Campfire Stories
True treasures of the forest floor, morels are among the most highly prized wild mushrooms for gastronomes. They are harvested in abundance west of the Rockies in conifer forests ravaged by fire. In the late spring following a wildfire, foragers flock from all over seeking their fortune. While the increasing availability of cultivated morels slightly dispels this mirage of quick wealth, it does nothing to diminish the thrill of the adventure and the culinary pleasure of wild burn morels.
The Morel Rendezvous
This year, the North American Mycological Association (NAMA) organized a gathering in British Columbia to share this excitement. From June 1st to 4th, at the Manning Park Resort in the Similkameen Valley—near a major recent wildfire—volunteers warmly welcomed 130 enthusiastic participants. Joined by Myriam, a particularly forward-thinking friend, I was among them.
Epicurean Basecamp
Several activities were on the agenda for this gathering, satisfying backcountry adventurers of all levels with hikes, as well as homebodies with cooking workshops. In the evenings, the schedule made way for lectures led by renowned specialists. This was an opportunity, among others, for Andy MacKinnon to paint a captivating portrait of the province's mycological species.
The trip was punctuated by true gastronomic feats. On the first two nights, Chef Julie Schreiber's team dazzled us. She first served barbecued crab-stuffed shrimp and morels, followed by a braised bison cheek lasagna. The next day, she followed up with rabbit rillettes, a maitake pâté (recipe), a black trumpet jam, and salmon en papillote, closing it all out with a true work of art: cakes shaped like burnt tree trunks, with candy morels and cup fungi nestled at their base.
On the final evening, Chef Paul Moran (winner of Top Chef Canada 2019) took over. On the menu: sourdough bread with seaweed and wild ramp butter, followed by raw wild tuna, then a remarkably delicate chicken with vin jaune and morels. For dessert, his memorable tiramisu highlighted powdered Lactarius rubidus, the Western candy cap, which is more tart than our Quebec Lactarius helvus.
Around the table, conversations were lively among mycologists from all corners of the continent. Discussions bounced enthusiastically between foraging forecasts, customs, hockey, mushroom prices, and geopolitics.
A Taste of Ashes
In preparation for the foraging excursions, I had downloaded the incredibly useful Gaia app as well as maps of the sector, in order to track our route and visualize the location, forest type, and age of the fires.
On the first day, as part of a group of seven hikers, I headed toward a nearby burn. We had all the essentials with us: lunch, whistle, drinking water, walkie-talkies, GPS, compass, spare batteries for all our electronic devices, a first-aid kit, bear spray, bear bells, baskets, and our mushroom knives.
On steep, rugged slopes at the base of towering, completely charred trees, what macroscopically appeared to be Morchella sextelata—brown with cream-colored stems—formed clusters, alongside likely candidates for Morchella tomentosa, black and slightly velvety with their characteristic double wall. In the complex world of post-fire morels, however, we knew that only DNA sequencing could truly validate these identities
Our septet harvested a modest ten kilograms; growth seemed to have been delayed by the cold temperatures of the preceding weeks. Burn morels are fickle: they require a soil temperature of 18°C, a significant winter snowpack, cool frost-free nights, warm days not exceeding 30°C, and regular rain...
Back on Burnt Ground: Three Whistles for Help
The following day, alongside official NAMA guides, I joined about twenty hikers on Crown land, heading toward pine and spruce plantations that had burned the previous year. In some areas where the wood had already been salvaged, the ground, damaged by logging companies, restricted mushroom growth to the forest edges. Furthermore, commercial pickers, arriving mostly from Quebec, had already been spotted there, making the quest for resources even more competitive.
Everyone wore an orange vest, carried a whistle, and had to be paired with a partner. Communication was straightforward: one whistle blast to gather, three blasts in case of distress.
The trees, planted in rows a few years earlier, were still standing, which made walking easier. I now knew that morels concentrate under trees still covered in needles. And this was confirmed: they were everywhere—except on dry soils along the mountainside—even where the competition had beaten us to it.
In the afternoon, a thunderstorm began to roll in, and as we headed back to the vehicles, a guide's absence was noticed. With her radio batteries dead, locating her was difficult. She was finally found at the bottom of a ravine: she had tripped on a rock and fractured her knee. She was unable to stand. In an isolated environment with absolutely no cell service, the volunteers' solidarity instantly kicked into gear. While one team stabilized the injured guide's leg with an improvised splint made from trekking poles, two phones managed to pick up a satellite emergency signal to contact 911. Thanks to the transmitted GPS coordinates, professional road rescue services were deployed, and the guide was successfully evacuated to the nearest hospital.
A Thrilling and Rewarding Adventure!
On June 4th, we hit the road back. Thanks to Myriam's foresight in packing a dehydrator in her suitcase, I returned to Montreal with 500 grams of perfectly dried morels, a bit of ash on my shoes, valuable safety lessons, fabulous encounters, and a truly "myco-marvelous" tale to tell.