Seven Brothers

Saturday August 7, 2004

Saturday: Camp is on the west slope of the Bighorns, today's hike we will follow a drainage to a saddle at 11,300 ft which will offer views to the east slope.

Seven Brothers Lakes. I have been here before with a) Mark & Spencer b) Dad & John c) day hiked with Jerry.

The Seven Brothers Cirque.

Part of the cirque.

You can see for miles and miles.

Lake Angeline and Buffalo (the town) on the horizon.

Did a lot of rock hopping today.

Boulder hopping is tough on the toes.

Total immersion.

Can you tell me if these are edible?

So happens that Roman is familar with these mushrooms and offered the following story. He also sent this link to a Puffball Mushroom Recipe.

Puffball Mushrooms, by Roman

The term is accurate for more than the construction; they taste like a ball of puff also. Years ago on a Sunday afternoon picnic on the St. Croix River between Minnesota and Wisconsin we spread the blanket very near a puffball. Although we had seen many, and often talked about eating one, today Carmen decided it's time to try the delicacy. She got baking instructions from one of her counter-culture environmental friends, and that evening we feasted on the oversize delicacy, we being Carmen and Roman. The daughters were too intelligent for such foolishness. On the serving platter the off-white, brown-speckled globe was tantalizing. I clearly remember my excitement about a daring new venture. The daughters were never so attentive to anything else I had done as they were to that first bite. I wish I had a photograph of my face -- shock, disappointment, disbelief. Two awarenesses simultaneously: the texture was so porous, so dry that instead of accepting a bite, it imploded, fragments falling in my mouth; the taste -- absolutely none. I tried chewing what had disintegrated but could not because it would not mix with saliva. I can still see the daughters' expectant looks waiting for a sign of what my courage had gained for me. I did eat the single disc Carm had served me; she ate less of hers. That evening I carefully placed the almost whole ball of fable in the backyard, expecting night raiders to claim their natural rights. No one came to the party. For weeks the thing survived all natural forces. Because I don't remember my last look, we must have lost interest in it. Perhaps John Fortier from across the street kicked a few soccer goals against Conners fence.

Moral: If camping alone always save one fish until you get back to the trailhead.

(Editors note: Be sure to email Roman and ask him to send in more stories!)