I suppose at one point writing about morels is a bit dull, but the shrooms were popping today. I took The Rodfather, aka Bill Mixer, out for some morning hunting today. To say it was good is an understatement; we found staggering numbers. The Rodfather used to hunt morels near his homeland (Jackson Hole) and he quickly set off into the woods, stopping here and there to stoop. He found some grand morels. Rocket got into a porcupine and Bill and I had to remove the quills with my Leatherman. Sorry Rock! Before I could turn around, the Rodfather scooped up most of my morels, claiming he'd dry them for elk season. Then he was off in a lick. He left only a few morels and the sickening smell of cigar smoke. This will be my last post on hickory chickens. The season is about done.