May 04, 2008 12:32 am
—
I expected to find morel mushrooms by the bushel baskets this spring, after all the rain.
Finally last week they started showing up on my place and I found about 100 in three or four hours of looking. Then I had a big feast and got about half sick of them because I ate too many. I gave away a few, and will give away some more this week because I figure I will find more when conditions get better.
By the time you read this, I will have already given away all of them, so don’t call.
Ms. Wiggins, my executive secretary, does not eat any of the mushrooms I find, because her illegal Mexican boyfriend is allergic to them. I have suggested it might be a good way for her to get rid of him, because he keeps coming back every time he is deported, but she got awfully mad when I suggested it.
Actually, I never knew of any morel mushrooms killing anyone, but there are some people who get very ill when they eat them. If you have never eaten them, you should only eat a few the first time you get the opportunity. The reason I get a little bit queasy when I eat them is the same reason I get sick when I eat chocolate cake, I can’t stop until the whole darn cake is gone.
I don’t have many bad habits; I do not drink anything with alcohol in it and do not smoke. I found out how bad drugs can be last year when I had that kidney stone and took too many pain pills. I won’t do that again!
No one should feel that good, ever. And that is sort of the way I feel when I am eating a whole chocolate cake or a whole strawberry-rhubarb pie or a whole sackful of mushrooms, or a wild turkey. Until it is all over, I really, really feel good about it.
I have been told it is a good thing that I never did drink or smoke because I have exhibited addictive behavior, concerning eating and hunting and fishing.
I notice that when I get to hunting mushrooms I forget where I am and where I am going. I have scratches on my forehead from running into tree limbs, and I left a good turkey call somewhere out there in the woods where I came across a pretty good grove of mushrooms.
There was one tree that had about 15 nice big morels around it and if I knew where it was, I’d know where that turkey call was.
Turkey hunting
The turkey hunting has been very good, as I have called up about a dozen nice gobblers, and 11 of them are still there.
My good friend Dennis Whiteside, who is an accomplished river guide and outdoorsman, had never hunted turkeys because he always fished too much in the spring to give it any serious attention. He knew where to come when he wanted to learn about it. Shucks, it was me that taught him how to fish, though he won’t own up to it.
Dennis and I went out on opening morning and called up a gobbler which stopped and strutted in front of him for an hour, about 60 yards away, and then left with a hen.
Then we called up another, which gobbled and strutted about 70 yards away, only to be ran off by another tom, which also went a different direction. At 9 a.m., Dennis complained about how it seemed I was really good at calling gobblers in to just outside of gun range, but not so good at calling them in to killing distance.
I was offended, of course, and reminded him that if it wasn’t for me he would have still been fishing with a cane pole and paddling on both sides of the boat.
That really made him mad, and he said that if it wasn’t for him I’d still be fishing with a shimmy-fly for shade perch, and the two of us almost came to a point of shouting insults at each other.
But, we realized that yelling at each other in the turkey woods is counterproductive, and in about an hour, I sat him down in a brushpile and called up four big strutting gobblers to within about 10 yards of him. He was so well hidden he couldn’t see to shoot, but eventually one of them walked off in a different direction and Dennis got his first gobbler ever, a big red-headed tom with an 11-inch beard and spurs about a quarter of an inch shorter than he has been telling everyone they were.
As a fisherman, he has developed some bad habits, and I don’t think the gobbler would have weighed 40 pounds either!
I guess I shouldn’t admit this, but I actually missed a nice gobbler this past week, and I can’t figure out a good reason other than a hole in the shot pattern. He ran off with a great deal of purpose and enthusiasm, so I am sure he was unhurt. It could be that subconsciously I just didn’t want to kill him.
He only gobbled two or three times and came running up to me like a doggone, half-tame turkey. No hunter wants that kind of thing to happen. You want a gobbler to come slow and cautious and be a real challenge, all huffed up and booming and gobbling and strutting. Of course, if I don’t have one in a day or so, I will perhaps settle for anything.
White bass
I caught some white bass this past week, up the river above the lake. It is a late run this year because of the high water, and the main bunch of big females aren’t as early as they usually are. The males I caught were about half worn out from swimming so far, and you can see a sort of disgruntled, worried look in their eyes from being alone this far into the spring.
The late spring is no problem for us fishermen however. The high water hinders fishing, but it insures good spawns of all species, and the fishing will last longer if the rivers have good water conditions.
Journal
Because of the time I am forced to invest in hunting and fishing, I have drug my feet a little on getting out the latest issue of the Lightnin’ Ridge Outdoor Journal, the magazine we produce for readers of this column. But we have an issue about to be printed and mailed to all you subscribers, so don’t get to thinking we forgot.
Copyright © 1999-2008 cnhi, inc.