The Pursuit of the Elusive Morel Begins in Iowa

If you’ve ever spent a crisp spring afternoon wandering through the rolling beauty of Whitewater Canyon outside Cascade, then you know it’s the kind of place where faires and gnomes would live. Especially, the kind of fairy tale creatures that might live in a plump, honeycombed morel mushroom. Well, this ain't a fairy tale, but finding those mushrooms is just as hard as catching a gnome, fairy, or leprechaun (for me anyway).

This past Monday evening, armed with my mesh bag, high hopes, and a deep-rooted Midwestern optimism (BTW, that's stubbornness), I ventured into the woods with my wife and the twins. Our mission? To strike fungal gold. To unearth one of nature’s most delicious, sought-after spore holders: Morchella esculenta, the morel.

But did I find it? No.

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I found mayapples. So many mayapples. Enough to start a mayapple fan page on Instagram. I’m talking rolling green carpets of the things. It was like the forest was mocking me with its version of, “You want mushrooms? Here are some plants that look like umbrellas instead.” What sucks more is the young mayapples can look like morels as they sprout.

Now, any seasoned Iowa morel hunter will tell you there are sacred truths. These have been passed down from grandfather to grandson, from mother to daughter, usually while standing knee-deep in a ravine, wandering the woods, wondering if they’re even in the right forest.

There’s the old saying: “When the oak leaves are the size of a squirrel’s ear, it’s time.” Another classic: “Look after a warm rain, when the nights stay above 50.” And of course, my personal favorite: “If you tell someone your spot, the mushrooms vanish and your corn grows sideways.” Morel hunting isn’t just a hobby. It’s a spiritual test of sorts. A scavenger hunt designed by Mother Nature after she skipped her morning coffee.

My son and I scoured the hillsides. I whispered sweet nothings to the elm, surviving ash, oak, and pine trees. I begged the soil for a sign; that the sun would lend a golden beam directly onto a perfect patch of grays. But alas, I got skunked. Not even a false morel to squint suspiciously at. Just miles of hopeful wandering and the constant rustle of squirrels and birds judging me from the treetops.

But I’m not bitter. Okay, maybe a little bitter. But I know these woods. And I know that even if the morels give me the cold shoulder again this year, there’s a consolation prize waiting in the wings.

Golden oyster mushrooms.

Bright. Beautiful. Reliable (for me anyway). They grow in clusters like nature’s apology letter, and sauté up, just like a dream. And when I stumble on a log thick with them, it’s like winning the fungal lottery. Just add butter.

So, here's to the hunt. To muddy boots, mayapple jungles, and the great Iowa morel mystery. May your eyes be sharp, your knees bendy, and your heart ever hopeful. And, should you spot a honey-hole, NEVER TELL ANYONE ABOUT IT, EVER! Drop everything. Grab your mesh bag. It’s game on, Tri-States.