Mushroom hunters are oddballs — quirky in dress, eccentric in their habits, and secretive to the point of paranoia.

These facts recently came to mind when I passed an old man standing beside a country road west of Gratis.

He wore baggy camos upheld with blazing orange suspenders. His shirt was blue, and his battered, wide-brimmed hat sported a long spray of pheasant tailfeathers stuck jauntily in the hatband.

Every serious mushroom stalker counts a long, sturdy stick as essential gear for parting snarls of thorny bushes and helping coax aside low-growing leafy plants you suspect might be concealing an elusive morel or similar tasty fungus.

My roadside suspect clutched a sturdy walking staff — one decorated with what appeared to be a small animal skull affixed to the top.

Apparently, I’d caught him by surprise when I came around the bend — slow-rolling, almost idling, because I was trying to get a good look at the creek beyond a screening of willows.

At first, he seemed startled, and made several furtive glances this way and that, as if looking for a place to quickly hide. Then, for a moment, he seemed to consider hunkering behind a nearby bush — except it wasn’t yet fully leafed out, plus it was about four sizes too small to hide his bulk.

In the end, he simply opted to lean casually on his skull-topped staff and feigned rapt interest in gazing at a small dogwood now snowy with blooms.

Unfortunately, his charade was ruined by the white plastic bag tucked obtrusively in his belt. This sack bulged with telltale weight — and through the bag’s milky translucence, I could see a mass of dark, mushroom-shaped blobs.

I straight away recognized the fellow as a mushroom hunter. And I’m equally sure he realized he’d just been outed.

I pulled onto the road’s grassy shoulder and stopped. Then I got out, walked back and raised the hatchback’s rear lid. Doing a bit of my own acting, I pretended to focus my attention on the adjacent stream — affecting the pose of a harmless fisherman, just reconnoitering a possible smallmouth hole.

I didn’t fool him any more than he’d fooled me.

From the corner of my eye, I watched the old guy. He first stared warily, suspiciously. Then, after a brief pause, he began shuffling my way.

“Nice morning,” I said, in pleasant greeting as he approached.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed.

I pulled a couple of bottles of water from the small cooler I keep in the back. “Supposed to hit eighty this afternoon. Would you like a water?” I asked and held one out.

He hesitated only a moment, then took it. “Thank you,” he said. “That sun’s warm, and I’m thirsty.”

After he’d taken a couple of drinks, he told me he lived in nearby Camden.

“Come spring,” he said, “if I’m not fishing for bluegills at Rush Run, or catfish and crappie at Acton Lake, I hunt morels. But nowadays,” he continued, “I have to hunt where the huntin’ easier.”

Some years earlier, he said, a tractor accident and subsequent hip surgery made “climbing the hills and hollers” a painful endeavor.

He now avoided hunting such rough terrain by instead ambling the sides of certain rural backroads. While moving slowly along, he scrutinized the brushy edge areas, ventured into any easily accessible adjacent woodlands, investigated shady thickets — and simply combed through every potential mushroom hotspot he could reach without overly aggravating his hip.

“Looks like you did okay today, “ I said, nodding at his bag.

He shrugged and said it had taken him most of the morning to collect his sack of mushrooms.

“This has been a tough year — cold and wet at first, then turning hot as June overnight. I’ve had a few dandy days, but I expect the season is about done.”

Morel mushrooms are the crème de la crème of wild edibles. Many claim morels are the tastiest fungi in North America, and countless foragers view them as the greatest prize they can stuff into their tote sacks.

Alas, morels are not easily found. Not that they’re rare, or even uncommon. But you have to know where to look, how to look, and when to look…and then you have to get lucky.

You can stand amid a patch of morels and not notice a single one because they blend invisibly amongst the duff. Sharp vision helps, but eyes trained by years of searching through variegated leaves and dappled patterns of light and shadow are even better. Going slow is mandatory.

Morels are not only elusive, they’re fickle. On a banner hunt, you might fill your collecting bag. The next day, you’ll scour a similar woods and barely score a handful.

Consequently, morel hunters collect mushrooming spots as well as mushrooms. Naturally, these locations are closely guarded secrets, rarely shared with best friends or next of kin. Otherwise, scrupulously honest and truthful folks will look you straight in the eye and lie unabashedly about a favorite location — even if the conversation takes place in church!

We chatted a few minutes longer, exchanging thoughts on various outdoorsy matters. Then he placed the empty plastic bottle in the trash bag I had hanging in the Subaru’s rear compartment.

“Can’t stand still too long or I’ll stiffen up and never get back to the truck,” he said.

I volunteered a ride.

“No,” he said, “there are spots I still want to check along the way. But thank you again for that drink.”

So, I wished him luck. He turned away and started slow-walking along the road’s edge, checking the loamy ground where the shade of the bordering woods began.

After a minute or so, with his back still to me, but as if he somehow knew I’d still be watching — he raised his hand above his head and waved.

I waved back and watched him go.

Reach Jim McGuire at [email protected].