The morel of the story

Last weekend I packed Misses B. up and we drove up the mountain for a lovely getaway. We spent the night in a little cabin by the river at the resort where we used to work. It brought back a lot of memories. Memories of a quieter time and place. Of a life that changes slowly or not at all. The roads are free from litter because the towns people pick it up. The people are the same as ever. The sound of running water, the constant reminder of fresh water running freely, is broken only occasionally by the deep reverberating throb of a logging truck engine. Or grating call of the Blue Jays scavenging bits of food the tourist thoughtfully leave behind for them.

Dawn needed to get away from the job and from the "complex" for a while. I needed to wander around the place I called home for twelve years. We had dinner at little restaurant that opened up since we left, run by the nice couple that used to own the Inn. Back at the cabin we played Scrabble and slept in a king sized bed.

The next morning I took a bag and my walking stick and went out to look for mushrooms. Morels. The delicious little sponge like fungus. The gourmet item that sells for big bucks at specialty markets. Morels that suddenly appear in the spring and disappear just as quickly. I had missed them last year, the first time in eight years that I hadn't gone morel hunting.

This year it was worth the trip.

OWL

May 8, 2007