Dryland Fishing: The Hunt for Morel Mushrooms

As I approach my second year of college, I am aware that I am growing older and faring farther away from the years of my childhood. I often reflect back on those memorable years that I spent in little ole Rockcastle County Kentucky, just a little way south of Berea. That was back when my family and I still lived next door to my grandparents in a small trailer. I remember from a young age I would walk alongside my older brother to cross the small patch of woods that divided our two homes. We would go over there quite frequently throughout the year to spend time with my Mamaw and Papaw. One of my favorite times to go, however, was in the spring because that meant dryland fish were starting to pop up in the woods behind their house.

 To those who may not know, dry-land fish is a popular term used for morel mushrooms here in eastern Kentucky. For most, hunting morels is just a fun way to pass time. For others, however, it is an avenue to make some extra cash. Morel mushrooms are a hot commodity here. Many who cannot find the mushrooms themselves are often willing to pay upwards of $50 for one pound. My family in particular did not sell the mushrooms we found. We simply enjoyed the experience of dryland fishing.

With that being said, every season, I was eager to go hunting for mushrooms. It would take both my Mamaw and Papaw to keep me inside the house long enough for them to finish getting ready to go looking. “Hold your horses,” Mamaw would tell me. When we finally made our way out into the woods, I never wasted any time lollygagging. I made it my goal to find more than my brother on every hunt, so as soon as we were deep enough into the woods, I started to look. I kept my eyes low and looked near the trees and under the leaves. That’s where Papaw told us we’d have the best luck.

Some days I had more luck than others, but I knew that when I was struggling, I could turn to Papaw for help. It seemed like he always knew where they were hiding. He’d point me in the direction of a mushroom then immediately scratch the back of his neck and look up at the sky with wide eyes as if he didn’t just tell me where to find one. That never failed to make me giggle.

I remember one day when we were out hunting, my brother and Papaw stumbled across a mushroom that had grown right through the ring of an abandoned keychain. Mamaw was skeptical at first. “Roger, did you put that there?” she asked. But he couldn’t have. The ring was too small to slide past the cap of the mushroom. We all marveled at the sight until, inevitably, it was picked. Morel mushrooms were too tasty for us to leave behind because of some keychain.

After we had searched the entirety of the woods, we would head back to the house to prepare our mess of mushrooms for eating. The first step was to soak them in salt water for a little while to remove any bugs that may have been hiding in their porous caps. That wait seemed like forever, but my excitement would become uncontainable as Mamaw would bring out the flour and oil for frying. It wasn’t long after that when Papaw would tell my brother and I that they were ready to eat. I would try to savor every bite because I only got the delicious delicacy a few times a year.

As the years went by, however, the number of mushrooms started to dwindle, until eventually, they stopped growing behind their house altogether. Now, I only get to eat dryland fish when friends of my grandparents give them a few out of their mess, which is not very often. But, even though I may not get to enjoy the flavorful mushrooms as often as I used to, I am forever thankful for the precious memories I created with my Mamaw and Papaw.

By the time I reached middle school, I found out Papaw would go scope out the woods before taking me and my brother out to hunt. Unlike young me once thought, he did not have the superhuman ability to accurately pinpoint a mushroom at any given notice. It turns out he was just a loving grandpa who wanted to create special memories with his grandkids. It is the seemingly little things like that, that make me so fond of my childhood here in my home, Appalachia.

Article Written by Lindsey Robinson