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.