The Morel Whisperer

Since I wrote about my fungus failure, I’ve been inundated with offers to take me to some Very Secret Spots. I have to confess that strangers wanting to blindfold me and drive me into isolated areas make me a wee bit nervous.

One offer, however, had me grabbing my mesh bag and lacing up my hiking boots. He is, none other than, The Morel Whisperer.

I was wearing the traditional morelling attire. (Although it was pointed out that full camo was overkill since morels don’t tend to run away). I think my guide was actually the one in camo since his costume was exactly the opposite of what They tell you to wear. He’s tricky, no? Those little turd-heads will never suspect a thing.

He was incredulous to watch some other car pull into his double-secret spot. There were mumbled curses and not so subtle gesturing.

“Just pull up a little further. We can climb this hill then drop back down in the valley behind them.”

“Um. Climb the hill?”
 Had this guy ever met me?

I grabbed a water bottle and a compass and we headed out.

The Whisperer was very impressed with my attention to detail. I stopped often to take a good look around. A really, really good look. He was far enough ahead. He couldn’t hear me gasping for oxygen.

When I caught up, he was standing, hands on hips, shaking his head.

“Nothing here but stupid fake ones.”

I was standing in a field of mushrooms. Smack dab and I never even noticed them. Novice.

Mo-Whisp taught me the difference between False Morels and the yummy ones; how the caps are not attached to the stems the same and how the insides look all fluffy. If I’d been alone, I would’ve been squealing and doing a Hunter-Gatherer Dance. Then I would have poisoned all my friends.

Alas, no morels. This spot was spent. Time to move on.

Ever the gentleman, my guide warned me that the next spot was a little bit of a hike. This dude had way more confidence, not only in my willingness to exert but also in my patience for tromping through underbrush.

I put the water bottle back and grabbed the flask.

It’s important to note that morelling involves staring intently at the ground. This means you walk through lots of spider webs, get whapped in the head with lots of branches and find lots of non-fungus-type stuff. I recommend a hat. I don’t recommend big ‘ole Texas hair. Just sayin’…

Tromp. Stare. Trudge. Whap. Curse. Sip. Stare. Tromp.

There's alot of things in the mighty forest. I found pretty little Trillium...

a log covered with something - I'll call it "lichen" because I like the way that word sounds.

I think I found a little pot patch and I definitely found a bad, bad ‘shroom because it was promptly slapped out of my hand.

“Do the deer eat morels?” I ask.
“Nope. Nothing eats morels except us.”

Then what the hell are they hiding from? Why the subterfuge? What’s the harm in making morels a nice bright yellow or something? Who can find these things?

Can you see it??

I forgot to put quotation marks around all that but I was indeed yelling this into the forest. I was ignored or even worse, indulged.

“When I was little,” quothe he, “I made all kinds of noise while we were morelling. My dad finally told me that if we weren’t quiet, the mushrooms would scoot back down in their holes.”

Can’t argue with that.

I swear – I looked high and low, moist and dry, around trees and under leaves. Nothing.

Then there it was. My first morel.

“I found one! I found one!” Whoop! Whoop!

Mo rounded the corner looking doubtful.

“Hey! You did it! There’s another one!” Double whoop!!

Another thin layer of fudge fell away from my Dixie personage.

Here's me with my pretty manicure. Oh, and the "lucky purple" bag of morels.

We found several more and he’s frying them up for me tonight.

My personal Morel Wrangler. What a sweetheart, huh?  I think he’s quite awesome.

Uh oh, y’all…. I’m getting all mush-y.

Fungus Among Us

There was lightening and thunder last night which, in my book, means it’s spring. I’ve been warned about planting my flower boxes until Memorial Day but I’m pretty sure I can toss the flannel jammies.

I’m used to a good ole Southern Spring. It’s about two weeks of moderate temps and hellacious weather.

There are lots of wildflowers blooming everywhere, thanks to Lady Bird Johnson. Bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrush and Black-eyed Susans. Ha-chooo! But it’s so pretty!!

In Texas, when you see a car pulled off the road, it’s because some mom is making her whole family traipse out into a field of wildflowers for a picture.
 

Up North it’s because some fool with a walking stick is bent double hunting up Morels.

Dixie translation: Morel mushrooms are brown turd-sponges that are soooo mysteriously hard to find, everyone acts like they love to eat them even though, like all fungus, they taste like dirt.

It’s a verb: morelling. You don’t “hunt for morels” – you “go morelling”.  In the summer, they go the same brand of crazy for a rock. Go figure.

I set out today to do a little morelling. Although you’re supposed to keep it a big, fat secret, I’ll tell you flat out that I went straight up the hill behind my house. I’m way too lazy to break a sweat or read a compass or pack a lunch.

As with All Things Anita, there must be a costume.  In this case, I went with the classic sock-and-sandal combo.
 

You gotta have a good Pokin’ Stick, too.

Birch is prettiest but it kept breaking. I found an awesome forked stick but it kept leading me to the creek. After a gruesome battle with some ginormous black ants, I gave up on nature and settled for a broomstick handle from the laundry room.
Very low score from the organic hippie judges but pokin’ is pokin’ aannnd I’m going to stop right there because about 32 inappropriate stick jokes are trying to butt into this paragraph…

Assuming I can actually find an Elusive Morel, there’s a picky little protocol about transporting them out of the forest. One must use a mesh bag so the mushroom spores will scatter as you walk and therefore propagate the forest floor with new morel birthing opportunities. I think that’s putting a lot of pressure on a person – impregnating a forest.

So, hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to poke I go.




I scared up a buncha squirrels and chipmunks. A small herd of whitetail ‘bout scared the crap outta me. I poked and wandered and tried to get inside the mind of a morel.



I kept getting distracted by other stuff. I think that may be part of the allure for those people who don’t have a blog to wrap up.
 
My trusty Side Cat followed me around at a discreet distance. He stalked many a critter, pounced many a leaf but, alas, did not lead me to the morels. I was kinda counting on his mojo, but no-go.
 
I squatted down to take this picture of him and happened to look at my feet. Would you believe it? A little morel was poking its head out of the leaves. Then I saw another and another! The perfect ending!

Isn’t that unbelievable?

Yes, my friend. Yes, it is.

I didn’t find any damn morels. Even though I spent 25 whole minutes searching my back yard.

Turns out I’m not that patient or persistent. Or observant. Or stealthy.

I guess the FBI was right to reject my application in college.

At least I got the “blend in to your environment” part right.