The golden, gray and brown spongeheaded fungi appearing each spring have a magical element about them. Each one is a small treasure, a gnomish, otherworldly object which sprouts as mysteriously as it disappears.

And Hoosiers, who really don’t need another excuse to meander through the budding forests in the newness of spring, are given added joy by the lure of the morel.

In his best year, Burnettsville resident Randy Pritts once picked 30 pounds of the delicacy, stalking his prey somewhere in the wilderness where Cass, Carroll and White counties all come together.

To be led to the secret spots where morels spring overnight from the ground, inquiring reporters must, of course, swear an oath of secrecy.

It was April 28, and the morels were just starting to pop.

The week before had been dry and warm, but the warm days had come just a bit too early for the start of the season. Pritts was expecting the season to truly kick into gear when it warmed up in the week or so after the cold front of the 28th moved through.

“It’s so early, I don’t know if it’s going to be a good year or a bad year,” he said, holding a paper plate full of small specimens he’d gathered that morning.

Pritts has a trick, although it’s doubtful he invented it. He takes the morels he finds, rinses them, and then dumps the spore-laden rinse water back onto his hunting grounds.

Beyond that hopeful technique, Pritts, the winner of several “biggest morel” contests from Kokomo to Monticello, has other theories on where morels congregate.

Listening to him, one gets the sense of an ancient pagan selecting the place most likely for elves, fairies or oracles to be found in a sacred grove.

“This area right here was always known as an old orchard; years ago it did have a few fruit trees, and I think a hog pen was there,” he said. “But you just look for old ground, ground that hasn’t been disturbed in 50, 100 years. And you don’t want any place where there’s been yard fertilizer, and if you spray fruit trees, you probably won’t find nothing there.”

Like a lot of mushroom hunters, he swears by dead elm trees, although he insists they’re only good for a season or two. The morels go wild around a dead elm for just that long, he claims, then they disappear.

Oaks are good, too, Pritts said, and sure enough, two nearby red oaks had morels springing from the ground beneath. Soils play a factor, as does the progression of the season. It’s all country lore, unavailable to the uninitiated. Pritts seemed like he could have expounded on theories for hours, but a spring storm cut the woodland foray short.

While morels grow wild, and seem to do better in hardwood forests than in coniferous areas, no one has been able to figure out a way to farm them.

And when people talk about mushroom hunting in Indiana, they’re talking about the genus Morchella — morel mushrooms. Noticeable from their unique honeycombed caps and hollowed-out stems, morels are considered a gourmet cooking item.

But to find morels, you have two choices: Either pay top dollar at roadside stands (prices generally start at $30 a pound), or find them in the woods yourself.

At least morels don’t resemble anything other than themselves. Once you’ve seen them up close, you’re on your way. You don’t hear local tales of mushroom poisoning, because morels are easily recognizable, and no one messes with picking any other kind of fungi.

Not that morel hunting doesn’t require a certain amount of caution.

Just walking into the nearest woods and hunting morels is not advised. Mushroom hunters are extremely protective of their secret spots — spots they know the elusive fungi will return year after year. Trespassers are not welcomed with open arms, and it’s possible they may be welcomed with arms.

The flavor of morels alone can’t account for the fervor mushroom hunters experience, skipping work, their kids’ school events and about anything else for a chance to hunt.

Longtime mushroom hunter Jim McClain, of Kokomo, claims you can substitute portabello mushrooms ($3 a pound) and most people won’t know the difference.

Just about everyone fries them in butter, usually after dipping them in egg batter and dredging them in flour, or just flouring them and frying them. Salt and pepper are all you need. McClain just fries a batch up and eats them between slices of buttered bread.

And morels are delicious, yes, but perhaps not worth the $41.98 per pound price D&R; Market in Logansport was charging at the end of April, just before peak season.

No, the lure of the whole thing is the excitement of the hunt.

“I just can’t explain how excited I get when I find one,” Eva Hulsey, Kokomo said. “It’s just completely addicting.”

Kokomo Parks Superintendent John Martino, who also writes a weekly outdoors column for the Kokomo Tribune, has been documenting “Morel Mania” in his columns for years, and between Tax Day and mid-May each year, the stories come pouring in.

“When it comes to revealing locations of successful claims, mushroom hunters are about as truthful as fishermen,” Martino wrote in one column, recalling one hunter whose wife would drop him off various places as a ruse, to keep his locations secret.

“This way no one will see my car parked along the side of the road and figure out where I find the big boys,” Martino recalled the secretive hunter claiming.

Even if you don’t have a secret spot, a day spent in the woods with nothing to show for isn’t such a bad thing either.

“Just go out into a woods area and look around,” McClain advised. “Out in the woods, you can see birds and hear them, and every once in a while you might see a fox or another animal. You’re just out there by yourself, enjoying a bit of peace.

“And afterwards, it’s good eats!”