Morels

The alarm was set for 8am, but we awoke at 5:45 to the gentle pitter-patter of rain. I rolled over and tried to fall back asleep, but Jenna was already riled up and rearing to go. The morels were summoning us. We listened.

I poured hot water over fresh coffee grounds, grabbed a to-go mug, and threw on my raincoat. The car thermometer read 61 degrees, prime morel range, as we sped off towards a yellow patch just outside city limits. I slugged down the rest of my coffee, and by the time we parked the car I was already in a frenzy. Only 36 hours had passed since the first rain shower that had disrupted the dry spell, and I feared we might be too early.

Morel hunting is not for the faint of heart. It is a high stakes enterprise, requiring an immense investment of time and energy. And of course, there is never any guarantee that you will find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, even when the conditions seem most favorable.

I grew dizzy as we approached our spot. A quick scan of the ground revealed no obvious lumps or protrusions. I reassured myself that if there were morels, they would still be in their infancy, and would not be readily visible. I hunched over and began closely inspecting the ground, and suddenly a minute flash of pale yellow caught my eye. My stomach lurched, but before I could cry out triumphantly I noticed my find had tentacles. It turns out snails enjoy a nice spring rain just as much as morels do.

I started questioning my sanity, wondering why I struggle and strive so relentlessly only to find garden snails pathetically nibbling on grass. I thought of the mediocre 2012 foraging season, and wondered if this year would be any better. Jenna was off in the distance, gaze fixed on the ground, but the wide-eyed eagerness that had launched us out of bed this morning was gone. I wished we had waited another day.

“Ari. Ari? Ari!” The familiar sound of my name interrupted my brooding, and I figured Jenna was ready to head back home. Her tone was casual but confident, her voice hushed yet firm as I started walking in her direction. And then came the loudest whisper I have ever heard: “Morel!”

In Jenna’s hand lay the most dainty, pristine yellow morel I have ever seen. She had out-foraged me once again, but this was no time for petty competition. More mini-morels lurked just steps away, barely poking up above the blades of grass. Before I could even get a full head-count, Jenna had yanked me away from the spot. It was tempting to harvest them today, but we knew we had to wait at least another 24 hours to allow the bite-sized morsels to fatten up.

Hoping to watch the NBA playoff games this weekend? Or perhaps you fancy a few rounds of bowling to escape the rain? Drop all your plans and start hunting – the time is now.

The news came in last night, just as the sun was sinking into Lake Champlain. “Hey, hey, hey! Found my first blacks today!!!” Local forager Moore Mushrooms was starting off the season right, somehow managing to find the proverbial needle in the parched and sprawling haystack. We added morels to the ForageCast on Monday, but with the caveat that only a good rainstorm would send these finicky fruiters up from the earth. Moore must have been out at his secret spots with a watering can, lovingly coaxing those blacks out of the ground. His harvest was modest, but enough to send me into a frenzy.

We grabbed a flashlight and drove off to check on an abandoned parking lot where we had just missed a collection of bloated blacks last spring. Our spot was barren, our disappointment palpable. In a pathetic last resort attempt, I got down on hands and knees and started frantically scouring a nearby cluster of aspen. My forager’s eyes became feeble as darkness fell on the old parking lot, so I started clawing at the ground and hoping to feel a cool, moist morel jump into my greedy grasp. This technique did not catch me any morels, but I almost scored some exciting bycatch – an impressively large dog turd. That was when I knew it was time to call it a day.

We returned home and retreated to the computer, telling ourselves Moore’s find had been an anomaly and hoping to forget about morels until the next rainfall. Jenna opened her inbox only to find an email from a friend who had expressed interest in taking one of our workshops this season. Without even searching, she had stumbled upon yellow morels right outside of Burlington. “I spotted about 10-15, but didn’t pick any,” she nonchalantly reported. I’ll just call it beginner’s luck.

As one of the season’s biggest winter storms prepares to slam Vermont, southern mushroom hunters are happily harvesting morels. MorelHunters.com is reporting finds throughout Georgia, South Carolina, Alabama, and Kentucky. Hunters as far west as Oklahoma are also frying up morels as I sit by the woodstove awaiting another dumping of snow.

I love snowstorms and will certainly savor the tail end of what has been an epic winter in Vermont. But with April around the corner, morels are on my mind. I don’t expect to see any morels until at early May up in northern Vermont, but morel behavior consistently defies expectations.

Old-timers say to start hunting when the oak leaves are the size of a mouse’s ear in the spring. This method certainly is not scientific, but I’d say it is as good a guideline as any for when to begin looking for this capricious fruiter. Another good guideline is to begin hunting when the daytime highs in your area begin to hit 60 degrees Fahrenheit, and nighttime lows are at least 40. Even ideal temperatures will not produce morels unless there has been sufficient rainfall or snowmelt to moisten the soil. Morels do not like soggy soil – moderate moisture is enough to produce large flushes.

The hard part is finding those flushes, ensuring that your patches are kept private, and harvesting in the perfect window before the mushrooms rot or are devoured by slugs. Morel hunting often takes profound patience in the Northeast, especially if you are in new territory. Last spring I felt as though I had witnessed a miracle when I finally found ten yellows and a few bloated blacks after weeks of scouring local fields and forests.

Some Northeasterners are lucky enough to have access to old apple orchards sporadically bearing dozens, if not hundreds, of morels in springtime. Unfortunately, orchard morels pose risks of arsenic or lead poisoning – make sure you know the history of your orchard. Morels are a cosmopolitan species, as likely to pop up in suburbs or schoolyards as in the backcountry.  Use your best judgment: as hard to resist as it may be, I cannot recommend eating a morel you find growing in the highway median.

If you are in the Midwest, you have it easy, comparatively speaking. Morels are still rare, their fruiting habits delicate and unpredictable. Yet, as opposed to baskets, seasoned Midwestern collectors bring home buckets brimming with morels. Midwestern flushes are simply bigger and bolder, at times rivaling the grandeur of classic burn morel patches out West.

Whether you are working the burns, walking the orchards, or scouring the ash groves, don’t forget safety. Morels have several poisonous look-alikes, including the beefsteak (Gyromitra esculenta) and wrinkled thimble cap (Verpa bohemica). We encourage you to join us on a spring foray, or to submit photos of your finds to The Mushroom Forager.

Before you know it, morels are going to be creeping into Pennsylvania. Stay tuned for the first installment of the 2013 ForageCast, keeping you up to date on what is popping up in the woods and wild corners near you!

I am here to tell you that morels really do exist. This may not sound like a mycological epiphany, and I am well aware that many of you flatlanders have been finding (and promptly devouring) morels for weeks now. Of course, I too have found plenty of morels in past seasons, and there was a time last spring when morels felt like a tangible, edible reality. But after an epic search that began prematurely with a hiccup of balmy weather in March, I was starting to wonder if the universe was playing a big trick on me. Do morels really exist, I began to question, or are they the pot of gold at the end of the proverbial rainbow, always just out of reach?

After innumerable hours staring at the ground in quiet desperation, I have finally found my treasure. It began as a typical morning, as Jenna, Judah, and I nonchalantly traipsed through the woods discussing the weather, work, our upcoming wedding, and other quotidian matters. I was listening to Jenna as she talked about the design project she is working on at the office, but I wasn’t looking at her. As always, I was looking at the ground, which is not nearly as charming or attractive as Jenna, but has the distinct advantage of harboring potential mushrooms. She has gotten used to my wandering eyes on our morning hikes, and kindly puts up with it. That is one of the many reasons why I am marrying her.

I made fleeting eye contact as I asked Jenna some questions about her job, and then the conversation inevitably turned to morels. “You know, the ground is finally starting to look quite moist,” I commented, fishing for approbation. I’m sure I sounded rather pathetic, like a teenager sprouting a few hairs telling his father, “You know Dad, my beard is really starting to take off!”

Jenna remained silent. Not quite getting the affirmation I needed to stay hopeful in my hunting, I continued:

“And with the warm weather, it really feels like the morels should be coming out any day now.” I have been making comments like this since March. Jenna nodded her head ever so slightly, as I began to wonder whether I’d ever have the pleasure of eating a morel again.

A collection of morels found this morning!

And then, in that most dire of moments, I had a revelation. And the revelation came in the form of a mushroom. It had a blonde, pitted cap, and it was hiding in the grass beneath a small clump of aspen. It wasn’t just any mushroom – it was a yellow morel. When I find a hefty hen of the woods in the fall, I am known to let out a reflexive yelp followed by a victory dance; when I find a morel, there is no room for such childlike revelry. I gazed down at my find in genuine disbelief, silent and solemn. The spring miracle I had prayed for had finally arrived.

Suddenly, a warm voice interrupted my revelry. “Ar, what’s going on?” Jenna asked. For the first time during the hike, we made sustained eye contact. When she saw my beaming smile, she knew exactly what was going on.

One lonely morel would’ve been more than enough, and initially it appeared that this yellow fellow was riding solo. But as I started to come to my senses, I noticed a second yellow huddling beneath a honeysuckle bush next to the aspen grove. Before either of us could muster any words, Jenna and I began scouring the area around the aspen trees, and came up with another eight yellows as well as a couple of rotting blacks. Though these morels were a welcome addition to our basket, nothing could compare to the mix of relief, awe, and exhilaration I felt when I discovered the first yellow. Well, perhaps one thing could . . . I hope to relive the entire experience tonight when dinnertime rolls around!