Tuesday, April 26, 2011


I am an inexpert mushroom hunter, at best. I always seem to miss whenever the peak time and place is, managing to find a few, but not the sacks full that I hear other people talk about. (In this, my mushroom hunting is like my fishing - I always "should have been here yesterday" or "last week," or whenever the hot time was). And of course, the location of such places as they grow in those quantities are more closely guarded than the nuclear football.

Still, yesterday Nate and I took the opportunity to tromp through the woods at a dear friend's house. We came home wet and muddy, with a bag full of 1 dozen farm eggs from her hen house, three rusty shotgun shell hulls for his "collection," one old tree stand strap (which I wouldn't trust my body to, but which will be perfect for riveting on some hooks to hang stuff within easy reach in the tree stand), and a good pair of sunglasses. We did not come home with any morels, but making a memory with my son seems like a good trade.

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