The Mushroom King

The Macho Man Chronicles - Volume 2

The Mushroom King

When I was a boy growing up in Indiana, my Pops and his best friend, Blackie, introduced me to the secretive art of morel hunting. To outsiders, it might seem like an innocent pastime—wandering through the woods in search of mushrooms that look like sponges dipped in liquid gold. But to us, it was a sacred ritual, one passed down like an heirloom, its secrets revealed only to the worthy.

Pops and Blackie had learned the craft from a man named Snyder, a millwright at International Harvester near Indianapolis. Snyder was known in certain circles as “The Mushroom King,” and from the stories they told, the title was well-earned. Pops and Blackie described him as part legend, part mystery—a man who could walk into the woods empty-handed and emerge hours later with enough mushrooms to fill a flat-bottom boat. To hear them tell it, Snyder didn’t just hunt morels; he communed with the forest, reading its secrets in a way no one else could. Snyder had an almost magical connection to the forest, seeing what others could not. He was a clean-shaven man with short-cropped hair and an intensity about him that made you sit up and pay attention. Snyder was serious about his craft, almost stoic at times, but during a strike, something changed. His face would light up, and the stoicism melted into pure joy. He became jovial, laughing and shouting like a man who had just struck gold. They claimed Snyder had regular mushroom strikes- a term they coined to describe a huge find-so bountiful they would feed a small army for weeks.

One spring in the early 1970s, Snyder invited Pops and Blackie on a hunt that would become the stuff of legend. They packed up the truck and headed to northern Michigan, near Grayling, where the state-owned property stretched as far as the eye could see. Snyder parked the truck at the edge of a gravel road, stepped out, and took a long, deliberate look at the tree line. "Boys," he said, pointing to a clearing between two wood lines, "you go off that way, and I’ll go this way. Let’s meet up over there."

Pops and Blackie did as they were told, scanning the ground with hawk-like intensity. They found a handful of morels, maybe half a dozen between them, but nothing extraordinary. When they reconvened at the clearing, Snyder was empty-handed. Pops smirked and asked, "What were you doing looking up at the trees? You hunting squirrels or mushrooms?"

Snyder grinned. "Come with me, boys. I’ve got a strike."

What happened next would be recounted every spring thereafter. Snyder led them to the edge of the clearing, where several dying elm trees stood like ancient sentinels. Beneath those trees was a sight that took Pops’ and Blackie’s breath away—a carpet of yellow sponge mushrooms, more than either man had seen in their lifetime. They spent the next several hours filling sack after sack, returning to the truck multiple times until they’d harvested nearly fifty pounds. Snyder had transformed their understanding of morel hunting in a single afternoon.

I still remember the first time I truly grasped what Snyder had taught Pops and Blackie. I was about twelve or fourteen, old enough to hunt alongside them and eager to prove myself. One spring morning, we ventured into the woods near home, and while Pops and Blackie were scanning the ground together, I decided to strike out on my own. I’d listened to every lesson they’d passed down—about the golden triangle, the importance of dying elms, and the subtle cues in the environment that signaled a good spot. That day, I put it all into practice.

It was morning, and I approached the woods from the southwest, looking northeast, with the sun low in my eyes. The soil beneath my boots was moist but not wet, and the sun peeked through the canopy, its light dappled and soft, not too direct. The elms stood on a south-facing slope, soaking in the warmth of the early spring light. It was the golden triangle—just the right amount of sunlight to heat the soil, the perfect moisture, and the presence of dying elms. As I approached the dying elms, the woods looked like mushroom woods. The elms themselves appeared shiny silver, nearly glowing in the sunlight. Their bark was peeling from the sides, with some clumps of bark still gathered around their base. The ground around them was alive with scattered morels. They grew in non-random patterns, starting about three feet from the base of the trees and extending outward along the root structures, as if the elms themselves were pointing the way.

And that was it—my first solo find. Morels, golden and proud, nestled in the leaf litter as if they’d been waiting just for me. I took care to pick them properly, leaving plenty of stem in the earth to produce future bounties. Their honeycombed caps stood out against the damp earth, scattered like nature’s own treasure map. The pattern wasn’t random—they traced the unseen veins of the elm’s root system, stretching outward like a hidden pulse beneath the soil. I dropped to my knees, grinning, and started filling my mesh bag.

When I rejoined Pops and Blackie later, they were both empty-handed and a little frustrated. "Didn’t find much," Pops said, shaking his head. Then he saw my bag. His eyes widened. "Well, I’ll be damned. Where’d you find all those?"

I pointed back toward the hill. "Couple of dying elms near the clearing. Just like you guys always said."

Blackie laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. "Looks like the kid’s not just tagging along anymore. You’re a damn Jedi mushroom apprentice."

That moment stuck with me. It wasn’t just about finding the mushrooms; it was about earning their respect, about taking what they’d taught me and making it my own.

Fast forward to 2022. I live in Rochester, Michigan, with my wife and four adult children. Pops and Blackie, now in their seventies, still make the trip north every spring to hunt morels. Over the years, we’ve adapted our methods, blending Snyder’s old-school wisdom with modern tools. This year, I convinced them to try something new: mountain bikes.

Pops was skeptical. "Robbie," he said, adjusting his hat, "I didn’t sign up for the Tour de France."

"It’ll save us time," I said. "We can cover more ground, hit more spots."

Blackie, ever the joker, chimed in. "As long as I don’t have to pedal uphill."

We loaded the bikes onto my truck and headed out to one of Michigan’s many gravel road systems, where the forests are dense and the air smells of wet, rotten wood. In the spring, the scent is richer, mustier, with hints of mold and fungi that cling to the damp ground. The woods felt alive in a way that made you want to linger, even as the challenges piled up. The plan was simple: ride the trails, scan the tree lines for dying elms and ash trees, and hope for a big strike. We knew it wouldn’t be easy. Walking through the woods often meant battling sticker bushes and fields of stinging nettles, their sharp bites a frustrating but inevitable part of the hunt. The terrain was slippery, especially on the hills, where each step felt like a gamble. It took strength and balance to navigate it all, which is why we carried walking sticks. This year, we had to figure out how to strap the sticks to our bikes alongside our mesh bags, a method we called the Johnny Appleseed approach. As we found morels, the spores escaped through the mesh, spreading along the trails and promising future bounty. Morels, as we’d learned over the years, thrive in very particular conditions. The ground needs to be warm but not too warm, moist but not soaked. And the trees—they’re the key. Dying elms, apple trees, sycamores—these are the hosts that morels love best.

Another tool we introduced was good binoculars. Sometimes we could spot the elms from a distance and even see mushrooms on the ground before getting close. It felt like gaining an extra pair of eyes, letting us scout promising areas without wasting precious energy.

As we pedaled along a narrow trail, Pops started muttering about the “golden triangle”—a term he used for the sweet spot where the conditions were just right. "Grounds about fifty degrees," he said, stopping to crouch and run his hand through the soil. "We’re close."

Blackie pointed to a cluster of elms up ahead. "Looks promising," he said, his voice tinged with excitement.

We parked the bikes and made our way toward the trees. Sure enough, there they were—a scattering of morels poking through the leaf litter like hidden treasure. We filled our bags quickly, the familiar thrill of the hunt coursing through us.

But the real excitement came two days later. We’d been riding for hours when Blackie suddenly stopped and pointed. "There," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "That clearing."

It was a scene straight out of Pops’ and Blackie’s tales of Snyder. Dozens of dying elms lined the edge of the clearing, their bark peeling like old paint. Beneath them was a sea of morels, their yellow caps glowing in the dappled sunlight. We scrambled to gather them, laughing and shouting like kids. By the time we were done, we’d filled every bag, backpack, and pocket we had.

That night, as we sat around the fire, Pops leaned back in his chair and said, "Snyder would be proud."

I smiled. "The Mushroom King would’ve had to bow to us today."

Blackie raised a beer. "To Snyder, the trees, and the golden triangle."

We toasted, the firelight flickering in our brown long necks. And for a moment, I felt like a boy again, standing at the edge of a clearing, learning what it means to truly see the world around you.

Although I’ve so far failed to pass this on to my children—my wife hates mushrooms, and the kids think I’m crazy for hunting them—what it means to me goes beyond the mushrooms themselves. It’s about being part of nature, the camaraderie I’ve shared with Pops and Blackie, and the sense of connection that comes from carrying on a tradition. Out there in the woods, I know who I am and where I belong, and Pops and Blackie help me remember this. Over the years, I’ve passed this along to a few friends who occasionally join me on these hunts, and while it’s not the same as passing it to my kids, it’s enough. Out in the woods, with the scent of damp earth and the promise of hidden treasure, I know I’m exactly where I belong.

That evening, the three of us gather on the huge cedar deck at my house, a beer in each of our hands, preparing the day’s bounty. Pops, Blackie, and I set to work—all three of us cutting and washing the morels carefully, making sure to remove the dirt and the inevitable bugs hiding inside. "You gotta leave a bit of stem in the earth, you know," Pops says, almost to himself, as if repeating Snyder’s words from decades ago.

Once cleaned, I roll the morels in flour, coating them evenly. Blackie mans the cast-iron skillet over the open flame outside, the sizzle of frying mushrooms mingling with the smell of cedar and woodsmoke.

"This is the life," Blackie says, flipping the mushrooms with a practiced hand. "A man and his skillet."

Pops chuckles. "As long as you don’t burn ‘em."

The first batch comes off the fire, golden and crisp, and we dig in right there, not even bothering to plate them. The earthy, rich flavor of the morels is better than any gourmet meal. We laugh, swap stories, and savor each bite.

"You know," I say, leaning back in my chair, "even if the kids think I’m crazy for doing this, this is where I’m meant to be."

Blackie raises his beer, a long-neck Budweiser we jokingly call 'Mother's Milk.' "To the golden triangle, and to carrying on the tradition."

We all clink long-neck bottles, the firelight reflecting in our smiles. Whatever leftovers we have—if there are any—go into brown paper bags in the refrigerator, but as always, they never last long.