Early in the morning I was driving through a Yellowstone thunderstorm, looking at newly bloomed wildflowers pounded into the ground, listening to a certain Sammy Hagar song on a constant loop, when a call came in from West Yellowstone, reeling me back.
My friend was on the line: “[Name withheld] said the mushrooms are out.”
I had tried hunting for them, but ended with nothing. “Where are they at?”
“I don’t know,” my friend said.
“Well let’s go find them,” I said.
The next day was a classic Montana morning. Green and moist and sunny with the darkness washed away, we drove into the forest and saw a raven land with a mushroom in its mouth.
“That’s a good sign,” my friend said.
It sure seemed like it, so we got out to search, but were fooled again.
We kept driving, stopping, searching. And the next thing you know, in the midst of glistening pine trees, the odds changed. Morels.
While “dividing up the cake”, each taking home half, 10 a.m. showed up, and it was time to open the store. Morel hunting had to end, as it was time to get on with life.
A pretty good day. They are out there, and with a little luck, I’ll find morels again.
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