by Deborah Carr
It’s almost that time again…when tender whorls of the fiddlehead (or ostrich fern) begin pushing through the sandy gravel alongside Albert County’s clear running streams. For me, gathering food from the wild – whether greens or berries– evokes feelings of authenticity. Can there be anything more basic and real?
It’s as if by plucking what is good and wise and elemental and wild from the earth, I can assimilate these qualities within myself. I breathe the wet spring smell of quickening earth and work with a steady, relaxed rhythm. My strength comes from the ground beneath my feet in so many ways. I am what I eat.
It’s almost that time again…when tender whorls of the fiddlehead (or ostrich fern) begin pushing through the sandy gravel alongside Albert County’s clear running streams. For me, gathering food from the wild – whether greens or berries– evokes feelings of authenticity. Can there be anything more basic and real?
It’s as if by plucking what is good and wise and elemental and wild from the earth, I can assimilate these qualities within myself. I breathe the wet spring smell of quickening earth and work with a steady, relaxed rhythm. My strength comes from the ground beneath my feet in so many ways. I am what I eat.
The enjoyment of eating what I gather is integrally connected to my memory of how and where it grew. I remember the rushing water, the sun-splashed forest floor, the tangles of bare alder branches, piles of dead grass washed up against rotting logs in the early spring freshets. I remember the songs of birds, the smell of wet earth and the cushioned softness underfoot of stepping on new moss and last season’s wet leaves. I feel the sun’s warmth on my skin. I think of the early spring plants beginning to grow. I recall the tremendous peace of walking alongside running water in a wild place. But also, in some way, I feel closer to my ancestors, who depended upon these seasonal offerings to supplement their diet.
So much of the task comes through experience…recognizing which ferns are actually fiddleheads and which are not. There are often only subtle differences. Learning to feel the telltale mound of unfurled crowns beneath a careless foot, or knowing the biggest fiddleheads can often be found in hard to reach places: in tangles of alders or the dams of broken trunks and limbs washed downstream in the high water of spring freshets.
So much of the task comes through experience…recognizing which ferns are actually fiddleheads and which are not. There are often only subtle differences. Learning to feel the telltale mound of unfurled crowns beneath a careless foot, or knowing the biggest fiddleheads can often be found in hard to reach places: in tangles of alders or the dams of broken trunks and limbs washed downstream in the high water of spring freshets.
I love how the ferns grow clustered with their heads bowed together like a family saying grace. When I do find families of unfurled ferns the size of dollar coins, it feels like a bonanza. I'm always tempted to pick them all. Because they are there for the picking. Because if I don’t, someone else will.
But, I resist.
Part of the joy of picking fiddleheads comes from limiting myself and setting boundaries. I have a responsibility to harvest in a sustainable manner, so we can all continue to enjoy the pleasure of the gathering. I’ve noticed in the easier-to-access places, each year the fiddleheads get smaller from reckless over-picking. Last year, most of the ferns had heads the size of marbles. We passed them by. I wondered how long the plants could survive. Research has shown that picking all of the emerged fiddleheads on a crown every year over several years will result in the decline and death of the fern.
But, I resist.
Part of the joy of picking fiddleheads comes from limiting myself and setting boundaries. I have a responsibility to harvest in a sustainable manner, so we can all continue to enjoy the pleasure of the gathering. I’ve noticed in the easier-to-access places, each year the fiddleheads get smaller from reckless over-picking. Last year, most of the ferns had heads the size of marbles. We passed them by. I wondered how long the plants could survive. Research has shown that picking all of the emerged fiddleheads on a crown every year over several years will result in the decline and death of the fern.
So, it’s important to select only crowns with four or more fiddleheads, and always leave two or three ferns on the crown to increase the strength of the plant. As well, only take the tightly furled. Leave the rest to grow and sustain the clump.
Limiting what I take reinforces an ethic of care and of sustainability, rather than greed. I choose to leave enough for nature to replenish herself. This is the pact I make with her, so she will continue to support the wonder and enjoyment of the harvest.
This is grace.
May we always remember to walk softly and with care. To give the weak a chance to grow stronger. To gather only enough. So, none of us will lose the joy of the gathering.
Limiting what I take reinforces an ethic of care and of sustainability, rather than greed. I choose to leave enough for nature to replenish herself. This is the pact I make with her, so she will continue to support the wonder and enjoyment of the harvest.
This is grace.
May we always remember to walk softly and with care. To give the weak a chance to grow stronger. To gather only enough. So, none of us will lose the joy of the gathering.
Find recipes for fiddleheads at www.connectingalbertcounty.org/food-farming--fishing/fiddlehead-recipes
About the Writer: Deborah Carr has been a freelance writer and writing coach for two decades, exploring topics that range from peregrine falcons and shorebirds to caribou and salmon, from bakers and woodcarvers to taxidermists and fisherwomen. She also is the author of Sanctuary: The Story of Naturalist Mary Majka, the biography of the woman behind the Mary's Point Shorebird Reserve. Websites: www.deborahcarr.ca; www.natureofwords.com
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