Taco Night

Taco Night at the Mineola Steakhouse is rocking.

Hundreds -- sometimes more than a thousand -- bikers ride in to Mineola each Thursday night as weather permits and party until the bar closes. Then they get back on their bikes, buzz intact, and ride back to the Bluffs.

The bar offers dollar tacos. The town welcomes the party all summer with few complaints.

For more information: http://www.tacoride.com/

Get on your bikes and ride!

Go time

Friday morning Diana and I set out with friends to our annual roundup.

I was dogging it. I'd been on eight hunts in nine days and was feeling fatigued. We had a handful of chores and a two-hour drive to get to our favorite hunting grounds -- a place that had stocked our freezers for the past six or seven years -- and we were running 45 minutes late.

I drove a little too fast and was impatient as we passed through one construction zone after another.

We arrived in the rain.

For most, rain is not something you look forward to on a camping trip. For us it was perfect.

We were meeting Rootball and Sasquatch at the site. All we could think of was them sitting there waiting for us. Then the phone rang.

It was Rootball -- he too was running late. A short time later the phone rang again -- it was Sasquatch -- running five minutes behind us.

We all eventually arrived eager to hunt, hastily set up camp and then left it behind without a thought. We were heading straight to a group of ancient cottonwoods in the middle of a pristine piece of land -- privately owned so I can't say exactly where -- hard on the the Missouri River.

In previous years we had topped out bags and buckets with morels and has always been our first stop.

Unfortunately, we walked by perfect tree after perfect tree with no morels in site.

I wasn't going to let the fact that there were very few morels ruin my trip. I tried to concentrate on likely spots and hump it through the knee-high nettles with purpose.

It was nearly an hour before we started finding a few mushrooms here and there, but no patches and not the way we wanted to start the trip. After a three-hour hike we headed back to camp to regroup, eat store-bought cookies and Lunchables and stare at our tiny clutches of fresh morels.

We decided that it was too wet to climb down cliffs to our best spot so we set off on another long hike -- this time into the snake grass.

As we entered the strips of cottonwoods and piss elms running along Muddy Mo we immediately started to find a few mushrooms.

When traveling in groups, most of us give a hoot when we find a 'shroom. A sweet "woohoo" lets those around know to slow up so we don't leave someone picking behind as we press forward. It also gives you a lift -- knowing that morels are in the area.

We all found a couple pounds and headed back to camp for a morel and steak stew that Sasquatch made at home and packed in.

I was feeling itchy so I lifted my top shirt to reveal more than 40 ticks staging in the small of my back to crawl higher for a meal. For some reason I'm a tick magnet. Everyone else had a tick here and there, but I had them everywhere.

Rootball took note and sprayed my clothes with a lethal can of Permanone. Ticks stayed away for the rest of the trip. This stuff is so potent that I fear I'll grow a third nipple after being exposed to it. A trade I was willing to make to keep ticks off me.

After a great dinner Big D and I went for a sunset hunt. We only walked a half mile, found four morels and headed back to the campfire.

Saturday morning we woke early, ate bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches, guzzled coffee and climbed down the cliffs to our best chance of saving our season.

I found three fresh yellows right away. I hooted. Everyone was stoked. The woods were perfect. As we moved through the thickets, we walked through strands of spider web. I could see them glistening in the sun and could have knocked them down, but my eyes were glued on the tops of trees and the ground around the dead.

And then we walked for miles in silence. Our treasure had not been raided -- there were no signs that morels had been there.

I have to say, I felt my spirit break. I started thinking that fishing sounded fun.

We all came together at the edge of the hills and decided to turn deeper. Rootball lead the way and immediately found a patch of more than 60 morels. They were spread out around the roots of a giant cottonwood felled in a storm the previous year. Many were big yellows. Most were fresh.

Then Big D called me over to photograph a group she found forty yards from the epicenter. Seven sweet, fresh beauties stood there -- A rare sight for the past three seasons.

We went from bust to boom. I picked seven pounds, Sasquatch had a pound more. Big D had picked four pounds and Rootball, who had led us to the promise land, picked about three pounds. Sasquatch found a patch while hanging back, doubling his take at one tree. Big D and I found four or five medium-size patches on the way back to the car. We had walked for seven hours and it was time for dinner.

I made venison back straps and beans for dinner. We sipped some brandy and hit the sack early.

This morning we were up late and moving slow. We hunted for a few hours in the hills, but only found a few more pounds.

Sasquatch turned an ankle and left for home first. Rootball took us deep into the hills to a place he had never hunted, but felt it might be good. He found a patch a few yards from the trucks. The hills wore us out quick and we hit the road back to Mineola just after 3 p.m with a couple dozen more yellows. Trip over.

Tomorrow I get organized, process morels and maybe go on an afternoon hunt. Depends of the state of my blisters and quality of TV shows happening near my couch. I hear Ellen has a special guest...

Peckerheads and sore feet

The grand totals from the past two days: 20 morels, 21 ticks, two sore feet.

We have been north. We have been south. We have been east and tomorrow one of us will go west. We have been on the hunt nonstop for the past two days and we have little or nothing to show for it.

Time to go deep.

I ran into Jeanmarie and Deano in the woods and they had nice buckets of fresh morels. They explained that they had hiked for more than an hour to get access to a place that had been untouched this past weekend. I like their spunk.

One thing we have found common this year; half free morels, also commonly called peckerheads. They are edible, but look similar to verpas and stinkroots and need to be positively identified before cooking and eating. They are very delicate and take great care to make it back to the house in one piece.

Good News and Bad News

Sunday we hunted seven hours, walking no less than eight miles. I picked more than three pounds of pristine morels.

Sounds great, but for that particular place it is much less than average.

No, I'm not going to tell you where we were. All I'm allowed to say is that we were on the banks of the Missouri River not too far from Mineola.

Today we went to secret area #7A, a place we know like our own backyards.

I picked two morels. Two.

We walked through the rain and the sticky mud. We endured the cold and the thick, brushy mix of poison ivy, wild locust and spiny vines. We walked deep and kept our focus for the first five or six miles. In the end, the three of us may have picked a little more than a pound. All three of us are morel-crazed, forest-seasoned foraging freaks. If there were morels in those woods we would have brought them out.

I picked two.

Two.

On the positive end of the trip. We saw a nice variety of wildlife. We saw many bunnies, a hen and chick woodcock (we call them timber doodles), deer and we were circled by buzzards after giving in to the inevitable and taking a seat on a comfy log. That said, I shot my photos with my cell phone. I can keep a cell phone dry in a pocket, but if I ruin a EOS1D Mark III in the rain I'll probably lose my job.

An interesting note: 15 years ago newspapers were paying $12,000 for Kodak DCS series digital cameras that shot 2 mp photos. Now my cheap cell phone does 2 mp photos.

A Great First day

Today I hit the road at 7:30 am., but not to hunt.

First, Morgan and I went to Greg Wagner's studio to be on his outdoor show. I was slobbering all the way there -- I knew that Ken Stoysich was bringing in smoked turchicken and some of their famous brats.

The show went great. Greg is a terrific host and other than feeling a little stuffed after consuming a cherry bomb brat, a reuben brat and about a pound of turkey, chicken and stuffing, I thought it went well.

I might have a man crush of Ken. If you want good food, start with Stoysich.

Then Morgan and I took his youngest to a WMA in Bellevue and started our first hunt of vacation. I took three pounds of sweet medium- and large-size yellows in about four hours of walking. We were competing with several groups. Morgan and Connor combined for another three pounds.

It was a real treat to spend time with Connor -- not a better kid out there. He was patient and fully engaged in the woods.

On the down side: I picked about ten ticks off me -- one latched -- and we were once again driven to fits of insanity by attacking mosquitoes.

Tomorrow we head to a special place -- can't say exactly where -- and hope to pick several pounds. Big D and I made new buckets for the trip.

If you're not familiar with Rootball's theory on buckets -- take a bucket (any size from a gallon ice cream bucket to a five-gallon pickle bucket) and drill half-inch holes in it. It's a safe place for your 'shrooms -- sparing them from the beating they would take in a mesh bag during a long walk, gives you plenty of ventilation and doubles as a seat when you get tired of carrying your harvest. I only use a mesh bag when I think I'll be finding just a few. I say if you're going to pick them, don't waste them. Not even one.

Ready, set, hunt morels

I've had several calls today confirming what we already know -- it's time to hunt.

Rootball Willy reports buckets of river morels being pulled from the Platte River Valley between Lincoln and Omaha. The report was second-hand, but Willy is an ex-repo man and can sniff out a false claim like a boar on a truffle.

Jeanmarie and Dean have been pulling dozens of nice medium-size morels from the West Douglas County parks.

Vicki Modlin, of Woods Sporting Goods and Live Bait in Council Bluffs, is reporting many pounds being taken from the Iowa side of the Missouri River Valley. They bring their buckets to her shop to weigh them -- and brag. Did I say the Wood's sells beer and has a drive-thru bait window.

Kellicans went to a Sarpy County WMA and picked three pounds of pristine morels. Kelly, I'm only going to say this once -- stay out of my honey hole.

We have heard of morel harvesting throughout the entire area -- not just a few hear and there, but big finds. Some are reporting sand fleas. That's to be expected after a rain. Everyone is reporting bad mosquitoes and ticks. Diana and I pulled more than 30 ticks -- many of those tiny bastards -- off us after a four-hour walk.

The past two years have been a test. We have been hopeful previously and had our hopes dashed. Still, I am willing to put my hopeful-self at risk yet again, with nothing between me and hunting for the next 10 days, and venture to believe this may be the best two weeks of morel hunting we've had in a long time. Starting now.

The Race to Vacation

I don't have a day off until Saturday and it's raining. I'm dying to get back to the woods.

I would go for lunch, but getting wet on a work day isn't a good idea. You never know what's on the schedule.

Yesterday I spent four hours at a track meet. I forgot how much fun they are to attend.

Walking past signs specifically prohibiting mushroom harvesting only makes me more obsessed over how many mushrooms are on the other side of the fence. Every time I see a "no picking" sign, visions of fields of gray and yellow morels keep popping into my head.

A no trespassing sign is sufficient -- I don't cross fences and I always try to obey the law.

That said, is it possible that by specifically prohibiting foraging, the landowners are taunting us?

Do some find it too much of a temptation?

Greg Wagner, of the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission, has told me on numerous occasions that trespassing complaints spike during morel season.

I feel for the landowners. I doubt I'll ever be able to afford land. However, I would if I could and definitely would not appreciate going for a hunt at my own honey hole and finding nothing but stumps.

A couple seasons ago a land owner ended up with legal trouble for trying to defend his mushrooms with a handgun. I doubt I would go that far to protect my fungi treasures, but I might install a 20-foot electric fence and give vicious dogs the run of the place.

If you see some woods you want to hunt, find the owner. Ask. If you aren't able to get permission, look elsewhere.

If you own land it might be a good idea to give mushroom hunters access. We are willing to pick up garbage, identify and report barrels filled with dead bodies and meth labs... and share what mushrooms we do find.

Morels for Dinner

We put in five hours of walking, we fought off swarming mosquitoes and seed ticks and we found enough morels for dinner. I call that a great first hunt.

Most of the morels were about the size of my thumb. Several were thick walled and golf ball-size -- perfect to cut and fry.

It was our first time to Gifford Point. We found morels within 10 minutes of walking into the woods. There is an access issue -- if you don't want a long walk you might want to look elsewhere. It is a full 1.5 miles from the parking lot to public access.

I danced. I sang and danced. It took a few hours to find the right tree, but I found about 40 on the north side of a fallen cottonwood. A great first day. Big D and I picked more than 100. Sasquatch had a nice sack as well.

Back out tomorrow -- I'm going to try the Iowa side of the Missouri near Council Bluffs.

A Day Closer to Heaven

Reports of morels popping in nearby states continue to tempt me to take a long lunch. Unfortunately, I didn't make it out to the woods.

Morgan heard morels were being found in Missouri. Typically, Northern Missouri is a week ahead of Mineola.

Early season morels in the Missouri River Valley are small. I try to limit my picking to mature morels, with open Ascus. That said, while it takes a long time to find enough for a meal, they are the perfect size for soups and omelettes. As an added bonus, they are usually bug free and and gorgeous.

The earliest I have ever found morels near Mineola was April 14th. Two single morels about six feet apart, the size of a small exterior Christmas light bulbs. One looked like it had been dipped in marshmallow sauce. They grew on the south side of a rise with good sun exposure. Although there was only two to be found that day, it is still one of my favorite discoveries.

The first is always sweet.

The Morel Dance

Today I received word that a small patch of morel mushrooms was found at Two Rivers State Park. It is moist and warm -- I have no reason to doubt it. So I am celebrating this day, April 14, as the beginning of morel season 2010.

Everybody dance now.

I went for a short walk along the Missouri River near Council Bluffs this past Sunday. Not that I expected to find morels, but I wasn't going to be surprised if I did. If I've learned anything from years of hunting morels, it is how little I know. Now that I have reliable information that they are popping, I'll start looking longer and harder until I start filling my buckets. And when I find my first morel of the season I will dance. Big D will dance. Rootball Willy will dance. And Morgan (a.k.a. Sasquatch) will reluctantly dance.

The past two years I took my vacation too early. By the time the morels were popping en mass, I was back to work. This year I'm scheduling the bulk of my vacation time in late-April and early-May. The cold winter had the bulk of my hunting buddies guessing that late-April would be a safe time to schedule time off. Of course, now it looks like the season could be upon us by the 20th-24th.

I will doing a daily blog for the entire season. I'm planning no less than 14 days of dedicated foraging. If I find them, I'll let you know how many and secrets from the hunts. If I come home empty handed, I'll whine like a little baby.

And I'll take photos every day. This year I am better equipped than ever and am planning to do a video documenting the season as well. I'll also be on Greg Wagner's outdoor show on 1620 AM Saturday, April 24 at 9 a.m. Greg is already drooling over the thought of fried morels.

When you find your first morel, let out a woohoo and do a little dance. It doesn't matter if anyone is watching. It doesn't have to be an audition for Dancing With the Stars. A little jig will do. Dancing won't fill your quota any faster, but it will make you smile.

The Confessions of Grizzly Davis

How nuts is it to play baseball in freezing weather.

It didn't seem to bother the players. Yet, I froze.

Not only did I freeze Tuesday night at Hawks Field with a stiff wind biting my backside, but also Wednesday night covering softball in a northern gale as Creighton played Nebraska.

I wore a coat.

I also carry some natural insulation and am a four-season hunter and forager. If there is a season I don't like to be outside, it's the heat of summer.

That said, until I'm sure that it's going to be warm, I'm going to work in a hat and mittens. I don't care if the kids are already wearing flip flops. I don't care if I look like a wimp to all the lumberjacks and crab fishermen in the crowd.

O.K., I'll admit it. I've had enough of this winter.

I'm the one always looking forward to the cold. I sit in snow banks for fun. But this winter has broke me. I have had fleeting thoughts of moving to San Diego. I don't care if it's ever cold again. I may have subconsciously enlarged my carbon footprint simply to rush global warming.

And I am not willing to wait. As I drove home from the softball game I had the heat on high. And when I got home I cranked the furnace up to 70-degrees and crawled under the covers.

I am not Grizzly Adams. As much as I thought I was, I am not. I couldn't be Grizzly Adams if you added electricity, a half-track and salsa to my log cabin home.

I will never again pray for more snow. I am wuss, hear me whine.

Trip to Barada

Barada is a tiny village of 28 in Southeast Nebraska. The town is named for Antoine Barada, the son of a French immigrant and an Native American mother. Barada is in a section of land designated as a "half-breed" reservation.

Evidently the government felt citizen's of mixed heritage needed a place separate of "whites" and Indian Nations. Barada's mother, Laughing Buffalo, was from the Omaha Nation.

Barada was a giant of a man and legends of his fetes of strength are still told. He has been called the "Paul Bunyan of Nebraska."

The Associated Press reported: "Tales of Antoine Barada's strength are many. He was known as a huge man, measuring well over six feet tall and guessed as close to seven feet by many - a giant of a man for that day and age."

I went to Barada with Morgan Sailors. Five generations of Sailors are buried in The Harris Cemetery on a hill west of the village. Included is Larry D. Sailors, a gentle giant with a beautiful singing voice.

Larry Dean Sailors loved nature and shared much of his knowledge with Morgan. One of his favorite activities was foraging for morel mushrooms. Morgan took me on my first morel hunt when I returned to Nebraska after 10 years in the Chicago area.

For several years before Larry's death, Morgan would take fresh morels to his father as he was unable to get out in the woods. Larry died May 19, 2009 -- shortly after the morel season ended. The lessons he taught of the natural world will live on as long as the legend of Antoine Barada. Morgan has shared his knowledge and experiences with hundreds and those excited by his tales share the secrets of finding morels with their family and friends. As I have done.

The Sounds of Yesterday

Sandhill cranes are in the hourglass moving north in search of breeding grounds. The stop in central Nebraska along the Platte River Valley is short, but packed with adventure.

Avoiding prying eyes seems to be this majestic bird's primary duty.

You can only get so close. I took most of my best photographs with a 600 4.0 mated to a 1.4x -- too loose in most cases. There are ethics to consider. Stalking the birds is not an option. So for hours I sat in the company car, windows rolled down, two bodies and a video camera in the passenger seat.

I think the trick is to arrive slowly and don't wait to roll down the window when you come upon an opportunity. Compared to the effort I go to when hunting deer, this leather-equipped rolling blind was a pleasure. Still, some of the thrill of the chase was lost the moment I realized I was searching for features without leaving the car, eliminating all chance of a refreshing angles.

As a kid I knew nothing of our wealth. I simply thought cranes were everywhere. It wouldn't have killed me to pick up a field guide, yet I thought it might have then.

I explored. I was ignorant to the expert's views of the natural world, yet drenched in that rare feeling of discovering something for the first time.

As a teen, I took to the river with childhood friends -- mostly drinking buddies. We took two canoes and decided to live with the cranes. We had no plans, knew not where we were and didn't care. We would name the bends and be the first to step foot on sandbars, claiming all found treasure as our own.

When we came upon a bridge we'd send the man with the shorter straw down the road in search of peanut butter crackers, chick 'o sticks, fluids or a handout. I doubt I had twenty bucks in my pocket for the week-long trip.

We froze. We had sleeping bags and waterproof matches. We shared sandbars with coyotes as the cranes roosted in the shallows of the river. We were afraid of many things -- any loud thump in the night sent shivers down my spine. And we were amazed by the gray ghosts and their constant chatter -- thoughts of harming them never crossed our minds.

In the dark of night, long after our night lights -- modest fires -- had dimmed, any noise would send the flock straight up. The sound of hundreds of giant winged-bodies exploding to the air at once was deafening.

We lay in our sand pits circled around the fire huddled in mummy sleeping bags with only our eyes and noses exposed. One or two birds would panic and the rest would follow. A whitetail innocently passing, a vixen and her kit following the scent of pan-fried catfish, a loud fart; almost anything disturbed them. Still, they chose our neighborhood. We had planted our flag.

I relayed this story to friends recently. They were both appalled by our trespasses. These were sacred birds -- although one admitted to have tasted what he called "the tenderloin of the sky."

And while I pledge to never intentionally stress any animal or kill anything I won't eat, trips spent coexisting with the cranes, predators and prey are the pillars of my adoration for the Sandhill crane.

I spent sixteen hours in a blind at the Rowe Sanctuary. I wore camo and perched myself on a wooden stool in front of difficult tripods in a four-foot high box.

I cherished the opportunity despite being claustrophobic. Six portholes faced the river. As the sun began to set the cranes came in, landing gear down, to soak there feet for the night.

I felt young again. I felt alive. The tedium of staying one step ahead of communications, bills and life numbs that feeling. Tuesday night I breathed fresh air, tasted the chill and knew that I was in a very special place at the perfect moment. And although I know now that I am only walking where others have been, I felt as if I was on an adventure, seeking treasures of digital moments.

Big Red Blues

While Nebraska's loss to Kentucky for the right to play Oklahoma in the regional final was hard to watch, the Husker's accomplished something that no other team was able to do: Get me to watch women's basketball.

I covered several games this year and found myself enjoying the sport, not just the assignment.

Connie Yori led Nebraska further than any other Nebraska basketball team by making it to the Sweet Sixteen.

I not only covered some of the games -- I also rooted for the team. I jumped on the bandwagon and look forward to watching them next year.

Lost opportunities

Day 3: 03/27/2010
I'm not sure if I'm being hard on myself or if I'm a hack. I archive all my work and revue my results at the end of every week. This past week I know I worked hard, but the best picture I took was from a freaking press conference. A press conference? I'm having trouble letting that sink in.

I know that it will take time to get back to full strength. Yet there is a part of me that expects more -- it keeps me up at night. Did I do enough?

Joel Sartore would ask if I have any irons in the fire. He's a big advocate of working on long-term projects. If I was allowed to offer an excuse I would say that I am just trying to learn my job and get comfortable with my equipment. But in the end there is no place for excuses. I could have got up early and done some enterprise photography. I could have looked for a story that deserves more attention. Instead I was happy to let my assignments dictate my opportunities.

My goal for the coming week is to look beyond my assignments for success. Hopefully the next time I revue I won't find that my best picture was given to me in the form of a "photo opportunity."

Bracket Buster

Day 2: 03/26/2010
Kansas State pulled out a squeaker in double overtime against Xavier, knocking out yet another of my elite eight picks. Denis Clemente calmly sank two free throws with 11.6 seconds remaining, sealing the Wildcat's victory. I photographed Clemente in Lincoln on Feb. 2, as Kansas State crushed the Cornhuskers. The shot may not be the best basketball photo I've ever taken, but Clemente was definitely the best player I saw this year.

Today is a new day

I returned to photojournalism a few months ago after 12 years in hibernation. I'm shooting for the Omaha World-Herald and am trying my hand at both still and video photography. I hope this will become a forum for friends, family and fellow photographers.