Welcome to the Shroomery Message Board! You are experiencing a small sample of what the site has to offer. Please login or register to post messages and view our exclusive members-only content. You'll gain access to additional forums, file attachments, board customizations, encrypted private messages, and much more!
The Great Alaskan Morel Rush of '05 July 10, 2005 - latimes.com
Being the true story of intrepid pickers, cutthroat buyers, anxious distributors, curious scientists, conflicted locals and other denizens of the mushroom circuit, all of whom headed north in search of the mother lode.
Jay Southard waits just south of mile marker 1313 on the Alaska Highway. It's early June, and the temperature at 8 p.m. is in the 40s, with a raw wind running off the Alaska Range, which rises, iron-colored and veined with snow, in the near distance. Southard is not looking at the mountains, but at the highway running through the center of the town of Tok, keeping an eye out for a red Ford van carrying eight Mexican mushroom pickers. Just because they've been selling him their hauls of morels-450 pounds one day, a little more than 500 the next-doesn't mean they'll sell to him today. If the Weasel got to the Mexicans, Southard might as well pack up and go back home. With several tons of mushroom-drying equipment and $20,000 of setup here in Tok, this is something he really, really does not want to do.
A former Oregon State fullback who raises and trains horses when he's not working the mushroom circuit, Southard appears to have a grip on his anxiety, but just barely. He and the other mushroom wranglers who've come to Tok are betting that the 2005 morel harvest will be the big score, the mother lode, that the elements that cause mushrooms to grow-wildfire, rain, sunlight-will continue to collude. But tonight, it's the human element that threatens to bring the enterprise crashing down. Has the Weasel upped his price per pound? Have the Mexicans turned fickle?
"Maybe they're going on their beer run before they sell," says Southard, as he watches the red van roll by.
Alaska's 2005 morel season actually started in the summer of 2004, when the state experienced its largest recorded wildfires, which burned more than 6.7 million acres, much of it around Fairbanks and Tok. Fairbanks locals wore dust masks for weeks, and a resident of Chicken, 60 miles from Tok and on the fire line, expressed the opinion that "there are two seasons in Alaska, winter and smoke."
What was a trial for humans and wildlife was a treat for mycelia, the underground fungal webs that produce mushrooms. In a process known as mycorrhiza, mycelia form a symbiotic relationship with the roots of trees and other plants, the fungi receiving sugars and amino acids they need to grow, the roots receiving water and minerals. But morels are clever, as one theory has it, and instead of dying when trees do-in a fire or by insect infestation or other major disturbance-they tap a rush of nutrients from the decomposing roots, and thrive.
Tracking wildfires in order to locate next year's crops is Wild Mushrooming 101. And most species that grow on the West Coast are reliable: Every spring there will be morels from Northern California to British Columbia; chanterelles flourish in the Pacific Northwest's coastal regions in late summer; and come fall in central Oregon there's the matsutake, a mushroom so highly prized by the Japanese that in years past it has sold for $1,200 a pound.
Of course, dependent as it is upon acts of god or accidents of nature, the mushroom trade is extraordinarily risky. Colloquially known as "cash in the woods," it can be quite profitable. In 2004, Alpine Foragers' Exchange, the company Jay Southard buys for, purchased more than 200,000 pounds of chanterelles for as little as $1.50 a pound and sold them for as much as $6.50 a pound. But it can just as easily be ruinous: This year's morel harvest in Oregon was one of the worst on record.
Alaska is the great unknown on the mushroom circuit, having produced them on a commercial scale only once, after fires in 1990 resulted in what are often recalled as "carpets of morels" near Fairbanks and Tok. If this ever happened before, no one had paid much attention, but by the spring of 1991 wild mushrooms had become a culinary essential, and a few prescient buyers made their way to the state. They were amply rewarded. That year, the 98,000-acre Tok River Fire yielded a morel harvest of 300,000 pounds. By comparison, this year's burn is nearly 70 times larger.
"This is huge, this is vast," says Casey Jonquil as he spreads a USDA Forest Service map showing the extent of the fires over the counter of his gourmet kitchen in Portland, Ore. "The wilderness and the distance and the inaccessibility is very daunting, but the good news is, there are roads going right through it." His fingers trace byways near Fairbanks and Tok. "The ground is proven-Tok especially. Tok had a fire 15 years ago, and 14 years ago they kicked ass.This is the same damn ground."
Jonquil, who's been in the wild mushroom business for 16 years and owns the Portland-based purveyor Alpine, started planning his Tok operation in December. "The guy that gets the prime, killer spot can make a big difference in how the buy goes," he explains, adding that he's just gotten back from a week in Alaska, "shaking hands and writing checks." The day before, he sent a barge carrying 3,000 pounds of supplies to Tok, including hundreds of 5-kilo plastic mesh picking baskets, the sort of thing that might cost 99 cents at a Target in the lower 48 but is impossible to secure in quantity in Alaska, and several of what he calls "blue Chinese dryers," large upright boxes in which fans continuously blow warm air across racks of fresh mushrooms, drying them and thus extending their shelf life from days to years.
He's also hoping to move fresh, so he's lined up a refrigerated van to keep the product cool. Fresh morels are more profitable but harder to handle, because they tend to mold and melt. "Morels are like little nuclear materials," says Jonquil. "You get a bunch of them together without refrigeration - they get this exothermic thing going. I mean, you stick your hand in there and it's hot."
Jonquil's best-case scenario is that he pays no more than $2 a pound, that he buys and dries 4,000 to 6,000 pounds a day, and that at the end of an estimated two-month season he sells $250,000 worth. "Worst case is it rains cats and dogs, and the mushrooms will come in wet and heavy and dirty." He pauses. "Well, that's not the worst. The worst was getting embezzled by a field manager's bookkeeper. Nicked me for about 40 grand, but I got 10 back."
Unpredictable weather and the perils that attend a cash business, and still, Jonquil lives in a pretty swank house.
"Mushrooms have been very, very good to me," he says.
Jay Southard is wearing a dusty Carhartt vest and ignoring a cup of coffee at a caf? in a shopping plaza outside Portland. It's late April, a week before he leaves for Tok, and he's just back from Washington state, where he tried to persuade some pickers he's worked with to make a 2,000-mile detour.
Professional mushroom pickers, known as circuit pickers, are on no one's payroll or schedule. Predominantly Mexican, Laotian and Cambodian, they sell for cash what they pick each day. Many do not maintain permanent residences, but follow the seasonal mushroom trail.
"I suggested that they carpool because of the price of gas. I figured that out for them," he says. "What scares me about this trip is getting my hard-core pickers up there." Southard has been buying mushrooms for Casey Jonquil and others for nearly 20 years, and knows a lot of pickers. He also knows what he doesn't want to see happen in Tok: local yokels manhandling the product.
"Every time you go into a new community like this, ma and pa go out there and they do it wrong," he says. "They pull 'em, they pack 'em in bags, they put 'em in their trunk when it's 80 [degrees] out and they melt down. It's always the local guy, he knows what he's doing, he's been tipping a few back and there's always an argument. [His mushrooms] are crawling with maggots, they're covered in dirt. 'They're fine,' he says. 'Yeah? Well then, you eat them.' It's always that same guy. It's the same guy in every town."
The transient nature of the wild mushroom business ensures that the animosity flows both ways. Pickers pull into town, set up camps or park their RVs, leave trash in the woods and fire guns—if not at each other, then to signal their location, as they often spread out for miles.
Then there's the money. The wild mushroom trade is frequently cited as the largest legal cash transaction in the United States. Southard often carries $100,000 or more in cash, which is why he's licensed to carry a firearm, and does. "If we did this job in the city," he says, "somebody'd gun us down in a heartbeat."