Color came for a visit today. Crisp, blue skies, delicately laced with strands of evaporated snow.

I’ve really been missing all of the color since my return to Michigan. Between all of the flowers, the evergreen plants, and the blue green auras of the springs and ocean in Florida; northern Michigan seems very muted, especially in early spring.

The early white dutchman’s breeches and trilliums have finally been joined by violets, pushing through last year’s leaf fall. The violets dabbed color in the woods as I searched for one of my favorite spring mushrooms:

The morel.

The morels are late to the north woods this year, but the 25 I found were young and fresh. Immature, even. Just barely poking up in spots touched by sunshine. With moisture from the recent rains, and the melted late snow-pack; the earth is like the softest of carpets, spongy and alive.

I scoured the woods for two days, looking for my prize. Getting up with the sun to brave the morning chill. Driving down 2-tracks, stopping to take photos, eyes peeled into the woods looking for the right habitats. Occasionally, I scratch my poor Bessie. The tree branches squeaking across her fenders, aren’t as loud as her joints when we get into bumpy spots.

If we get stuck, I’d just ask for help from the next person who stops to ask if I’m finding any. They all do.

We always say no.

It’s tradition.

Also a tradition, is the Mesick Mushroom Festival. Thousands of people congregate in the teeny-tiny town of Mesick, all for the love of morel mushrooms. Mother’s Day weekend is the predicted “prime time” of morel season here, so the annual festival happens simultaneously every year.

Because it’s always the same weekend, and I’d finished scouring all my spots, I figured I would go mushroom Hunter hunting. I’d drive to Mesick and stalk cars parked on the side of the road to find “new” woods to hunt.

Actually, my brother suggested the idea. I always just drive around and look for the right woods. Apparently, other people just look for cars filled with mushroom hunters, and cut back on the walking time. I figured they would be sure to be out in the woods. There’s a contest with prizes for the biggest mushroom. It’s a pretty big thing

My mind made up to try it, I headed towards Mesick, stopping at the bank along the way. I pulled in behind a local, idling at the drive-up window. He had to remove his ear protection to talk to the teller. He kept his mower running. This is actually normal here. It might be weird if he was riding a cow…but a mower, that’s pretty typical. Maybe he doesn’t have a driver’s license. That’s pretty common too. It’s a long drive home from the bars in this county, and the cops know it.

And hey, he’s certainly better than the guy I came across while mushroom hunting, who was wearing only an umbrella.

Anyway, next to the bank is the best breakfast spot, The Bear Claw Cafe. Hungry from looking for food in the woods, I decided to pick up a breakfast sandwich to go. They’re mouth-wateringly delicious, and made with fresh local ham, to the tune of $3.25.

A couple of guys sitting at one of the tables asked if I was finding anything.

“Not really, I said. Just starting here.”

“Isn’t it late?” asked one.

“Really late, but I think they are going to come on hard and fast with the perfect soil conditions we’ve got,” I replied.

They thanked me for the info. I paid for my sandwich, and headed on down the highway.

NOBODY was parked on the side of the road. I saw a few potential wooded areas, tagged with the dreaded signs.

As I pulled into Mesick, I saw people sitting on the curbs lining the highway.

Shit. The parade.

I hate parades, mostly. They remind me of funeral processions, but with candy.

I zipped through to the other side of town, deciding my best defense was probably to head to the flea market at the festival, where I could at least kill a couple of hours until they reopened the road. Might as well be stuck somewhere fun.

Arts & Crafts vendors lined the highway behind the waiting parade-goers. Birdhouses and tea towels till the band comes home. I continued on to the flea market section, parked the car, and walked in.

My heart thumped when I saw the Zipper. Dozens of child-torture devices. It was beautiful.

Distracted by all the color, I wandered in the direction of the unexpected carnival. (Unexpected, same as the parade.) Really, I think my memory should remind me of stuff like that, instead of making me putting it all together myself.

The bright, blue sky was filled with even brighter spinning colors. Kids squealed from above as they fell from the sky, while swings rotated against the clouds. Flags waved at customers from rows of food trailers, their marquis-topped canopies lettered with fried-food delicacies. Hawkers paced, waiting for pre-teens to run the gauntlet of skills. Gyrating, twirling, masses of wrist-band wearers flew through the sky on thrill rides.

If there is anything I hate more than parades, it’s carnival rides.

I. Don’t. Do. Carnival. Rides.

Thanks to my mom and uncle when I was about 5, who thought spinning would be fun on the top of a stopped Zipper ride. Oh, and my uncle’s hat, which they put over my face and eyes in case I got sick. Can you say “vertigo intensifier”?

I hate the Zipper. And it was there. I’ve overcome my fears. I can ignore it now.

[Insert positive thought here]

Especially with all the pretty colors.

When I’d had my fill of taking pictures, I wandered again towards the flea market.

A lady, dragging one child by the hand, another in the stroller she was pushing, and a third lagging along behind, verbally fended off one of them. “Please Mom, can we go on the rides?” he pleaded.

“We’ll go next week, when the carnival is in our town,” she replied as she tried to capture the third child, who had turned around the other way, likely following a clown or something.

“They are all the same ones, anyway,” she rationalized with the boy.

It then occurred to me, some people probably like to do this more than once a year. It’s a bit too much commotion for me, personally.

I wandered through rows of vendors, skipping a few while trying to escape the cloying incense hanging in the air. Most booths were filled with wholesale vendors. I was moving along at a pretty good clip.

Suddenly, a booth full of rocks. Piles, and piles, of rocks.   

(No comments from the non-addicted. You simply have no idea.)  

But, I made it through the flea market, and only came home with just three new rocks. That’s not bad, right? In my defense, they were all Larimar. That makes it okay.

Oh, and the fresh-squeezed lemonade from the lemon yellow carnival trailer. But the lemonade didn’t make it back to the car, so it doesn’t count.

I also made it through the cotton candy section without incident, although it was close.

The pony ride almost got me on the way out, but I didn’t want to ask the handler if the pony could handle my weight. Besides, all of the other riders were under 5, so it wouldn’t have been a fair race.

The parade now gone, a steady stream of people were heading in the direction of the fairgrounds, as I walked around an off-road obstacle course to get back to my car. Taking my cue from the approaching throng, Bessie and I rolled back towards the woods, passing a random giraffe along the way.

That quickly, it was quiet again. Back on the gravel roads, where the only noise was Bessie. The only color, the occasional daffodil in the road bed.   The simplicity of nature, and it’s delicate beauty quieted my mind on the drive back. The slow rhythm of trees, trilliums, and fresh growth.

I turned the corner towards home, and a sea of green arose; a field coming to life. Up on a rise, sat a rusty old pickup, wise and happy where it came to rest.

A sister spirit.

Another full day; remarkable, rewarding, and unbelievable.

Just in case you don’t believe me, there’s pictures below of the whole thing.