The Smell of Spring and the Call of the Woods
Every spring, something spectacular happens. It’s not just the return of warm air or the greening of the trees—it’s something deeper, more primal. The pull of the woods takes hold, and without fail, I find myself drawn back to a time when my boots were smaller, my bucket was lighter, and I followed my father through the trees, scanning the ground for something hidden yet inevitable.
I am ten years old. The woods, a quarter mile from my house, are alive with the scent of damp earth and the quiet hum of spring awakening. My father and I walk, hunched over, buckets in hand, eyes trained on the forest floor. Every few steps, he snickers—a short chuckle of satisfaction that I return in kind. We are hunting morels, but it’s more than that.
Between mushrooms, we pick wild asparagus. My dad is patient, pointing things out, nudging me in the right direction without over-explaining. To me, he is Daniel Boone and Grizzly Adams rolled into one—the greatest woodsman who ever lived. At the time, I didn’t realize how lucky I was.
Those weekends spent in the North Woods of Minnesota and in the small patches of wilderness near our home weren’t just fun outings. They were the foundation of an education—one I wouldn’t fully appreciate until long after my dad was gone.
A Northern Minnesota Childhood
My father grew up in Crosslake, a tiny Northern Minnesota town of fewer than 400 people. My mother was from Pequot Lakes, the next town over. Dad spent much of his youth at the family fishing resort, developing a deep love for the outdoors, a love that never left him.
Growing up, every weekend from May through September was spent “at the lake.” My grandmother’s cabin sat directly across the street from three of the five “essential” businesses in town—Momma Bosso’s Pizza, Dairy Queen, and Manny’s Market. The other two were up for debate, depending on who you asked: the gas station, the bar, or the post office.
To my young mind, Momma Bosso’s Pizza was an exotic mystery. I was convinced that a stout Italian woman who spoke no English had arrived only recently from Italy, carrying secret family recipes that no Scandihoovian could ever match. Whether that was true or not didn’t matter. The smell of that pizza, mingling with the scent of the lake, the sound of outboard motors in the distance, and the laughter of my parents playing cards on the screen porch—it’s all still in my Norwegian nose today.
Foraging, Pragmatism, and the Lessons of the Woods
I have been a pragmatist for most of my life. I’m certain that was something developed through my experiences in the natural world.
I can still play back, like a movie, certain moments I spent alone in the woods, imagining the challenges an animal might face—how its environment shaped its survival, how seasons dictated its movements. These weren’t intentional moments of learning; they simply happened.
Nature, to me, seemed—well—natural.
There were cycles that were predictable. Even the degree of predictability was predictable… to a degree.
Truisms were everywhere. Some animals and plants can’t take high heat or direct sunlight. All living things require a list of “supplies” to thrive. Without them, they may survive, but they will always struggle. The seasons come and go, the sun rises and sets, and on and on and on.
Foraging for mushrooms is best done like a graceful tortoise moves through the woods—slow and purposeful. Walk that way, and you’ll be amazed at what you see. And what you learn—not just about mushrooms, but about yourself and the world around you.
Change Comes Slowly—Unless You’re a Mushroom
People often say that change doesn’t come easily. That who we are at thirty is, in all likelihood, who we will be at forty, fifty, and beyond. In many ways, I think that’s true.
But mushrooms? Mushrooms are different.
Morel Mushroom Foraging teaches you that morels, in particular, are reactive. They sense changes in their environment and respond accordingly. When their host trees begin to die, the fungus gets to work, pushing fruit to the surface—one last hurrah before the inevitable. They don’t fight change; they embrace it.
Maybe that’s why they’ve always fascinated me. They remind me that change is constant, whether we want it or not. That life—much like foraging—is about paying attention to the signs, knowing when to push forward and when to let things be.
The Art of Morel Mushroom Foraging
The Morels Still Come Back—So Do I
It has now been 35 years since my father passed away, but every spring, I find myself back in the woods, bucket in hand, eyes scanning the ground. The thrill of spotting that first morel never fades, nor does the sound of my father’s quiet chuckle. I never realized back then how lucky I was.
Those weekends in the North Woods weren’t just about morels or wild asparagus or time at the lake. They were about learning to see. To slow down. To appreciate what’s in front of you before it’s gone. And so, every spring, I return—just as the morels do. Because some things are too important to forget.
Want More Stories from the Woods?
I don’t always write posts like this, but if you enjoy them, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll get back to telling you where to find mushrooms.
Until then—happy hunting.
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