Photo: Michael McKay | Digital Art: Stephanie Thwaites
In Pursuit of the Elusive Morel
Story & Photos By: Sara Wesche
Each spring, a quiet frenzy spreads through the Midwest woods.
As the ground warms and new life pushes up through last fall’s leaves, a legion of mushroom enthusiasts, newbies and seasoned pros alike, lace up their boots and head into the forest. They’re all chasing the same thing: the elusive morel.
Morel mushroom
Not technically a mushroom, morels are a type of fungus with a hollow stem and a honeycombed, spongy-looking cap. You can’t grow them (at least not easily), you can’t predict them, and their season is maddeningly brief. One week they’re there, the next they’re gone. For some, it’s about the thrill of the find. For others, it’s the taste—earthy, smoky, rich, and surprisingly delicate when sautéed in butter. But more than anything, it’s about the hunt.
Despite having eaten my fair share, I’d never actually gone looking for morels. But every year, I’d hear whispers of secret spots and see proud photos posted by friends. There’s a certain lore around morel hunting that made me curious. Is it really that exciting? Is it just about dinner, or something more?
And maybe most importantly: could I do it? Could I find the mushroom honey pot?
Foraging feels like one of the purest forms of connecting to the land, and in the Midwest, it’s part of the outdoor culture. You don’t need a permit or expensive gear (do make sure you are on public land or land you have permission to use, and that you are welcome to venture off-trail). You just need a patch of woods, a little time, and a willingness to look down. If you can walk, you can morel hunt.
So this year, I decided to try it. I met my mushroom sensei at a local trailhead, dressed for a trail 10k instead of bushwacking. But I was ready to move, ready to venture into the unknown and cover the miles if that’s what it took.
“You all set?” she asked.
“Let’s do this.”
I grabbed my water bottle, tightened my laces, and followed her onto the trail… for about ten seconds.
The author on the mushroom hunt
“Okay, I had pretty good luck here last year,” she said, already veering into the undergrowth.
Wait, what? Here? I think I can still see my car through the trees. I was braced for a long hike into some remote corner of the forest, where a mythical morel meadow awaited. But apparently, that’s not how this works. There’s no secret glade or glowing field of fungi. You find the right conditions – or what you think are the right conditions – and you start looking.
I picked up a stick to poke around in the leaves and followed her in.
We moved slowly, scanning the ground around trees and under piles of leaves. That’s when I learned the real rules of morel hunting, starting with the unspoken ones.
Rule number one? Don’t talk about morel hunting. At least not specifics. Mushroom hunters guard their spots like treasure. It’s a community, sure, but not one that gives up its secrets easily.
If you Google “how to find morel mushrooms,” you’ll get a long list of tips: check south-facing slopes; look near dead or dying elm, ash, or apple trees; avoid sandy soil; go after it rains; look around mayapple plants; search areas recently disturbed by fire; and don’t forget, morning or evening light can help you spot them.
But the best piece of advice I got that day was simple: mushrooms grow where other mushrooms grow.
It’s obvious, but easy to forget when you’re caught up in the checklist. Ultimately, it comes down to the right environment. Mushrooms and fungi love moist, shaded areas rich in decaying matter. When the conditions are right, morels can appear almost overnight. But their lifespan is short. A few hot, dry days and they’ll wither before you ever knew they were there.
And we weren’t the only ones on the hunt. Deer, squirrels, chipmunks, wild turkeys, box turtles, insects—if it lives in the woods, it probably loves morels too.
So yeah, we had a few factors working against us. It was hot, had been for days, and we were searching in the heat of the afternoon. My friend pointed out a few promising cherry trees and other mushroom types as we meandered deeper. We even found a swampy area near a vernal pool with great potential. She made a mental note to return there next year.
After two hours of canvassing the woods with zero morels to show for it, we called it. No luck today. Although we did see the biggest crawfish I’ve ever spotted in Michigan. A minor consolation prize.
Later that evening, I wandered our woods on a whim; it couldn’t hurt to look. I started with the mayapples near the creek in the back woods. It was dry, and I didn’t see any other mushrooms. Plus, that creek is a wildlife hotspot. If anything tasty had popped up, it was likely long gone.
Then I remembered that the ground in our front woods is softer, even though it’s further from the water. It also has a lot of jack and white pine trees, which is not prime morel territory, according to lore, but I figured I’d give it a shot. Besides, what could be bad about a little walk through the woods on a warm spring evening?
I made it about ten yards when I saw them.
Off to the side of the trail, partially hidden by leaves, was a patch of unmistakable yellow morels. Big ones.
I snapped a photo and texted my friend: “WHAT ARE THESE?!?”
Sure enough: jackpot.
I carefully cut them at the stems—you always leave the base intact to help the spores regrow—and soaked them in cool water to clean out bugs and debris. Pro tip: pour the soaking water back into the woods. It might help encourage regrowth next season.
I sautéed half the batch in butter, paired it with fresh Michigan asparagus, and called it dinner. Since I’m the only mushroom fan in my family, I didn’t have to share.
We’ve lived here for years and only ever found one other morel, a lone survivor sprouting in a mulch bed by an old stump. So why did they show up this year?
Maybe it was the timing. Maybe it was luck. Or maybe it was something deeper.
My guide always carries a bag to pull garlic mustard and pick up trash while she hunts. Reciprocity. Give to the woods, and maybe the woods give back. Robin Wall Kimmerer writes about this in The Serviceberry, describing how nature is built on relationships—gratitude, generosity, mutual care. A system where giving strengthens the whole. It’s the opposite of what we’re used to. The human world so often operates on competition, scarcity, and hoarding. Winning at someone else’s expense. But the forest doesn’t work that way. In the forest, everything is connected. And when we step into that rhythm, even briefly, we can feel it.
In the forest, everything is connected. And when we step into that rhythm, even briefly, we can feel it.
Every spring, my husband works to clear invasive garlic mustard from our property. And this winter, a deer died in the front woods, not far from where I found the morels. We let it be. Over time, it fed the forest through the hardest months. Maybe that, too, was part of the cycle.
More than anything, I learned that the joy is in the search. Like Petoskey stones or beach glass, the thrill comes from spotting something hidden. You can be the best forager out there, but if the conditions aren’t right, you’ll come home empty-handed.
But, if you’re patient and if the forest is feeling generous, you might just walk away with the sweetest reward you can find on foot.
Author’s Note – With any foraging, take only what you need. Know what you’re picking. There are morel lookalikes, and some are poisonous. Don’t go eating random stuff from the woods. If you’re not sure, don’t eat it.
