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Foraging
"There must be some genetic seed lodged in the human psyche that still draws people toward hunting and gathering, something even older than the urge to shop and eat."
Each spring, as the irrigation ditches brim, water sluices out to the fields and life is reborn in the American West. There's a lot to be said for the color green after a winter of browns and grays. Of course, there's a lot to be said for roughage, colon health, and exercise in the outdoors, which is where my asparagus comes in.
I've been hunting the wild asparagus for many years, scouting out the best spots where it shows its tiny pointed head. And I'm not the only one obsessed with fresh asparagus. In fact, if I say anything more specific about any location where I've noticed asparagus growing - particularly in Montezuma County - I'll probably get letters from irate individuals who think the spears belong to them.
The late Euell Gibbons wrote a book, Stalking the Wild Asparagus. In its time it was a popular title, a lifestyle approach to wild foods, long before the word "stalking" took on more perverse overtones.
I think of Euell every spring when the asparagus shows up. Of course, the asparagus I'm stalking isn't exactly wild, and the irrigation ditches where it's harvested by locals aren't exactly classified as wilderness. I try to stay on public roads - at least within sprinting distance of a legal right-of-way, and I try to be quick with my knife and plastic bag. Believe me, I'm not alone. Quite a few other folks are pulled off to the side of the road like me.
Maybe you, too, have a favorite spot where the bounty of nature comes through, unharvested by migrant workers or organic vendors, literally laid open for the picking. Maybe it's strawberries or raspberries, chokecherries, or mushrooms. There must be some genetic seed lodged in the human psyche that still draws people toward hunting and gathering, something even older than the urge to shop and eat.
I remember a road trip to California when I was an 18-year-old. I sped along the West Coast highway, marveling at acres of orchards, the first time I had ever seen an orange outside of a produce aisle. I couldn't help it. I pulled over along a lonely stretch of pavement and got out of the car. The trees were heavy with oranges, their limbs literally hanging over the highway fence. I reached up and plucked three bright orbs from the air and ran back to my car. Eve must have felt the same in Eden, as if the apple had been engineered to fit perfectly in the palm of a hand. The memory is sweet.
Another experience with wild food, however, nearly killed me. I had convinced Pam, my wife, to take a trip along the Gunflint Trail in northern Minnesota. Thirty-four years later, I'm happy to report that it was the food, not Pam, that turned deadly.
We had to backpack into the wilderness of the 1970s, when access proved to be primitive at best. We carried dehydrated rations and a small cozy tent. We also packed our copy of Euell's wild food guide. Somewhere in that book (I swear we both read the same passage), Gibbons posited that the roots of water plants are usually safe to eat. What I didn't know then was that Euell Gibbons died of a stomach ulcer exacerbated by a diet of raw, wild foods.
After a few days of dried fruits, stews, casseroles, and other entrees that tasted remarkably like repackaged dried fruit, stew, and casseroles under a different name, we decided to try eating off the land. An icy cold Brule River flowed through our camp, so we stalked its banks until we spied a willowy patch of flowers among the reeds. We pulled some of them up and discovered substantial white, tuberous roots, which we proceeded to trim, clean, boil, and eat. They tasted delicious (remarkably like chicken) except for a slight burning sensation in the throat as we swallowed.
Neither of us slept that night. The mosquitoes are probably still thick with stories about a couple of tender butts perched for hours on a stump under a full moon. Let's just say we were tempted to use Euell Gibbons for toilet paper, but out of respect we used him for kindling the next morning.
I suppose we could have fared worse. Ignorance in the wilderness is only good for a laugh after you survive. If you survive.
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