The morel of the story ~ May 19, 2004

David Heiller

Steve Serres reminded me of the beauty of mushroom hunting last Saturday.

Morel mushrooms. (not my photo)

He came up that afternoon to walk the woods with me in search of morel mushrooms. I thought it would make a good newspaper fea­ture, but I had my other hat on too, the one that says, “This will be fun.” And it was, in some unexpected ways.

We started by heading across the field toward a dead tree. Dead trees are one sign of morel country, particularly dead elm trees. But they are no guarantee, as Steve pointed out in a stream of morels lore that seemed endless. Many is the time he has come upon a dead elm, bark hanging like a shawl on an old woman—a honey hole for morels—and not a one can be found.

That’s probably part of the beauty of the hunt for Steve, as it is for all sportsmen: you just never know what you’ll find.

And sure enough, the first two perfect spots didn’t have didley. At the third tree, Steve stopped and pointed his stick at a spot on the ground. “There’s one.”

“Where?” I asked.

He moved his stick a little bit. “There.”

“Where?” I asked. He finally touched the morel with the stick, and that’s when I saw it. Talk about protective coloration. The light tan morel was the exact color of the light tan leaves on the ground. But once he pointed it out, I could see it, and that’s where his trained eye had beaten mine.

We found a few more that way. I use the term “we” loosely. Steve spotted them, and I picked them and put them in a plastic bag. Steve uses a paper bag—he claims they keep better that way, and they fetch a better price from mushroom buyers.

As we walked, we talked about morels. He picks them any size, something he learned from his own old-timer who told him a mushroom won’t be any bigger than what it is when you find it. He said he carries a stick for finding mushrooms and for finding rattlesnakes. He’s only found two rattlers in 20 years, which made me wonder if we were due for a third. “I had all I could do to get them to rattle at me,” he said. He likes to hunt the south and west sides of hills early in the year, because they get the sun first, then the north and east side later in the season, which is what we were doing.

I asked Steve if he had good vision. It was 20-10 for a while, he replied nonchalantly, then added with a hint of irritation, “I had to drop to 20-20.” It must be rough.

We talked about much more than mushrooms too, of course. Our kids, the old Heiller farm down in the valley, even the war in Iraq. That’s the great thing about an outing like that. You get good exercise, good conversation, and if you are with someone like Steve Serres, good mushrooms.

He got a little frustrated for a while, like a father who takes a son fishing only to end up with a few small sunnies on the stringer. We weren’t finding many morels. But I assured him that the joy for me was in the hunt, and he could see that.

The joy came also from some fond memories that returned as I scanned the trees and searched the ground. I suddenly had strong memories of doing that very thing on weekends home from college at the Heiller farm. It was in the mid-1970s, which was the peak of the great elm die-off. There were dead elms everywhere around the farm, and it was not hard to find more morels that we could use or even give away. I always thought I’d be a mushroom hunter at that point in my life, but then I went overseas and got married and moved north, and it slipped out of my life. I forgot how much I missed it until Saturday, when I got it back.

And I got it back! As we headed home, Steve stopped and pointed out a perfect tree. We didn’t say anything; no point in putting on the old jinx. Steve got to it first and just stood there, trying not to smile. I started to ask what the matter was, then I realized he was following an earlier plea of mine to let me find at least one mushroom first.

I dropped to my hands and knees, and there was one, and there, and there and there, and look at the size of that one!

I actually started shouting, then I looked up in some embarrassment, like a private in the presence of a grizzled old soldier. But Steve had a grin at that point. “That’s fine with me,” he said. “I know the feeling.”

It was a honey tree, and a perfect way to end a perfect outing.

I asked Steve if he wanted any of my bag full of morels. He declined. “I’m not super crazy about them,” he said.

And that was part of the beauty of it too, The morel of the story. Thanks, Steve!