A simple maxim to remember is “May is Morel Month in Michigan.” Around the beginning of May it is time to break out the topographical maps and compass to explore the wilderness areas close to your home. If you don’t have a wilderness area close by don’t be discouraged as many species of mushrooms can be found in small woodlots near metro areas.

The elusive morel is an epicurean delight highly sought after by rich and poor alike. Morel’s are often found in association and symbiotically linked to a host of different tree species. If you know where there is a forest of dead elms head there first. The yellow morel is often found beneath this stately tree. Dutch Elm disease has wiped out most of the elms but the yellow morel continues to bloom most years, a hidden blessing in an otherwise ecological disaster.

By the way, buy a great mushroom identification book and for your first few outings have a well versed local with you. A tree identification book is also a must as certain species of mushroom  are associated with particular types of trees. There are many wonderful edible mushrooms abroad in the woods, and a fair number of poisonous species to be avoided. Join a local mycology club if you can. And remember absolutely never eat any mushroom you are not completely certain of correctly identifying. Severe illness and death may haunt the unwary collector of misidentified mushrooms.But, don’t let the warnings of poison mushrooms deter you from this wonderful hobby. It is equally true that some very edible mushrooms are easy to identify and are rarely misidentified. It has been my experience that mushroom hunting is a wonderful and healthy family experience that doesn’t require a large expenditure of cash. So go have fun. And besides, shrooms are great to eat.


Good luck mushroom hunting,
Hilton

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Letter for April 29 2018

Traditionally, Michigan’s trout season opener is the last Saturday in April. In some years in the UP this is, as the saying goes, “a bridge too far.” Be patient and let me explain. Winter’s grip often doesn’t end in the UP just because the opener arrives. In fact, many a year the snow is still piled high along the many small tributaries that hold the “ hungry hounds “ we call brook trout. If the snow and ice has not disappeared the muddy and impassable roads sometimes deem the  opener a non-starter. Weather here can be a real bugger too, as many a Yooper can attest to. Cold rain can be an ugly deterrent soaking through the most expensive rain gear that money can buy, leaving many a fisherman looking out the cabin window with a longing for skys that don’t resemble an “El Greco” painting.

The days when the opener greets a fisherman with pleasant weather are too few to comment on. Weathers usual nasty retribution, like Sisyphus chained, can foul up the best plans of any deliberate man. All of this misery can happen before a man, or woman, casts a single fly upon the water. Even if one is lucky enough to have all of his, or her moons aligned, the tangled line in a tree high above reach is almost an inevitability. Many a local leaves the high priced fly fishing gear at home and instead relies on a simple rod and reel and a box of redworms. An option that I have used on occasion and can personally attest to.

In a faded memory, like cabin curtains too long in the sun, I remember one dismal opener in the  far north. I was particularly discouraged by my lack of success on a blue ribbon trout stream in the Sturgeon River Gorge. I pulled my old car over to the side to the road and sat fuming. A gurgling creek ran in a culvert beneath the road. Sitting entranced, a small lad, fishing on the upstream side of the gravel road let his worm float carefully into the current. The babbling creek pulled the redworm into the galvanized culvert much the way a magnet attracts steel. I watched transfixed as the boy caught several nice size brookies out of the culvert. He smiled at me and held up his catch. I smiled back. Now that’s what you call fishing.

Good luck on the opener.

Hilton

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Letter for April 22, 2018

I have often wondered why nature and the earth are referred to in feminine words, like Mother Nature and Mother Earth. Even hurricanes, and typhoons rather nasty events, are sometimes  given female names. We sometimes hear of the destructiveness of Mother Nature, or the terrible power of Mother Earth. I suppose the truth to why this naming conundrum occurs is as simple to deduce as this; these forces were named by males. I am not certain you could call this misogyny but I think it is fair to at least call it chauvinism.  

As for the present, I remember pulling over to the side of the road to assist a stranded motorist. This young man had a rusty old car, don’t remember the make, and it really doesn’t matter. It was obvious this auto was well on its way to a junkyard. This young man kept swearing and kicking the car and calling it unaffectionately a “Bitch.” I wondered at the time whether he called the “Bitch”  more affectionate endearments when “SHE” was running like a proverbial clock. Now this isn’t the first time I have heard a man call his vehicle by a female name and it probably won’t be the last. Boats, planes and I suspect transports of every sort imaginable get stuck with these female monikers. I also wouldn’t be surprised that in third world countries that the same kind of pejorative naming exists in regards to beasts of burden. I wonder if you kick a mule, whether the “Bitch” will kick back?

Keep kickin’
Hilton

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While on my walk today I arrived at a quasi-theorem on a relationship with an animal that I dearly love---the canine, in my case my dog Blue. The theorem is simple, every dog deserves a camp, and every camp deserves a dog. The balance of this equation seems simple enough. Who could argue that this theorem is not true; yet often in my travels I see dogs chained to a house, a virtual prisoner to the lackadaisical owner. Often these unlucky canines rarely ever get a walk in the woods, or a run on a bike path. Yet, the feckless owner has time to sit in front of the boobtube and swill beer while the dog endures the vagaries of the weather without proper exercise.

Blue, my English Setter, and I manage to get a daily walk most of the time. Our only departure from this daily routine is when the weather outside is not fit for man or beast. Then we both stare out the window forlornly. It  seems to me that more than once I have known dog owners who go to health clubs, spending good money for what can dubiously be called exercise, while their dog whines at home for a chance at a go in the woods chasing a rabbit, or sniffing out a red squirrel among a grove of oaks.

My plea is simple. If you want a dog, care for it. Blue loves the woods, and the trails behind my house are always there. Walking a dog is open to the rich and poor alike. Hiking in the woods is cheap and doesn’t discriminate by any sociological test that I know of. A good pair of hiking boots will last you for years. and, exercise is beneficial for both the dog and the master. Time to sign off now and take Blue on his walk.


Till next time.

Hilton


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While I am usually not one to quote the bible. I was recently struck by a verse that I saw in an article. In Ecclesiastes 10:10 the writer relates what I would think is almost everyday folk wisdom; it states, in part; “If the axe is dull and he does not sharpen the edge then he must exert much more strength. Wisdom has the advantage of giving success.

While it may seem foolish to ascribe human attributes to inanimate objects, anyone who has ever tried to split a piece of twisted green oak, or even a freshly logged section of birch knows how stubborn an inanimate object can seem. A dull axe only makes the effort that much more difficult. In my earlier years I managed to break more than one axe handle because of my frustrating and excessive efforts in using a dull axe. I would flail away at the offending hunk of wood like a madman, getting angrier by the minute. Usually I would end up getting the dull axe stuck hopelessly in the offending piece of wood. Extracting the axe was often a chore better left to priests than a swearing young man.

I have to chuckle now at the conclusion of that verse, “wisdom has the advantage of giving success.” I have come to the conclusion that knowledge is communicable but wisdom is not. Let that thought sink in. I now own an old double blade axe. It is sharpened razor sharp on one edge and and on a convex side for the other. This allows me to cleanly cut a branch with the razor sharp side, and is equally effective in splitting wood nicely with the convex side. The convex side acts similar to a wedge.  I keep my axe immaculately clean and sharp. I still occasionally get it stuck, but not as much as when I was younger and more impetuous. I guess you would call that wisdom.

Keep chopping,

Hilton


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While I am usually not one to quote the bible. I was recently struck by a verse that I saw in an article. In Ecclesiastes 10:10 the writer relates what I would think is almost everyday folk wisdom; it states, in part; “If the axe is dull and he does not sharpen the edge then he must exert much more strength. Wisdom has the advantage of giving success.

While it may seem foolish to ascribe human attributes to inanimate objects, anyone who has ever tried to split a piece of twisted green oak, or even a freshly logged section of birch knows how stubborn an inanimate object can seem. A dull axe only makes the effort that much more difficult. In my earlier years I managed to break more than one axe handle because of my frustrating and excessive efforts in using a dull axe. I would flail away at the offending hunk of wood like a madman, getting angrier by the minute. Usually I would end up getting the dull axe stuck hopelessly in the offending piece of wood. Extracting the axe was often a chore better left to priests than a swearing young man.

I have to chuckle now at the conclusion of that verse, “wisdom has the advantage of giving success.” I have come to the conclusion that knowledge is communicable but wisdom is not. Let that thought sink in. I now own an old double blade axe. It is sharpened razor sharp on one edge and and on a convex side for the other. This allows me to cleanly cut a branch with the razor sharp side, and is equally effective in splitting wood nicely with the convex side. The convex side acts similar to a wedge.  I keep my axe immaculately clean and sharp. I still occasionally get it stuck, but not as much as when I was younger and more impetuous. I guess you would call that wisdom.

Keep chopping,

Hilton


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The days are warming. The sun rises earlier in the morning as we reach the spring equinox, and conversely the sun sets later in the evening. This normal turn of the season could bring  on a deadly turn of events for the wilderness trekker. Be advised.

After dawn, on crisp days in the early morning, the crust of the snow may be frozen, like heavy skim ice on a lake. This occurs from the retreat of the sun in the darkness of the night. This crust can make for deceptively easy walking early in the day. Many a unwary traveler has left their snowshoes back at camp or perhaps in their car, not thinking I suppose of the danger that may occur.  Miles from their snowshoes the traveler on foot my find that the afternoon sun has warmed the snow and the crust no longer supports their weight. Thigh deep snow can be like white frozen quicksand and quickly tire the winter trekker. The mind numbing chill of hypothermia may not be far behind. Keep in mind, that death stalks the impetuous and the ill-informed alike. I can’t emphasize enough, never venture into the woods without a source of fire. Even a short hike can bring disaster if you are not prepared for the worst. If you find yourself stranded make a fire and prepare for a night in the cold. If you haven’t already read Jack London’s almost immortal tale, To Light A Fire put this short story on your must read list. Take London’s story as more than metaphor, prepare for survival in the wilderness, read, study, and think about all of those who might be left behind if you perish. And, as what might seem almost commonsensical, don’t do as Jack London’s protagonist did, make your fire underneath a conifer tree with branches loaded with snow. It goes almost without saying  while still light, gather enough firewood for the long winter night. Make a snow cave or shelter of some sort and if you don’t know how get a book on winter survival, or just ask a Boy Scout. As night descends, and the temperature drops the crust may well again reform, making for an early morning safe return to camp or car. If it doesn’t stay put and keep warm by the fire. Someone will probably know you are missing and seek help. Remember snowshoes are more than just quaint wall hangers. Don’t leave camp without them.


Hilton Everett Moore

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I’ll tell you right off that what this letter is not, it is not about dendrology-- the study of trees, and a subspecialty of botany. No, what this letter is about is the Ironwood tree. The Ironwood tree can be found over much of the Eastern United States and Canada. Any good book on dendrology can help you identify this tree if your woods are in the area and range described above. The tree is not a flashy ornamental tree, in fact you might call it humble, or even nondescript. You could miss it entirely on your trek in the woods if you are not specifically looking for it. This tree does not tower over others, nor does it display brilliant colored leaves in the fall like a maple or an oak. There are no brilliant yellows of the aspen when it sheds its garment in the early fall either. Sometimes it is called Hop Hornbeam, as it’s catkins resemble the hops used in beer making. By the way a hornbeam is the yoke that oxen in the Old World wore which was fashioned from this tough old tree.  At other times it is simply called leverwood which is almost self explanatory. Don’t be put off by scientific hoopla and take the time to look this tree up in whatever reference source you use. It is worth a look.

It is the character of the tree that I wish to examine, and its relationship to human character. I am not sure whether humans resemble trees, or vice-versa. The point I am making is that there is a relationship of living things to the human race. Character, is just that, character. All living species have it. Character is endemic in all things, animal, vegetable and maybe even mineral,--- if you look at the Zen of life. So though the Ironwood tree may be humble, it is an essential species and one that the human would be wise to emulate. Afterall, trees are not simply just trees.

Till next week,
Hilton

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It would  be nice to think that perhaps winter is winding down at the camp. However , it’s too premature to think so. While the days are getting longer, and on occasional sunny days there is mild melting, winter is not releasing her iron grip on the woods around the camp. The snow lies deep and still, and the melting of the snow on the metal roof only happens on warmer days when the sun, like opaque wings of a moth lets slivers of light peak through the grey horizon.

The woodstove still needs it’s almost hourly tending. While those tasks might be seen as mundane by many, they are not meaningless. Without the constant attention, the glowing glass front of the stove, which allows me to appreciate the ambience of the fire, would be a steel ghost, ---lifeless. The stove is more than just ambience, it wards off chills and cold that would seep into the cabin within hours and envelope me in a very regrettable cocoon. Really not a pleasant thought.

It is interesting that the mundane often takes on great importance in the woods. A flashlight without batteries can be dangerous when the power goes out and you are stumbling around outside in the dark. You must have a clean source of drinking water, so you either need a well, or be able to get water from a potable source. An injury requires a  first aid kit which could be a real lifesaver. And, it goes almost without saying that firewood must be put up in the woodshed long before the snow comes in late fall. Cutting and stacking firewood may seem monotonous, maybe even mundane to some, but that is mostly a state of mind. The list of other mundane matters, goes on and on, a list that seems almost endless at times. Minor necessities may seem inconsequential until disasters, either small or large happen at the camp. As a closing note, don’t forget to have a bottle of brandy close by--just to ward off the chills, mind you.

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​Letter From The Cabin 03-04-2018

Big mounds of snow surround the cabin where they were pushed by the young man that keeps my cabin plowed out. While we had some partial melting this past week,  there remain large snowbanks to negotiate to get to the front door. Winter is still here and hasn’t really relaxed her grip on life at the cabin. Fortunately, I have plenty of firewood, so I can ward off the cold till spring arrives, 

Went to the local VFW Wednesday night for the weekly chicken wing supper. The VFW is several miles from camp. They are open to the public, and you don’t have to be a card-carrying member to eat wings and suck down cold beer there. Wednesday is the only time they serve food and many of the locals come out for the fare. I avail myself of the wings there when I am out to camp. I particularly like the Buffalo Hot Wings with blue cheese dressing. At the club, I get to hear all the local gossip and also get to rub elbows with the downstaters that have camps in the area. I guess this makes me an interloper of sorts, but what the hell, why not?

All of us, wife Amy, son Seth, and Blue, the faithful English Setter and I will be going to camp next weekend. I will probably head out on Wednesday so I don’t miss Wing Night. I am finishing up work on several plays I have written and hope to have them in the can, so to speak, by the time I leave camp on Sunday. Writing a play, at least in my experience, is easier to accomplish than having it produced. There are many hungry playwrights. Please remember to go out to a live performance in your area if you get the chance. There are some amazing theatre groups in Michigan that are putting on great performances. Live theatre is a wonderful way to spend a cold winter night.

See You,
Hilton