by Cynthia Walker Burton

Missouri is synonymous with the beautiful Ozarks, the St. Louis Arch, world famous Kansas City barbecue, and the vibrant entertainment mecca of Branson. I hail from the small agricultural town of Rock Port (population 1,238) in Northwest Missouri. In 2008, Rock Port was a pioneer in implementing wind turbines, and it was the first town in the United States to be powered entirely by wind energy. It is also known by the moniker of The Fireworks Capital of Missouri.

Tucked into the thickly wooded area of the expansive Loess Bluffs region is a lesser known Missouri attraction that appears in early April for only a short window of time. Spring temperatures and nourishing rains herald the appearance of Morchella, commonly known as the morel mushroom. Morels are easily distinguishable by their signature honeycomb-like caps in an array of brown hues. Rich in anti-oxidants, minerals, and vitamin D, these flavorful fungi are wildly popular in Rock Port and the surrounding area. Dipped in a rich egg and cracker batter, savory fried morels are delicious. Speaking of morels, I will now indulge you in my earliest memory of family mushroom hunting.

My fondest childhood recollection would not be complete without mentioning the morel mushroom. I recall as early as the tender age of five that my parents, two brothers, and I would annually forage for morels which thrived in the dense timber of the bluffs just a few miles outside of Rock Port. Armed with large brown paper bags and wearing jeans, long sleeved shirts and ball caps (to prevent tick bites), the five of us would slowly traverse the slopes carefully searching for morels. Dad would lead the way, clad in his hunting camouflage. Then we would branch out in different directions: my brothers teamed up in one direction and Mom and I would scope the terrain in another. We worked as a cohesive unit, occasionally punctuating the quiet of the woods with excited shouts of “I found one!” and “Here’s another!” Through the lens of a five year-old child, mushroom hunting was similar to Easter egg hunting, but even more challenging and rewarding because of the unbridled exploring it offered.

The shadowy timber held a diverse plethora of plant life: oak, hickory, black walnut, paw paw and eastern redbud trees. Serviceberry, American beauty berry, and hackberry trees were plentiful as well, along with fragrant sumac, purple cone flowers, spiderwort, and mayapples. Spring proudly flaunted her true colors in these expansive bluffs which were a serene natural oasis. It was truly the ideal setting for family fun and adventure.

My parents had always dutifully educated the three of us on environmental rules such as leaving nothing but our footprints, avoiding poisonous plants, and do not disturb wildlife (we encountered menacing timber rattlers and slithering copperhead snakes on more than one occasion). Safety rules included staying within eyesight of one another, remaining vigilant, be quick to pick a tick off your clothes, and avoid touching any animals or plants except morels of course. It was an unspoken rule that no “horsing around” was allowed (Dad’s mantra), but we mischievous kids managed to do that anyway. The overarching goal throughout the family mushroom hunting years was to find the most mushrooms and proudly show off a bulging bag of morels. I think we all won that honor at least once.

My father was an avid outdoorsman skilled in hunting, fishing, trapping, and mushroom foraging. A lifetime Missouri native, he passed on his knowledge and love for the outdoors to all of us. My parents are no longer with us, but the morel expeditions are vividly alive in my memory. It was those hallowed moments of shared, quality family time that I now deeply cherish in life. My appreciation for those sacred memories only grows stronger as the years progress.

Amidst morel hunting, I bonded with my family, was immersed in and appreciated nature and witnessed wildlife up close, all while helping forage for the evening’s supper. That’s the type of experience that people nowadays would pay good money for in this frenetic, disjointed world. Fond memories are forever etched into my memory thanks to the morel. And that’s priceless.