Morel Mushrooms: The End-Of-Life Midwives Of The Forest
Walking through the woods today I saw garlic mustard beginning to bolt, not yet flowering. May apples were poking up through the ground: umbrellas in all stages of opening. Trillium were budding. I was looking for morels but I found none; it was too early. Though surely there must have been some up: the early black ones, gray ones, half-frees…yet I didn’t see a single one.
I picked a tick off my sock.
Trees were down everywhere I wandered, blocking trails. Bark was sloughed off in heaps. These woods have been dying, which is why the morels have been so prevalent here these past ten years. They come as the trees slowly die, circling the trees, ushering them out of this life and easing them into whatever — if anything — is next.
Alternatively, I suppose, they could be thought of as the killers, or as vultures, sensing death and waiting to feast on the carnage, but I know in my heart that is wrong. Morels are gentle, kind-spirited, and wise. They are end-of-life midwives, encircling the trees, singing to them. Assuring them all is well, letting them know it’s OK to let go.
I am missing Dave with every step. Not just because he is the one who usually finds the elusive mushrooms first, alerting me to the fact that they are there, causing me to slow my steps and sharpen my eyes. Without him to spy the first, I am lost, in doubt, hopeless. Who am I without him? And why did he, like the trees, have to go?
Spot after spot I search, going to all our places, and tree after tree is down. The woods are unrecognizable with death, and not a morel to be found. Once the trees come crashing down the morels move on. They don’t return when their job is done and the spirit of the trees are gone. The morels move on, finding the next spot. But I don’t know where those spots are. The places Dave and I have been visiting since first starting morel hunting in 2009 are now wastelands of downed trees. Trails are blocked with fallen trees, whole areas are closed off. During the ten years the trees were dying the morels came back stronger every year, singing louder, supporting the transition. For ten years Dave and I knew where to come to find our bounty. But now those trees are dead and I don’t know where to go next. Can I find a spot without him? Can I make my own way?
I have a couple more weeks before the large yellow ones come up. They are the easiest for me to find: big, bright, and when you find one you’re almost guaranteed to be standing among at least twenty more, even if you don’t see them right away. I’ll go back and check the old spots again, maybe I’ll find something. But I know in my heart I have to move on. I need to be bold and brave and search the woods for new areas, new secret places for me — if I’m lucky — to come back to on my own year after year.
