Morel Mushroom Hunting
Morel Mushroom Hunting
May 9, 1999
Michael, Amy, and I travel to Perrot State Park which overlooks the Mississippi River near Trempealeau, Wisconsin. This is our favorite site to see spring flowers in May. We have a family tradition of coming here on Mother’s Day. Today we hike the back route up Brady’s Bluff. On the way we see trillium, purple violets, Dutchman’s britches, Jack-in-the-pulpits, columbine, anenome, and a hillside of purple shooting stars.
On a hunch, I leave the trail and my family to wander the slopes hoping to find a patch of morel mushrooms. The time seems right for morels. They usually appear when lilacs bloom. The weather conditions also seem right: wet, humid, some spring heat. But is this the right place? I’ve found morels in this park six different springtimes before, but never in the same places as before. Where do they grow? Some say in sun-filtered shade on hillsides near newly dead elm trees. I say it’s a matter of looking at the right time under the right conditions and the rest is a matter of luck.
Morels are shy and sly. You can look right at them and not see them, even if you are looking for them. But if you do see one, you will probably see more near by. Looking for morel mushrooms is magical. Finding them is even more magical. They symbolize pure wildness.
I look. I wonder where they’re hiding. I wander. Suddenly I see one and then I see thirty. I pick most of them and put them in a pile. I brought nothing to put them in, so I take off my T-shirt and tie off the bottom, then tie the sleeves around my belt loops to make a bag and carefully place the morels inside through the neck opening. I continue to wander through the woods half-naked and half-crazed, obsessed with finding more. It’s difficult not to be greedy. I look and look without any more luck. I catch up to my family at the top of the bluff. They’re happy to see me and the mushrooms. I pause to breathe in the view. The river valley is beautiful this spring day. The sky is blue and the earth is variegated green. Trempealeau Mountain stands alone not far away in the middle of the river below. A hawk soars above.
We continue our hike down to the river. I continue to look along the way, here and there, for morels but find no more. Along the river I see herons, egrets, turtles sunning, and an orange oriole.
When we get home, I wash the morels in cool water, cut them in half and fry them in butter in a cast iron pan, pouring off the excess water part way through, adding more butter and sprinkling them with garlic powder. I cook them till they crackle and then add a dash of salt. Mmm, mmm, mmm, morels!
As I eat them, I remember my day of wildness in the woods and give thanks. I still wish I had found more. I know they’re out there somewhere. But where? Wherever they are, they won’t be there for long.