MAN AS MOREL

The third of my “Man As” philosophical treatises.

I’ve hunted the spring treasure for my entire life.  Beginning in the early 1960s with my dad, covering the Lake Fork River in Central Illinois.  Searching in the 70s, canoeing the Embarrass River, foraging its bountiful banks.

I’ve been in Nebraska for 16 years now.  The first 10 years yielded nice harvests from my former dojo.  The expansion westward, particularly the Legacy development, encroached, nay trampled, the delicacies around Zorinskly.

I’ve been in Waterloo now for almost 4 years.  Located between the Elkhorn and Platte Rivers.  Prime morel grounds.  I’ve ranged from Two Rivers State Park to Elk City to Platte River State Park.  And have been stymied.  Finding nubs indicating an earlier bird getting the worm.

I was helping Carl side his chicken coop yesterday.  Just right across the street.  Walking the few steps back to my own property, an epiphany of honey hole proportions.  Nearly 100 of the most beautiful mushrooms I’ve ever seen, fairy ring of culinary delight.  All along the fence line that I pass daily.

Man wanders in search of the sublime.  Man ranges far in search of simple soul satisfying sustenance.

Often, man need only look closer to see the honey hole that is his own yard.