I wake to the young summer Sun reaching for me through the low branches on the far horizon’s trees, enticing me to come out and wash my feet in the dew-damp grass and bathe my face in the low-hanging mist. I drift down into the valley where the predawn lingers and the blueberries are yet wrapped in the frosty patina of the night. The chill on my fingers invigorates as I pick them one by one, deftly selecting the ripe from the unripe and passing over those that have been nibbled by Mouse and Chipmunk. A few Huckleberries and Dwarf Juneberries join the collection, along with a sampling of last year’s lingering Wintergreen berries. What a refreshing taste, crisp texture and bright cranberry-like luster they lend to the sweet menagerie!  

With reverence I place my steps on the moss carpet between the plants, careful not to step on an Orchid or a Frog still stiff with morning cold. In the midst of such bounty I soon satiate myself, then give thanks.

The first amber spears of light begin to reach these bottom lands— my sign to move on, as I know the wildlings wish for their turn at breakfast as well. So I wander up the western hillside where the sun has already dried the grasses and formed warm pockets between sheltering boulders. There I find a comfortable patch of green upon which to lazily lounge and allow the chill and dampness to be washed from me.

As I drift off into undeserved slumber (undeserved because it is only early morning and I have done no more than eat), the sweet essence of Oxeye Daisy baking in the Sun tickles my senses back to wakefulness. Rolling over, I nibble on several of the flowers beside me, taking care to avoid those who are providing homes for insects. Several of the spicier basal leaves then join in a savory finale with a couple sprigs of lemony Sheep Sorrel and succulent Cleaver tips.

Armed from the inside out with sweet Earth nourishment and from the outside in with warm Solar nourishment, I finally laze into that hardly needed nap.

The cool shadow of a boulder draws me back to much appreciated wakefulness, as I am anxious to take the high route back home through the Forest to see how another section of my Earth Garden fares. At Wood’s edge I meet a downed Basswood tree blocking the trail. First giving thanks for the unexpected gift, I strip off some of the strong fibrous inner bark, to use for winter basket and cordage making. Then, for supper, I gather a satchelful of the mild-tasting leaves.

Taking stock of the surrounding Blackberries, I surmise they won’t be ready for several weeks. With adequate moisture it looks like they will be worth coming back for.

Now under the Maple canopy, I take mental note of the whereabouts of the blossoming patches of Leeks and Spring Beauty seedheads, for they will not be as conspicuous when I come back in the Autumn to gather my Winter store. The dry Spring encouraged mid-season Mushrooms not near as bountiful as last year, so I leave the few I see for the Squirrels. I have dried stock yet from last year, and the more reliable Autumn crop is yet to come. Being so deeply shaded, the Forest floor is otherwise pretty quiet of edible growth at this time of year.

On the last rise before home I come upon a large patch of infertile-type Mullein — the best to use for medicinal purposes. I gather a few leaves for a friend who wishes to use them to help clear her lungs as she quits smoking. Just below the Mullein grows a strong colony of Sarsparilla, which another friend uses to help her through periods of melancholia. She likes to gather her own, so the next time she visits I will bring her here. 

Arriving home at mid-day, I treat myself to two full glasses of wild Mint tea that I brewed in yesterday’s Sun. I am feeling great for the exercise, fulfilled from the joy of discovery, and content with the glow of good nourishment. 

I was once an enthusiastic gardener; I maintained a collection of heirloom and Native seed varieties, and I was proud of the tricks I learned to push the length of the growing season in either direction. I usually had produce to spare and I delighted in helping others to begin gardening.

But something didn’t feel right. I had to destroy so much to establish my garden. It was once a little meadow of flowers and grasses and Mice and Butterflies — a rainbow of life coexisting in ageless Balance. I killed it all. Even those who could run or fly away likely died, because I pushed them into unfamiliar territory, where they would be more vulnerable to predation (they didn’t know the hiding places or escape routes). Some died a slower death by contributing to overpopulation or from injuries incurred in fights as they unwittingly invaded the territories of established residents. 

And I killed the generations to come.                                                                                  return to top

What about the grand scale gardening that produced what I didn’t grow — the grains for my bread and the fibers for my clothing? Even though they were organic they were still the product of the plow. Those soils and the natural communities they supported had never before been disturbed. “Why” I asked myself, “is it so necessary for us to do so now?” It seemed as though the rest of life, including our own Ancestors, flourished for millennia without plow or spade. To them the whole Earth was a garden. They saw food growing grew everywhere; they knew that parts of most plants are seasonably edible. They could not understand why the coming farmers would destroy this diverse bounty only to toil at producing so few and sometimes unreliable replacements.  

Our foraging Ancestors left us a verdant legacy pleasing to the eye and to the soul. The streams ran clear, the rain fell clean, and the seed grew and died and grew again. And then we decided we could have more by sowing the seed ourselves . . .

I already enjoyed gathering wild edibles. Some years I would gather wild and domestic varieties of the same food. For example, my garden raspberries would ripen first, and then in a couple weeks I would gather wild ones. To produce the domestic version I began by procuring the land, then I tilled it, fenced it to keep out garden-loving animals, bought the plants, fertilized and watered, weeded and pruned, and then got to harvest. For the wild berries— you guessed it— all I had to do was the picking. I’ve gathered wild and domestic versions of Asparagus, Onions, Ground Cherries, Jerusalem Artichokes, Spinach, Currents, and several other fruits and vegetables, in the process realizing that I had more time for other things when I foraged rather than gardened. 

On top of that, the wild fare was better tasting, cleaner than organic, and more nourishing.

And I had such a good time foraging! I would notice the wildflowers growing amongst the edible fare and the other animals feasting on it with me, and perhaps I’d come across a pair of Fawns taking an afternoon nap. I would gather a few other edibles at the same time and take note of still others for the coming season, just as in the story above. My row of raspberries provided a bit of that experience, but relatively speaking it was pretty much one-dimensional.

As you can probably already surmise, my garden grew smaller and smaller each year until all that were left were the hardy perennial Rhubarb and Asparagus, and a patch of transplanted wild Jerusalem Artichokes. Yet I missed my garden. I enjoyed my intimate relationship with the life of the plants. So I redirected that desire for connection and found pleasure in helping restore wild and endangered plant communities. My “garden” is again a luxurious meadow (which still receives my kitchen compost!) And I have time for endless romps in the woods and fields — without having to worry about planting, pulling, or protecting. 

Where To Start?

Many nature centers and university extension offices offer wild food foraging and preparation classes, and some areas have wild food clubs, which often host wild food potlucks. If you share your newfound interest with those you know, you may be surprised by a friend who already has a degree of expertise. Following is a list of several of the better field guides on the subject. I would suggest procuring two or three of them, as cross-referencing them is a great aid in positive identification, and one book will often contain information on a plant that the other doesn’t. Yet as good as some of the books are, I would still recommend beginning with the personal guidance of an experienced forager.

Recommended field guides:                                                               return to top

Peterson's Field Guide to Edible Wild Plants
by Lee Allen Peterson

The Encyclopedia of Edible Plants of North America: Nature's Green Feast*
by Francois Couplan

Stalking the Wild Asparagus
by Euell Gibbons

Foraging for Wild Foods in Wisconsin
by Larry Monthey

The Wild Food Cookbook: From the Fields and Forests of the Great Lake States
by Dr. Frances Hamerstrom

Identifying and Harvesting Edible and Medicinal Plants in Wild (and Not So Wild) Places
by Steve Brill with Evelyn Dean

Edible and Medicinal Plants of the Great Lakes Region*
by Thomas A. Naegele

Peterson Field Guide to Medicinal Plants and Herbs
by Steven Foster and James A. Duke

Indian Herbalogy of North America*
by Alma Hutchens

Medicinal and Other Uses of North American Plants: A Historical Survey With Special Reference To The Eastern Indian Tribes
by Charlotte Erichsen-Brown

*These books and more on Wild Foods are available thru Old Way Wares Book and Craft Store *