These are NOT Morels (ha, ha, ha!)

I've already written about morels in this blog, but--well--here we go again.

It’s been three weeks since I last returned from Chimayo, two gallons of fresh-picked morels in a basket on the floor of my car. It was the fourth time I’d foraged this spring, and the most successful outing yet.

At home, I promptly violated the second rule of mushroom hunting: I bragged to everyone I knew about how, yet again, I’d used my outdoor savvy to discover another stash. Feeling very generous and 'Christian,' I called a friend and offered her family a portion of my treasure. Of course, I also wanted her to see exactly how talented I am at finding those elusive and well-camouflaged gems, and (just an eentzy-weentzy bit) to rub her nose in my good fortune. After all, she'd never found any morels.

On the other hand, she’s a master chanterelle picker. Every autumn she and her husband disappear for days at a time, roaming around the wet, west side of the mountains, clothed head to toe in old, mismatched Goretex. She told me last year the two of them picked 40 pounds of chanterelles in one weekend. She was gloating, actually, and if she had ended that conversation with ‘neener neener neener,’ it wouldn’t have surprised me. Okay, so she did give me a small bag of those chanterelles—but after just having picked 40 pounds, you’d think she could have thrown in a few extra for good measure. And do you think she told me where she found them? Are you out of your mind? OMG, when I asked, she clammed up like I’d asked her to testify about the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa. Pissed me off.

This past week, my parents spent a few days out at Chimayo. They wanted to try their hand at the morel thing and asked where they should go to find them. Feeling very generous and Christian, I described in great detail the exact bend in the road, the exact little stream bed, where I’d had my best luck. After all, weren’t there enough mushrooms in the world for everyone? And what was the problem with my friend, anyway? Far be it from me to be so selfish!

Then I hung up the phone and cursed myself—how could I be so stupid? It was clear I had just violated the first rule of mushrooming: never, ever, reveal the truth. Now my parents would rape and pillage my secret stash, probably blab all over town so that next year my little bend in the road would be clogged with a city-sized traffic jam of morel hunter-wannabees. Damn. I hoped every last mushroom in the entire Okanogan was already dead . . .

Turns out I had some luck. Last week the Forest Service was dropping hay bales from helicopters to mulch the slopes burned by the Tripod fire and had closed 'my' dirt road. My parents couldn’t get anywhere near the place I’d described—wee ha!! I'm going out to Chimayo in two days and the morel season lasts until the end of July, if it doesn’t get too hot and dry (pssst—don’t tell anyone my secret spot includes a year-round spring.)

And don’t expect me to be so generous and Christian next year.

Photo by v. sakata:
mushrooms, enchantment lakes; Alpine Lakes Wilderness, WA