Of Morels & Monocultures: Springtime in the Piedmont

Ah, spring in Virginia. We’ve all seen the memes floating around social media—and right now, we’ve survived false spring, muddled through second winter, and landed smack dab in the middle of The Pollening.

Each morning, I hoist my overly energetic children into my formerly black SUV, and a chorus of sneezing erupts the moment we disturb the generous layer of pollen that’s settled overnight. At this point in the season, we’ve sampled every flavor of children’s chewable or dissolvable Zyrtec on the market. I haven’t taste-tested the orange one yet, but grape isn’t half bad.

Despite “the pollening,” this time of year brings a real sense of excitement to our household—because pollen season also means morel season! For those unfamiliar with this peculiar fungi, the best way I can describe a morel is as an incredibly porous sponge on a stick. It might not win any beauty contests, but this funky little mushroom is a culinary treasure, highly sought after by chefs, locals, and foraging enthusiasts alike.

Back when we lived in Rappahannock County, I once saw someone pay for veterinary services with a sizable bag of fresh morels. And rumor had it that the Inn at Little Washington would pay $100 per gallon for fresh Morchella.

When we first moved to our Fauquier County property in 2019, we were blessed with an incredible flush of wild mushrooms—not just morels, but wood ear, black trumpets, fishy milk caps (they smell exactly how they sound), oyster mushrooms, and even a single chanterelle. Photo evidence below!

But over the past few years, we’ve noticed that our mushroom harvest has dwindled. And it’s left us wondering: why?

The first, most logical answer is precipitation. I remember the record-setting rainfall in 2018—local vineyards were reluctantly calling it a rosé year because their red grapes were so diluted. While rainfall can vary dramatically in our region—thanks to the Blue Ridge mountains acting as a natural weather barrier—it’s safe to say things have felt considerably drier in recent years. If you have a solid resource for tracking annual rainfall totals in our area, please send it my way—I’d love to keep better tabs on this!

Beyond the weather, I’ve noticed a few other factors that may be influencing the decline in our edible mushroom population:

1. The thickening monoculture of spicebush crowding out other plant species.

2. Aging oak trees falling that are contributing to...

3. A shifting in the light balance of the forest floor.

4. A growing deer population and increased competition for food in winter.

   
   

Let’s break it down:

1. Spicebush takeover. Spicebush (Lindera benzoin) is a native plant and an important host for the spicebush swallowtail butterfly. But it’s also… spicy. After getting more confident in my plant ID skills, I took a nibble from a twig—I'd describe it as cinnamon-adjacent. In our hardwood forest, which is rich in oaks and hickories and produces an abundant mast crop (acorns and nuts), deer have little reason to eat less palatable plants like spicebush. This has likely allowed spicebush to proliferate unchecked in recent years.

2. Lack of forest regeneration. As our forest ages and trees begin to fall naturally, you’d expect younger, successional trees would readily to take their place. But with the deer leaving spicebush alone and targeting the remaining mast crop and tender oak and hickory shoots, a single sapling never got a chance. The understory becomes increasingly dominated by a single species, preventing the diversity needed for a balanced ecosystem. I’m confident there’s a term for this phenomenon, but it's been 12 years since I've truly studied biology.

3. Changing light and habitat conditions. As mature trees fall, they create gaps in the canopy, dramatically increasing the amount of light that reaches the forest floor. While this might seem like a good thing, it’s another major shift in an already stressed system. My biggest concern? The creeping spread of invasive autumn olive, a plant that smells delightful when in bloom, reportedly makes great jelly, and spreads aggressively—especially through deer droppings.

4. Deer, deer, everywhere. We’re lucky to live in a community that understands the importance of deer management, and our neighbors do welcome a small, trusted group of hunters each year. But the overall trend across Virginia shows deer populations rising due to land-use changes and reduced predation. In our own shade-tolerant garden, they’ve devoured everything—even “deer-resistant” rhododendrons. And in the woods, increased competition for food in the winter has likely put further strain on the ecosystem.

So where does this leave us?

Serious. Ecosystem. Changes. The entire composition of our forest is shifting—and no matter how much rain we get, our beloved mushroom population is declining. That’s why we’ve started working with the Virginia Department of Forestry (VDOF) to pursue cost-share opportunities for forest maintenance. From preserving ash trees (shoutout to the previous owners for their foresight—more on that in a future post) to investing in land management practices that support hardwood regeneration, VDOF offers resources for landowners who care deeply about the long-term health of our forests.

For more information on VDOF's Hardwood Initiative Cost-Share Program, visit their website.

“I speak for the trees. I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues.” – The Lorax, Dr. Seuss

While I may not be the Lorax, I do know this: the natural balance of our ecosystem is worth fighting for. And if the call of the hardwoods doesn’t move you… maybe the promise of morels will.