We’ve found a surprising number of mushrooms during in our time in California, considering the drought and lack of local wilderness. Whenever and wherever some source of moisture reaches the earth, though, voyeuristic fungi spring up here and there. Our front pasture last year was crowded with meadow mushrooms; blewits occasionally line a nearby bike path.
But finding them here lacks the immense pleasure and satisfaction of a trek into the lush wilds of the Pacific Northwest, seeking the perfect humus, just the right fungi-friendly flowers and trees. The surroundings and adventure and methodical progress make mushroom-hunting an addictive delight and a pastime I yearn for on our return.
Perhaps best of all, our new property is flanked by a hundred acres of forest, freshly logged and being replanted this fall: among the most desirable and sought-after conditions for an optimum hunt.
We’ve dedicated dozens, perhaps hundreds, of fruitless hours to morel-hunting. Maybe– and how perfect it would be– we’ll finally find our first at home.