The text from a friend lit like a fly on a trout stream, asking if I wanted to go morel hunting and hiking for a bit. I hit the bait hard, and Wes Homoya reeled me in. He advised me to dress appropriately and to bring water and snacks, so I “geared up.” I dug out the field duffel bag I had won at a Bird-A-Thon gathering at the Eagle Creek Ornithology center and shoved into it two facemasks, a small towel, and my sanitizer package. I filled a water bottle and checked the battery level on my camera. I scanned my ballcap lineup and rejected the Ash & Elm cap in favor of one emblazoned with the words, “Bird Nerd.” I was, after all, going grubbing for a fungus with an ornithologist. I emerged from my basement grotto to get my coat and to wait with my gear for my transport. Wes showed up in his packing-box sized Smart car and I folded myself into the passenger’s seat. We exchanged greetings and pleasantries about vaccination statuses — both triple poked — and Wes piloted me toward my adventure.
I’ve written about Wes before, the first time in “Bird Man of Indianapolis,” (September 2016) and again in “The Lorax Of Indiana,” (February 2021). He nurtured my nascent interest in birding and has taken me on small birding excursions. This impromptu foray was going to be a new experience for me, but Wes and I chatted about life in general, and not fungi. On the highway toward the Morgan-Monroe State Forest, big birds were aloft; the voice of the Google maps person guided us. When the driving was not too perilous, Wes was able to glance up at the birds and identify them for me.
At the entrance to the State Forest, Wes parked, and we unfolded. He assembled his gear, including his binoculars, and nimbly stepped over a fat chain that lazed across the head of the trail we were to take; my arthritic knee complained only mildly as I followed him across the divide. After viewing a picture of our prey, and a few moments of bird-call distraction, Wes gave me tips and pointed into the woods. We divided up and hunted, each hoping to be the first to find the fungus.
As I slowly slogged through dead leaves and carefully swept aside snagging branches, Wes roamed farther afield and soon interrupted my rustling with a call: “CJ!” I made my way up a slight rise toward him; he was standing in front of a great tulip tree and staring at the base of it. Wes challenged me to find the morel: “Can you see it?” I carefully scanned the base of the tree until I found it: my first wild morel. Once we were off the schneid, we ventured deeper into the woods, looking for more. Wes was soon out of my sight, but I wandered around, hunting for the Morels until I heard him call out again. We rejoined and soon, folded into his car for the ride home.
Hunting for morels, I’ve decided, is about the calls of songbirds and warblers, the sight of ducks on ponds, Great Blue Herons powering across the skies, hawks with prey in their talons and the mighty voice of the petite Carolina wren, the tiny blue-gray gnatcatcher, and the companionship of a friend, who shared in the finding of exactly one, morel mushroom.
cjon3acd@att.net
