Cold, rainy mornings that turn into sunny afternoons always remind me of “Mushroom Camp”. Every spring my family would go camping ‘up north’ from home, hunting for Morel Mushrooms.
Many times it was rainy and cold. It was and still is one of my favorite places, and I can still smell the trees. I was devastated when the state did a clear-cut to a section of it. (Now a days I understand how it is helpful for that ecosystem.)
Those smells, the feeling of cold and wet always tugs memories out of my heart.
I remember finding a pocket knife on one of the old dirt roads, and trying to whittle like my dad. However, I wasn’t sure if I was technically suppose too, so a little ways behind camp I hid behind a tree. I learned a very good lesson that day; to place the blade away from you. I cut just a little slice into my thumb, and secretly went back to camp to find a band-aid.
I remember there being this rather large dirt hole/bowl in the ground, deep enough that if we stood inside, you couldn’t see us. It was just down the road from camp, so my cousins, siblings, and I would play constantly down there. My dad even one year helped my older cousins build a fort covering half of it.
I remember just exploring through the woods, not to far out of sight from my parents. We would all have walkie-talkies, and we would sing “On the Road Again” for anybody listening to that channel.
I remember one year, when I was a young teenager, my parents said we couldn’t go to Mushroom Camp. I’m not quite proud of this moment, but I went downstairs and threw the biggest temper tantrum of my adult life. It was horrible, I just cried my eyes out. I do believe we ended up going extremely late at night…
As I think about it, it was a very important place and part of my childhood… no…. an important part of my life.
I left for college, and now have been working all across the US, and haven’t been able to go ‘up north’ for years.
Every spring, I want to go back.