I believe the correct term is “foraging”, which is when you go out into the wilderness in search of food and resources. Hilariously, the Oxford online dictionary chooses to plug the word into a sentence this way:
“A man foraging a dumpster finds some celery.”
The other day I was asked by a friend of mine if she and her boyfriend could “forage” for mushrooms and asparagus in the wilderness areas of the farm, and of course I said yes. I guess her use of the word “forage” intrigued me, so I looked it up just to see the official definition. I did not expect a dumpster to get involved.
When talking about going out in search of wild mushrooms and asparagus, my dad always used the word “hunt”. As a product of my environment, I followed suit. At this glorious springtime of year, I have always enjoyed “hunting” for morels and asparagus and berries. Toward autumn, I’ll hunt for puffballs. Surely there is more dignity in hunting for provisions in the wild, than there is in foraging for celery in a dumpster.
My dad prided himself on finding wild mushrooms. In the springtime during the planting season, he was perpetually stressed about getting the seed in the ground. We would prep machinery for months ahead of time. He would risk the financial equivalent of a mortgage for one season’s worth of inputs (that was yesteryear; today’s prices equate to several mortgages). Working around the weather was a constant source of stress. During favorable weather, we would bring meals to him in the field, just so he could continue planting.
Yet, despite this, he always took the time to forage — I mean hunt — for morels. My dad would carry a small pail on the tractor, and at some point during the day, would take time to step away from farming to poke and prod the fence lines and field edges in search of morels. He was good at finding them, too. He would emerge at the end of the day with a pail full and a field planted. Sometimes we would search together, and he always found them first. Infuriatingly, he could spot a morel while operating field equipment. One time I was riding in the tractor and he slammed on the brakes, bringing the equipment to a halt. We got out, backtracked, and sure enough — along an embankment was a solitary morel. He had spotted it from the cab while driving.
Wild asparagus always followed the morel season, and again, he had a knack for spotting it. My earliest memories include finishing up farm chores in springtime and hitting the back country roads in the late afternoon. We took the farm truck, which in and of itself is a story — the farm truck could not possibly be considered legal, or even safe, by any stretch of the imagination. By the time the truck finally died, the “fuel tank” consisted of a gas can in the passenger seat with homemade fuel lines running through the dash to the carburetor. You could see the road through the floorboards. The first “automobile” (term used loosely) I ever drove was this farm truck, which is a story for another time.
Dad and I would cruise the back roads at the end of the day, with chores done and the late afternoon sun just beginning to stretch shadows. The windows were always rolled down. Along the fence lines, obscured to everyone but him, patches of asparagus grew. We returned home with fistfuls of asparagus, and my grandmother, herself a product of the Great Depression, prepared it in a homemade cream sauce.
About the time we took the first cutting of alfalfa, the wild berries came into season. Fence lines are another symbol of a bygone era of farming, and they were always teeming with wild berry bushes. Despite the pressures of haymaking, my dad always carved out time to hunt for berries. In the days of small square baling, if my grandfather had to wait for an empty wagon, he would pass the time foraging — I mean hunting — for berries in the fencerows. He would carry them home in his baseball cap, which was always stained from berry juice. Now that I think of it, berry-stained baseball caps were a staple of our farm’s dress code. What a way to grow up!
As the John Muir quote goes, “And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.” This spring I have made it a point to do exactly that. I believe we have forgotten how fresh the earth smells in the springtime. We have lost track of the beauty of birdsongs and the reality that the natural world has to offer. During this window between when the soil has warmed enough to encourage morels, but not enough so the undergrowth obscures the ground, all manner of discoveries await.
While hunting — I mean foraging — I have stumbled across deer antler sheds, bleached-white bones from an array of wildlife, and of course the sought-after provisions. Of course, there is also the unending collection of discarded beer and soda cans, glass and plastic bottles, grocery bags, silage plastic, tires, and crumpled fast food packaging. Always, there is the detritus of fast food and soft drinks.
It has gotten to the point where I now go out foraging with two bags — one for provisions, and the other for trash. Inevitably, there is far more trash than provisions. What a legacy to leave behind, and it drives home the point:
The use of the word “dumpster” is by no means an accident when we talk about foraging in the wilderness and along back country roads.
— Dan Wegmueller is the owner of Wegmueller Farms and his column appears regularly in the Times. His website is https://www.farmforthought.org.
