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...
.jpg)