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Friday, April 27, 2007

On the hunt for the elusive Morel

By Bill Cochran

In the mountains of Virginia, where I live, spring is the time to listen for the thunderous gobble of a tom turkey and to fish for trout in streams that are icebox-cold.

It also is the time to hunt that elusive delicacy, the morel mushroom. But most people keep that quiet.

Through the years, I have had friends who would guide me to their clandestine native trout stream and tell me where they have put a turkey to roost that is certain to gobble at daylight. As for mushrooms, they keep that to themselves.

I understand. Thus it was with surprise and delight that I opened an e-mail the other day that contained an invitation from James Horn of New Castle to join him on a mushroom hunt in Craig County.

Notice the emphasis is on “hunt.” You don’t “pick” morel mushrooms. You don’t “gather” them. You “hunt” them. True, the pursuit may not be a blood sport, but stalking better describes what is involved that collecting. The bottom line, first you find them.

Horn started doing that this year the first week of April, which is early for morels in the mountains, but spring got a jumpstart from several days of record-setting warmth.

When my wife, Katherine, and I met Horn and his friend, Eugene Hannah, we were told that the mushrooms were just beginning to appear, but Horn predicted we’d “get enough for dinner.”

We headed for the national forest, where Hannah asked Horn how long it took for a morel to pop out of the ground.

“Overnight,” said Horn.

“I’d heard that,” said Hannah, suggesting it was difficult to believe.

What is needed, explained Horn, is rain followed by a sun-splashed day. We had the sun, but not the rain. The ground was a tad dry. A few days later, winter returned with a vengeance and mushroom hunting was put on hold.

Mushroom hunters, like anglers, keep a vest full of excuses, just in case: “It is too early.” “Too cold.” “Too hot.” “We need a good rain.” “The peak has passed.”

Most such statements are probably true, because mushrooms pop up according to their own, indifferent agenda. They do not have wings, paws or fins, but they can be fleeting like deer, elusive like trout, secretive like grouse.

Add to that, the competition for them can be brisk on public land.

“Right now, there are so any people hunting them,” said Horn. “Every time one comes up someone is there to pick it.”

We spread out along a mountainside where tall and straight poplar trees reached for the sky. Popular groves are a good spot to find mushrooms, Horn said. So are old apple orchards.

It quickly became evident that mushroom hunting requires skill for success the same as any outdoor pursuit. Horn and Hannah had an eye for finding them; Katherine and I didn’t.

There have been occasions when I have stumbled onto a patch and gathered a bagful in an area no bigger than a basketball court, but this time they were scattered and challenging to find.

Clad in camouflage, and poking their pointed heads out of the forest duff, morels are the subtle member of spring’s parade, which includes redbuds and dogwoods waving overhead like bright flags along with a multitude of wild flowers and the pastel shades of new foliage.

“I just love to hunt them,” said Horn, who operates the 311 Auction Co. of New Castle. Next door is Hunter’s Den, a hunting shop operated by his wife, Ellen.

The eating part isn’t bad, either. Morel’s are delicious, like oysters, some say. Like chicken, say others. Unlike ordinary, tame food. I had an uncle who called them “honeycombs.”

Horn keeps the preparation simple. He coats the mushrooms with seasoned flour and fries them in a skillet like chicken.

Knowing how delicious they are, it is hard to hand over your stash, but that is what Horn did. Katherine and I had our dinner.

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