids' names.  We share our real life victories and defeats.  They comforted me when everyone was dying.  I stood up in one of their weddings.  All because some nerds at MIT and DARPA wanted to talk to each other back in the day.

Draw a horizontal line across Wisconsin from La Crosse to Sheboygan.  Rotate it clockwise a tick, and you're damn near connecting my house to that of my good friend Adam, but we never would have met without the internet.  Packer games, ice fishing, talk of girls, booze-soaked rowdy wedding receptions; we could have shared none of them had we not each clicked on the link to that ice fishing forum.

After years of chatting through the screen, Adam and I finally meet

I belong to many internet forums now, some related to the outdoors and others not.  I'm even starting to get the hang of this Twitter fad.  As is true for all of us, though, my closest  personal friends will always remain nearest my heart.  The Lathrop Street gang from back in the days when a house cup and a marginally clean shirt made you a celebrity, the guys I marched with, the retired crew up in deer camp who are probably hoisting one and talking about how cool they used to be right now, and Brian, who was there with Dad when I was born and still shoots woodcock faster than I do -- these are my people.

This blog is a form of social media I never imagined myself being involved with, but it has led to acquaintances all over cyberspace.  I read some of your wonderful writings, see your gorgeous pictures, and am inspired to write and cook and chase game more than I ever have been.  Thank you.  But while we're at it, what's up with all the stickers?  I may be a relative social media noob, but where are you people sticking all these things?  Seriously.

Still, I often find it most comfortable to go it alone.  If you're ever in Wisconsin and you see a lone fly fisherman casting like he's being stung in the face by invisible hornets... or a solo bird hunter miss an easy passing shot... or a solitary mushroom seeker arresting a fall in the brush with his face, stop and say hello.  It's probably me.

Thoreau's Rust

It wasn't that many years ago I attended eight or nine weddings in a single season.  I can't even remember how many there were or who they were all for.  Summer weddings all run together after a while -- hot church, pretty dresses, open bar, possible bourbon-fueled horrific dancing. Thankfully for my gift and travel budgets (and waning tolerance of  the Chicken Dance), that ridiculous rate has not continued.  I'm resting comfortably at four mandatory nuptial celebrations this year, leaving more summer weekends for whatever I wish to do with them.  But even with a relatively rare open weekend currently staring me in the face, there just isn't much for me to do outside at the moment.

Henry David Thoreau stated that he needed to walk in the woods every day lest he "acquire some rust."  I haven't walked in the woods or water for more than a half-hearted gambit in weeks.  I have become a soft and reluctant slave to the wonders of central air.  There are almost no hunting seasons open right now, and the drought and abominable temperatures have conspired to render my flowing home waters little more than somber rills of considerable thermogenic prowess.  Due to the drought, all the counties that entail my home fishing waters within a couple hours' drive have been declared a natural disaster area by the federal government.  Judging by the pitiful state of the streams, I would have to agree.  It's easy for me to get angry and flustered about the state of things, but then I remember to try to only worry about the stuff I can control.  And that even if all were refulgent tumbling stream and idyllic glade this year, summer weekends are often surrendered to other non-outdoorsy pursuits so I'm probably not missing that much in the end.

Were I a gardener, I'm sure I would have plenty to do. I am the oldest son of a Master Gardener who practiced his beloved hobby with a zeal generally reserved for those deemed headed for the nut house.  It is perhaps odd that I picked up most of his other outdoor loves, but somehow the green horticulture gene seems to remain recessive in me.  I suffered through my indentured servitude, kneeling on closed cell foam or cardboard, for many more hours of my upbringing than I care to recall.  I knew what raised lasagna beds were before they were even called that, and I swear that, for a while there as a dust-covered tike, I thought pvc pipe was made specifically for the purposes of building hoop houses.

While I treasure nearly every moment I spend outside, I have little wish to garden, especially considering that I live minutes from one of the most celebrated farmer's markets in the country.  I fish and hunt, pick the occasional sack o' shrooms or greenery, then happily hand cash over mountains of brilliant produce bordering the capitol square here in Madison, in order to enjoy the glorious peas or melons or whatever it may be, next to my fairly chased protein and fungi.

That attitude may be eroding slightly as I age, however.  In recent years I have begun to keep a battery of herbs standing sentry in hideously counterfeit terra cotta strawberry pots at the corners of the garage, something I swore I would never do until I considered my monthly expenditure on bubble packs of basil.  That was a big concession for me, but I still do not see the days of hauling loads of organic matter to recently constructed garden beds in my future.  I know which booths sell the best heirloom 'maters up on the square, know some of the proprietors by name even, and that is enough for me at the moment.

Foraging follows as the next step in progression of logic.  Were I a more adept, involved forager I would certainly have a lot more to do outside this summer.  But I pretty much stick to the so-called Foolproof Four when it comes to mushrooms (puffball, sulphur shelf, morel, chantarelle - as I learned them) with the occasional shaggy mane thrown in.  Anymore species than that, I start to worry about my internal organs turning to goo.  Berries I am comfortable identifying, and scarfing down like a bear when presented with the chance.  I can identify and collect probably a couple dozen of the various leafy green yummies found around, but I almost never think to until I see them, and start stuffing them in my fishing or hunting vest.  An opportunistic forager, at best.   

So, with "my" streams parched and hunting seasons closed, here I sit in a café because I often feel more relaxed, write more clearly, in new-to-me environs.  I ordered something more adventurous than my standard iced coffee, and have been presented with a libation resembling more a chilled flagon of diabetes than the dark and intense beverage I desired.  My mistake.  With the mercury rocketing toward the century mark again, while the dew point hovers somewhere between stifling and drywall mud, my current caffeinated hide is nestled in the corner of bigger building.  As I walked in, I could hear the rooftop air conditioners roaring away like locomotives in a desperate race to keep things livable here down below.

Perhaps an impromptu camp run is in order this weekend, to fish the slightly cooler northern waters, and daydream about all the pleasure fall will bring up there.

I am not the only outdoorsman growing sweaty and restless.  The "Campmeister," owner and perhaps figurehead of our camp, continues with his amusing emails that count down the days until the opening day of gun deer season, and record all the things we must do and buy before then.  I have been reminded numerous times by him that I'll need a new truck and deer rifle come November in order to maintain my membership, simply because he wants to use them.

Brian texted me last night without forewarning.  Five simple words: Is it hunting season yet?  We joked about yearning for the bloodied backs of hands often earned in the woodcock thickets, and hassled each other over missed birds of the future and past.

Ruffed grouse are the undisputed king of upland game birds in northern Wisconsin, and north-central Wisconsin is considered ruffed grouse Mecca to many uplanders from all over the world, but we don't have the birds here in the southern reaches much at all.  We used to when I was a kid, along with wild pheasants, but we don't anymore.  Now we have subdivisions and Pier One Imports, which if you are reading this, I think you'll agree, is not the loveliest of trades.  I have to drive about three hours north from where I sit right now to even have a chance at a grouse when I step into the thick stuff.

So we are specialized and fairly rare dedicated woodcock hunters, Brian and I.  The vast majority of upland hunters chase grouse, quail, pheasant, and a handful other species with unfailing determination and contentment while the diminutive timberdoodle gets relegated to second class status.  The woodcock gets little respect.  Grouse might be tougher to hit in cover, but I adore the twittering flush and challenging corkscrew flight path the camouflaged woodcock brings to the fight.  They can be found with relative ease around here, and found with relative ease almost everywhere when the migratory flights are passing through, so the bulbous-headed bog sucker has become our primary quarry.  I cannot get enough of chasing them through the mushy bottoms, prickly thickets, and up on top of the coulees in the western part of our state.

 If you're willing to hump it all the way up, they might be in the sumacs on top.  Or they might not.

And the faintly liver-like flavor of the red breast found under those feathers?  Tell you what, you hang on to your braunschwieger and sandwich spread.  I'll be perfectly content with my woodcock "pâté" on some crusty grilled bread with a good dark porter.  

I remember my first woodcock fondly and clearly.  Those images we share of upland hunting in the fall: the shimmering popples, the balsam-laden meandering creek bottom, the lone hawthorn hidden back from the trail that always seems to shelter a bird or two.  None of those were there for my first woodcock.  The bird flushed wild to my left and behind as we were trudging back to the vehicles, in an ugly little vine-choked slough along the gravel road that lead to the parking lot.  There was no arcing flight of bird or puff of feathers settling gently in the sun.  Honestly, I don't even remember seeing the bird, that ditch being so thick and tough to see through.  Still, I spun, I shot, and I was pierced by Cupid's arrow for chasing that silly looking little bird.
 

   Make no mistake.  We'll hit the road, and chase down some partridge this fall as well.

Which all calls into question something I've stated numerous times, both here and in everyday life before.  I have asserted that I don't need a rod or gun in my hands to enjoy my time outside.  I still believe that, but this summer has challenged my stance.  Frankly, it is easier and a lot more comfortable to plop down in the AC, and drink this melted candy bar.

Any hunter or fisherman who has been at this as long as my friends and I have know that we practice our chosen pastime not for the game itself, but because of the places it takes us.  I'm thinking of a place right now, almost unbearably green and full of life, that I never would have known had I not had a fly rod in my hand at the time.  I savor dozens of those places in my mind.  There are hundreds of thousands more that I will never know in my home state alone.

We fish against the odds, trying to fool the minute brains of fish into thinking bits of fur and feather are real insects or baitfish.  We push through the cover, fighting a certain losing battle with caloric net loss against the birds we will bag for the dinner table.  Living strictly on wild game in the modern world is a near impossibility with all the driving and expensive shells required.  I don't think it can be done.  Either you or your truck will starve.  Aside from that, who would want to?  I'm proud to say I do a lot of my own killing for the dinner table, but sometimes you simply need a succulent slab of pork or beef to throw on the grill, and I'm not allowed to shoot those.  So we don't do it solely for the food, though there is most assuredly a component of that.  We paddle long and hard against the wind to reach the revered honey hole, not only for the sustenance or joy of fighting a big fish, but because it takes us to that place.

Sometimes it is difficult to put your boots in the dirt and go when there is little impetus from the sporting side of things.  Now, for example.  The heat and humidity are convenient excuses that I've fallen prey to recently.  The lack of rain is a real problem to a small stream fisherman like me, but there are certainly more waters to fish.  It's time to get out the Gazetteer, and do a little exploring.   As soon as the weather settles into a slightly more humane pattern, I will force myself to get out there and work up a good lather, cover some ground and see what I see.  To shake off some of Thoreau's rust.



Note: If you are a local and you read this immediately upon posting, you may have noticed that the temperatures and humidity referenced herein do not coincide with those currently happening outside.  You're on to my secret.  I generally let these posts marinate for a couple days before I proofread, re-write, edit, and try to un-suck them as much as possible.  If I didn't do it this way, the shocking number of typos, non-sequiturs, and basic cretinism would render you unable to read this blog, or perhaps anything, ever again.  Thanks for checking in. 

Of Sweat and Flannel

According to the all-seeing eye of the National Weather Service, we are now experiencing an official severe drought over here in my neck of the woods, with no rain in the foreseeable future.  Glad they cleared that up.  I'd been wondering why my lawn has taken on the shade of a blond roux, puzzling over my home smallie water, and its resemblance more to a rock garden than a stream at the moment.

Not only that, but we suffered brutal record temperatures most of last week.  I personally saw 106˚ accompanied by sopping wet dew points on two different occasions.  That's just uncalled for here in America's Dairyland.  When one travels from Wisconsin to warmer climes, towering mercury is a novelty, something to be braved and remarked upon.  I've experienced blast furnace Phoenix and jungle-wet Baton Rouge, among others.  They were all bearable, if not entirely enjoyable, only because I could say I'd done it.  Been there, did my best to make like a local.  When that same heat follows me home, smacks me on my sweaty red face, it's just soul-deadening.

I enjoy all seasons outside.  Point to a week on the calendar, I'll have a fair idea what I hope to be doing then; armed with rod, gun, foraging bag, or simply my favorite pair of boots.  If I were forced to arbitrarily lay aside a couple of those weeks, hop into one of those slightly creepy, claustrophobic stasis beds from a science fiction movie for a fortnight,  I freely admit I would aim for the bull's eye encompassing the dread high heat of summer.

I should be running to "my" stream after work these days.  No epic fishing excursions that take on lives of their own, mind you, merely a quick check-in a few times a week.  I know it better than any other water, and it produces fish for me most times I stop to visit.  Sadly, thanks to the combination of crushing heat and no rain, it has been rendered practically unfishable for the moment.  That is not the end of the world, it happens every few summers, but it does rob us of some of the joyful spontaneity of the fishing quickie.

If nothing were rotten in the state of Denmark, I'd also be gathering chanterelle mushrooms right now.  I can almost taste them, almost smell that earthy aroma, but I cannot find them, thanks to the parched earth tactics currently being employed by Mother Nature.  I checked my favorite spot late last week, neck crimson and sticky, salt stinging my eyes, only to confirm that there were no fungi to be found there.  It was a pleasant hike if you enjoy trudging up and down oak forested hillsides in a sauna.  The only squirrel I saw looked as hot and panty as I felt, and I think he wondered just what I was doing out there.  Similar thoughts had occurred to me.

Shortly thereafter, Trout Caviar's gorgeous pictures of a chanterelle-based salad served only to pique my envy and frustration.  Emotions might've grown a bit out of control were it not for his calming, nearly libidinous foodie photos and my minty mojito close at hand.

Of course, one can simply purchase the chanterelles I crave, but that always seems a touch boorish to me for some reason.  Much like wild game and sex, a man shouldn't have to pay for wild mushrooms if at all possible, but I am only human after all, and I caved to my need for the shrooms after only a few days of resistance. 

Fortunately, even in the presence of mirages shimmering off every flat surface under a pounding sun, acres of pastel clusters appear in the form of the milkweed flower.  Being half a Scandinavian mutt myself, I've pickled nearly everything short of a doorstop, or have enjoyed such treats pickled by others.  Smelt and pike, Brussels sprouts and ramps, eggs and asparagus and sugar snap peas-- even some cucumbers on occasion, but I've never pickled milkweed pods, which seems odd to me now as they do sort of resemble fat little gherkins.  I'd never even considered it, a personal shortcoming I hope to overcome post haste.



We denizens of the Midwest know well, however, that punishing heat and drought cannot last.  Living closer to the center of a massive continent than our compatriots nearer the coasts, we are lucky to experience a wider climatic range than those more temperate, consistent environs.  In short, we have seasons, and I, for one, am pretty happy about that.  Among my travels, I've also been in Tucson for a Badger bowl game near the new year holiday, and let me state plainly: garland on a saguaro does not Christmas make for this Yankee.

As the seasons of summer and winter are polar opposites, so are my feelings toward them.  Between the two, I'm a  praise-Jesus-and-pass-the-ammunition affirmed man of winter for many reasons, some of which I've stated here before.

I'm a gear and clothes nerd for one thing.  There is only so much pride of ownership to be found in a wicking t-shirt and a pair of shorts while earth bakes underfoot.  Conversely, when the snow flies and mercury burrows, there are entire hosts of fragrant wool and fleece to choose from.  Earnest discussions take place concerning the contrasts between natural and synthetic fibers as base layers.   Big chunky boots and a snug balaclava can make a man feel like a northern ninja ready for assault, whether the target be fish, fowl, or fur.  And alone in my ice shanty with only the glow of a lantern and comforting whir of the Vexilar, I find chilly, comfortable peace.

In summer a person can shed only so many clothes in public before the local constabulary makes an unwanted appearance.  While Old Man Winter visits, there are almost always more layers of heavyweight Polypro to be found.  And then there's flannel.  Glorious, glorious flannel.  Give me a thick Woolrich flannel shirt and pair of broken in leather work gloves, I'll move your firewood all day with a silly grin plastered to my mug.  Add a Stormy Kromer, the pinnacle of northwoods style, and we're ready to head to town for dinner and a brandy old fashioned, your treat in exchange for the labor of course.

Honestly, I'll take this over last week every time. (photo courtesy of Adam Schruth)

I fished with a group of friends the morning that picture was taken, though I was in Alpena, MI while the photographer, Adam, was at home in Wisconsin.  The weather was equally tepid in both locations.  We caught only one fish through the ice that arctic day, but such is not always the case.  If you are brave enough, and properly prepared, those deeply sub-zero days can provide very good fishing.

Years ago at the annual "Drink Beer, Burn Wood" celebration with the old guys up at the camp, the thermometer hovered at a benumbed -24 when we awoke.  With the woodstove set to pinging and a hot breakfast in me, I set forth to venture out on the ice while those of receding hairline and perhaps more intelligence gifted through age, decided to stay in the camp.

Fishing in extreme cold is a slow and sometimes cumbersome affair.  It forces you to think, to plan ahead, which is one of the reasons I enjoy it.  Much like stalking a rising fish in warmer months, simply flailing about without a plan will not do.  You'll get cold and tired long before you get your dinner.

The first thing you learn on the south side of zero: plastic breaks.

I set up my portable shanty, being reminded the entire time that slow and steady defeats the cold most of the time, and managed to get that broken heater started using a pair of needle nose pliers.  Then, with slow boreal contentment, I set upon the single greatest fishing day I have ever enjoyed on that lake.

I was fishing with dead smelt under tip-ups, and often had the great and rare pleasure of multiple flags being tripped at once.  The pike were big for that small northern basin, and hungry.  As the wind whispered through the crown of pines around the lake, I eventually flopped prostrate on the ice in appreciation, warmed by contentment and wool, and perfectly happy to be left out in the cold.

Here's hoping the weather breaks soon.  Not all the way to winter yet, but some moderation would be greatly appreciated.  I could do with some ice time, but not just yet.  There are grouse and woodcock to be chased in the thickets before then, fat fall fishes and squirrel pot pie, venison and pheasant for the dinner table before the hammer falls.

Gloves are for pansies... and for putting on immediately after your picture is taken.

  

  

 

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.

   

Old Guys

I was in Milwaukee looking to hit a couple of the Lake Michigan tributaries for steelhead late last week, and needed a place to lay my furry head.  Since a tent set up in the parking lot of a corner gas station seemed like a questionable idea at best, I offered to provide dinner at my younger cousin's apartment in exchange for couch space.  A small group of friends, roommates, and relatives quickly agreed to join us for dinner.

I arrived early in the evening, and got to work, sort of spinning my wheels a little at first like you do cooking in a foreign environment.  You tread water and monkey around a bit looking for cutting boards and the like, but it eventually comes together.  Or you order pizza.

We had a few beers and shared more than a few laughs together, gathered in the kitchen as always seems to happen.  I put together salmon with mango relish and wilted spinach on ancho sweet potatoes and asparagus with lemon butter sauce while sipping beer and enjoying the din of a hot kitchen filled with friends.  The meal was fine, but I believe the Crave Brothers Petit Frère, paired with a torn demi baguette and medjool dates, may have stolen the show before I'd so much as peeled the taters.  That there is some cheesey goodness, I do declare.  I only stepped on the dog once during dinner prep, which I considered the foremost accomplishment of the evening

Hey Chucklehead, quit slopping the food around!

Confused when my alarm startled me from my couchy slumber, the strange quarters and belly full of beer conspired to complicate the matter of finding the bathroom in the dark.  Eventually, dressed and ready to go, I smiled as I crept stealthily down the back stairs.  It has been a while since I had to sneak my way out of an all-female apartment before the sun.

It was apparent as soon as got in the river that the spawning run was almost completely over.  I saw one deserted redd and one fish in a couple hours of fishing.  Like everything else outside this year, the fish had hopped a meteorological wormhole from the end of March to the beginning of May.  I was a few days late and a thousand dollars worth of fly tackle short.

Discouraged but undaunted, I hopped back in the truck, and pointed her due north, out of the city and up the west coast of Lake Michigan.  In the time-honored tradition of internet fishermen everywhere, all streams will remain nameless here, but I soon found myself standing in another burbling ribbon of tributary water, it too nearly devoid of spring chrome.

I know when I've been beaten.  I could've pounded the water, swinging flies blind with little confidence, but there are other species to prey upon out in the woods.  I walked the banks, kept my eyes peeled for new quarry, and eventually found it in the form of ramps.  Delicious spring onions that have since been pickled for use later in the year sprouted from the pockets of my vest until it resembled a poorly constructed ghillie suit.  And for the record, yes, I was on public land open to digging.  The fact that I didn't confirm that via the internet on my phone until later is unimportant now.

It was then, crouching in the sun on the bank of a glistening stream, that I felt something amiss. Nothing blatant, no neon sign blinking and buzzing.  Just a tickle, a niggling wisp of something out of place.  I'd caught the tiniest vibration of something not right, hiding in the periphery.

So I did what you do in that spot.  I became a squatting statue trying to ignore the sound of my own heartbeat.  I watched and listened and waited.  And there it was again, off to my right and downstream.  I still didn't know what it was, but I'd caught a hint of movement this time.  I remained still, struggling to see farther and clearer, trying to evolve into a hawk or a deer.

When it happened the third time, I had it pegged through the crash of riverside fallen trees and brush.  A puff of smoke.  Using careful woodsmanship and stalking skills honed through years of practice, I'd discovered one of the most coveted prizes on the stream and in the forest.  The mysterious and often cantankerous, old guy.

He was in worn, but well cared for gear, and eyed up my own tackle with a cynical stare as I approached.  Chewing on a dime store cigar and staring into the water as if to make the steelhead appear through sheer force of will, he looked as though he might've grown up out of the ground right there, as natural as any other tree stump.  I was greeted with the standard silverback brusque indifference.

You're too late.  Fish'er gone.

Thanks, Old Guy.  I can see that.  Why do you think I'm wandering around the forest with onion tops flopping out of my fly vest?

As is the case with with most of the wizened old cranks you meet out there, his initial bark was all show.  Once I'd demonstrated my worth in the form of passable fishing knowledge, an understanding of local weather patterns, and tacit agreement that the current evil incarnation of government (no matter the current evil incarnation of government) was out to destroy fishing and generally ruin the world, I was accepted into the fold.

We had a great conversation, if with a slightly more radical political bent than I normally adhere to, and I was able to glean a little more fishing knowledge about that spot from him.  The great thing about old guys who have been fishing a spot for as long as I've been alive is that they often share a lot of detail, even if it is buried in ranting and stogie chomping.

I hunt and fish with a lot of them.  For the purpose of a little definition, I'm referring to anyone old enough to be my father, and on up from there.  Brian is going to go ballistic when he reads this, but sorry dude, you're one of them even if you can still kick the asses of men a third your age.  Settle down, it's a term of admiration.

I love them for their stories, I try to shut up and learn when they speak, and I'm constantly amused that they just don't give a slippery shit what they say.  I don't know when you get that pass, when you've seen and lived enough to say anything to anyone, but I can't wait to get my membership card in the mail.  It is my sincerest hope that it only arrive without the stipulation to wear my pants up under my nipples.




I met Dennis back when we had an apartment on Orchard Street, just over the hill from Lake Wingra and Wingra Creek.  I'd seen him time and time again when I'd head down there after work, sitting half asleep in his lawn chair, a couple lines in the water.  Dennis was a devout carp fisherman with the optimistic and patient ways that accompany such an endeavor.  He'd worked for the post office for decades before he retired, and I learned a lot about the city of Madison from him.

Like most old guys, he was set in his ways.  As we became friends, I tried to help him out by attempting to update his ancient gear and techniques.  I made boilies and dough balls, taught him how to tie a hair rig, and got him a reel with a clicker.  Mostly, he was content to mash canned corn onto a treble hook, and drink his warm  PBR into nap time.  He could've caught more fish if he'd cared to update his fishing, but he'd probably caught more than his share already.

He did keep meticulous records of every fish he caught.  Date, time, size, and bait used were religiously recorded in his tattered little notebook.  That always gave me a laugh.  Even funnier to me, he was still a horn dog.  He could barely walk, but he was forever craning around to gaze upon the tanned college girls running the paved path behind us.  He once fell to a knee out of his lawn chair trying to get a good gander.  After I was able to compose myself, I dried my eyes, and offered to install bike mirrors on his chair.  He declined, stating that if he broke his neck staring at a woman, it would be a fine way to meet the Lord.




Our deer camps are predominately filled with old guys, using the definition above.  Some of them are just sliding into old guy-dom, while others have been comfortably there since I was invited to join them almost sixteen years ago.  If I stop to think that some of them will not be there to greet me any longer someday, I can get downright distraught.  Their stories and jokes are fantastic, their knowledge of the land and people is deep and indispensable.  And they've taken more of my money at the card table than I care to admit here.

I don't think they'll mind me stating that they don't always hunt as hard as they may once have, but there is nothing better for me than coming into a warm camp, and being greeted by their cheers and jeers from around the fire.

Old guys rock.

Spring: Stinky Asparagus Pee

The honeymoon has been cut a bit short.  The mercury tumbled down to more average levels the past couple nights, and while we are now experiencing temperatures still above average for this time of year, the nip in the air feels a bit foreign after the record-setting couple of weeks we just went through.

This blip in the cosmic weather trends has certainly been enjoyable for most of us paddlers, fishermen and foragers, but it was a painful reminder for some that Mother Nature holds their financial well being in her fickle hands.  Local syrup producers took it on the chin, a terrible season for them.  Orchard owners are spraying earlier than ever, and standing in wait to see if they will have a crop at all this year.  They can do nothing except wait and see now, like crowding around a craps table in Vegas, betting is closed and there is nothing to do but hope.

Still, the bounty of spring has lightened the hearts of those of us who look forward to her gifts every year.

We fished again last weekend.  Brian and I put yet more time in on Lake Delavan, the fish up in the shallows a full month earlier than they normally are.  It wasn't difficult to find the spots, an armada of fishing boats populated all the regular haunts, hungry for sunshine and a fish fry just as we were.

The fish were a little slow, but the conditions were pretty close to perfect so it was easy to sit in the boat all day, making the milk run around the lake and checking the likely spots.  When there is no wind, when the sun is warm and the churlish rain clouds scatter, you sometimes just take what you can get and remain thankful for that.

It's our habit, during such days, to recall trips that were not so pleasant, and smile -- that trip to the Prairie du Sac dam when the wind whipped and howled all day, so intense the anchors pulled free continuously, and we were forced into unwilling rounds of bumper boats with the other walleye fishermen.  Or that hellish float down the Wisconsin out past Arena.  Frisbee's housewarming party had gone long into the blurry morning hours, the hours when nothing good ever happens.  We arose early, and grimly fished through the blistering heat and pummeling hangovers, all day in the boat without a drop of water or an ounce of food because, in our foggy states after the festivities, nobody thought to buy any.  I have never felt worse in a boat; groggy, nauseated, and drying up to a cinder, but in that company, you never want to be the (and I can't use any other word here) pussy who calls it off.  The judgement would be unbearable.  We fished in the pained silence of our own making, and secretly prayed for it to all be over.  Less beer and more (any) water would've been a grand idea.

So we laughed and remembered as we picked away at the fish last Saturday.  They were definitely not up on their shallow spawning beds, the glory days of spring panfishing, but they were milling around just outside where their spawning beds will be, and we were happy to be there with them.

In a quirky twist of fate that sometimes hits a fishing partnership, I somehow had all the fish in the cooler by noon, and Brian had none.  There's no difference in our fishing abilities -- a hook under a bobber in this case, no technical skill required.  We were fishing the same spots while sitting four feet away from each other.  It just happens from time to time.  I razzed him a bit, claiming to be the far better fisherman and asking if he needed any pointers,  because that's what you do, but I had no real claim to superiority.  There have been plenty of times in that very boat when our positions have been reversed.  You absorb the ribbing, and try to remember it can all change with that one big fish.

I'd hoped to surprise him that evening with morel mushrooms picked by a friend in Illinois, but that fell through at the last minute.  I took my turn cleaning the fish, made a beer batter, and we fried them up along with Brian's homemade corn fritters.  Our efforts were rewarded well, as we enjoyed the fish and fritters alongside asparagus fresh from the garden.  I eschew bland grocery store asparagus most of the year so it is that much more precious when it finally arrives, free to pick in the garden or discovered wild out in the woods.  It was bright green and sweet and delicious, perfectly cooked next to our fresh caught feast as we toasted our success with a few beers.

I know it sounds odd, but I count among the many glorious harbingers of spring that certain strong aroma that arises when the bladder is emptied after consuming the first fresh asparagus of spring.  And I apologize for bringing you into the bathroom with me, but there it is.

Sunday morning, having had our bellies warmed with fresh fish and a much more controlled celebration than that fateful housewarming party, it was time to forage. 

As we set out for a big parcel of unique public land, ramps (wild leeks, spring onions... call them what you will) were to be our main quarry.  The weather this spring has my internal timing all discombobulated, so I had no idea what we would find during our long stomp over hill and dale.

The parking area for this spot is a long way from the area in which we would be foraging.  We strode quickly across the fields, Brian with absurd jocular pride, asserting the wonders of his newly fashioned walking stick.  He let his English Cocker, Buddy, run long and free in front of us, and I smiled to myself, as I always do, at the perennial energy and bounding happiness of that little dog.

It can occasionally be somewhat difficult, as a combined hunter and general enthusiast of the forest, to concentrate on one objective.  Especially this spring when everything is so in-your-face right here right now.  I found my brain (and my eyes) bouncing madly from one subject to another.  Looking at or for entirely too many things in a rambunctious, flitting burst of velocity without guidance, energy wasted and unproductive.

Wildflowers peeked up from winter hiding, there was a better than average possibility of stumbling upon Indian artifacts in that area, I was on the lookout for squirrel nests in the trees for future hunting excursions, and we wanted to find deer and turkey sign (which we did).  I stared down into a kettle bog and wondered if it was considered an official part of the Kettle Moraine that covers much of that part of the state, then I wondered if there were two of the state's four carnivorous plants down in that bog.  I hoped for very early morels, and had my eyes peeled for ramps, lambsquarter, nettles, fiddleheads, and other yummy bits of green.  I pointed my imaginary shotgun at the woodcock Buddy flushed from a thicket, and listened to the alarm of wood ducks as he splashed down a creek.  I've never missed a bird using a pretend scatter gun in spring.  They're all easy shots when the gun is your finger.

Overload.  I was so out of sorts that I failed to identify Bloodroot when Brian asked, a quaint little spring wildflower I've known since childhood.  It can be toxic, so it wasn't found in my mental cacophony of edible plants, humming like the chaos of a tuning orchestra in that moment.

Slow down, knucklehead.  Take a breath.

I managed to slow the twirling Rolodex in my brain, and got myself together.  We spotted an Eastern Towhee with that unmistakable slash of rusty orange lighting up his flank, and a little turtle sunning himself in the grass.  We walked for a few hours over the moraines and down into the kettles, eventually stopping to sit in the shade, the unfamiliar sun and heat causing a sweat more suited for late July.  That's where we encountered another sure sign that warmer weather was with us.  We've already been in the bathroom once during this post so I won't go into detail, but ticks were found and removed from delicate places upon returning home.  Once again, more than a month early.

We never did find the ramps we were seeking for salads and pickling.  Not unless you count the ones spied on private land during the drive home.  There is time yet, and they will make their way across my table.  Nettles and lambsquarter have been procured, and the first morel of the year was spotted just this morning.  We are definitely in the foraging bloom of spring, whether another frost comes to put a damper on the party or not.  Nettle pasta with turkey (wish I had a pheasant) is on the menu tonight, and I am a happy camper... forager!

Buddy doesn't know or care about foraging, but he was elated to work the woodcock thickets like October.  And he still can't sit down for a break or stop that tail from wagging, even after all these years.