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Just trying to get it started I live in il just across the river and found the these on is side pretty early here same spot last year April 22
Seems like everything has been a little early down in Mo. and Kan. also. It was a pretty mild winter and I don't think the ground had to even unfreeze much. I was hunting only a week ago in Ok., and they are already up here by St. Joe, Mo 300 miles north of there. To bad we have some 20's temps coming. We got below freezing down this way a few days ago and it ruined some of what was up. The rain and snow this week up your way should set things up I hope. I would rather it snow than rain if its going to get that cold. It kind of insulates the ground in the short term. And soaks in nice and slow.
 

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Repeat of 2003? Late heavy snow. Super morel producer. Let's hope. One of the best years I ever had in Iowa. Some southern counties may get 10 inches.
 

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Hi everyone. We live in Kossuth County. Looking for some good areas to take kids out shrooming. Only lived in Iowa for a year now so don't know any places. And seems like everyone around knows asparagus spots not morels. Thanks for any help or tips :)
 

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Any public land might have a shot. If you are new to it I suggest along a river or stream.
 

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Hi there. Hope everyone seasoned well over the last 11 months. I seem to have aged 11 years, but I'll crawl to the woods if necessary. Actually, I have a story on that topic, but involving crutches; another time.

I'm awfully rusty. For now, in consideration of our all-important sticks (cue Freud), here's a sequel to last year's "The Eager Stick."


Bury Me with My Stick

Year after year, and through each long day of the better part of 11 months each of those years, the old stick occupies the corner niche in the back room next to the bookcase. Unpretentious—no haughty collar or ferrule—it passes merely as “that dirty old stick” to any who might acknowledge it, moreover, think anything of it at all. As is usual when the need for a stick suddenly arises in the middle of the woods, its origin was happenstance; routine and unceremoniously, the best available option, it was plucked from the litter of a forest floor now lost to memory.

It’s sycamore. The fibrous bark once covering it has been gradually stripped off over years during moments of idle musing or wondering while walking, revealing a whitish-yellow underside of minimal grain. Of perfect overall length, its hefty, inch-diameter handle is comfortable for the hand, and its top, sheared at a slight angle by chance of nature, entices the thumb, and both are polished smooth as satin from use. A solitary split extends from top to midpoint but resists further movement. Tapering ever so slightly, the half-worn nubs of former twigs accentuate the length of the shaft. The unfinished heel is hammered mostly smooth by the incessant and rhythmic “tap-tap-tap” attendant with each of countless steps taken.

Among several worthy counterparts, within time it earned the role as the principal trusted partner in the shared endeavors of the forager. More often lucky than not, the stick always proved reliable insofar as its main purpose. Although modest in nearly every respect, it possesses a unique quality known only to the forager: it speaks…of memories. It tells of hills and vales and bluffs and ravines and fields and meadows betwixt patches of woods beneath sun and cloud and rain; of thickets of thorn and plants and flowers of infinite kinds—the mayflowers it wars endlessly against; of sights and sounds of bugs and birds and creatures seen but mostly unseen; of mud and rock and sand and grass and tripping and tumbling in all; of countless places and sacred spaces where upon the ground amid all of this great glory, and often under dead or dying elm, or perhaps elsewhere, the timeless marvel melds with the moment of the season long-awaited.

Now, you may wonder, where?

Alas, the stick speaks only to me! And if we part the stick will tell these memories no more.

So, bury me with my stick.
 

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Any public land might have a shot. If you are new to it I suggest along a river or stream.

Never knew about rivers. Might have to check them out. In indiana would only find them in dense woods. Not much of those around Northern Iowa. Thanks for the tip.
 

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Hi there. Hope everyone seasoned well over the last 11 months. I seem to have aged 11 years, but I'll crawl to the woods if necessary. Actually, I have a story on that topic, but involving crutches; another time.

I'm awfully rusty. For now, in consideration of our all-important sticks (cue Freud), here's a sequel to last year's "The Eager Stick."


Bury Me with My Stick

Year after year, and through each long day of the better part of 11 months each of those years, the old stick occupies the corner niche in the back room next to the bookcase. Unpretentious—no haughty collar or ferrule—it passes merely as “that dirty old stick” to any who might acknowledge it, moreover, think anything of it at all. As is usual when the need for a stick suddenly arises in the middle of the woods, its origin was happenstance; routine and unceremoniously, the best available option, it was plucked from the litter of a forest floor now lost to memory.

It’s sycamore. The fibrous bark once covering it has been gradually stripped off over years during moments of idle musing or wondering while walking, revealing a whitish-yellow underside of minimal grain. Of perfect overall length, its hefty, inch-diameter handle is comfortable for the hand, and its top, sheared at a slight angle by chance of nature, entices the thumb, and both are polished smooth as satin from use. A solitary split extends from top to midpoint but resists further movement. Tapering ever so slightly, the half-worn nubs of former twigs accentuate the length of the shaft. The unfinished heel is hammered mostly smooth by the incessant and rhythmic “tap-tap-tap” attendant with each of countless steps taken.

Among several worthy counterparts, within time it earned the role as the principal trusted partner in the shared endeavors of the forager. More often lucky than not, the stick always proved reliable insofar as its main purpose. Although modest in nearly every respect, it possesses a unique quality known only to the forager: it speaks…of memories. It tells of hills and vales and bluffs and ravines and fields and meadows betwixt patches of woods beneath sun and cloud and rain; of thickets of thorn and plants and flowers of infinite kinds—the mayflowers it wars endlessly against; of sights and sounds of bugs and birds and creatures seen but mostly unseen; of mud and rock and sand and grass and tripping and tumbling in all; of countless places and sacred spaces where upon the ground amid all of this great glory, and often under dead or dying elm, or perhaps elsewhere, the timeless marvel melds with the moment of the season long-awaited.

Now, you may wonder, where?

Alas, the stick speaks only to me! And if we part the stick will tell these memories no more.

So, bury me with my stick.
Love it.
 

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3 hours and .350 lbs. 19 in total. 5 maybe 6 had been frost burnt and were black on the top of the morel. Rest were fresh. Will post pic later tonight or soon. The Fungus is among us.
 

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Great to see all the familiar names are coming alive. They are headed your way. It has been a weird season down here in NW. MO. Lots of looking with more misses than hits so far. Hard to believe I was picking in Okl. just 2 weeks ago. This weeks weather will tell the tale. Regardless it helps to be out in nature and away from the endless panic and screaming on the news. SG I could never hold on to a stick. I would usually stick it in the ground somewhere in a patch of morels and forget about it while I was picking, and then walk off without it. Had a real goody one year, it was a small ironwood tree. Left it somewhere in the Loess HIlls of Iowa if I recall. I retired last year and was looking forward to relaxing and spending more time with family. Maybe traveling some. The Kung Flu put the wammy on some of that. Hard to even see my son since he works in the medical field. Hope you all fill boxes this year.
 
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