At the height of May’s morel season, I approach a standing dead elm, its loosened gray bark peeling back like partially husked corn. My morel eyes are a point of pride, and somehow it feels like my entire season is at stake as I close the distance to scan the soil beneath the tree’s drip line. Despite my best efforts to thread the needle of timing and location, I don’t find a single spongy morel on the forest floor, not even a fledgling fruiting body to lift my sunken spirits.
But as I expand the scope of my search, looking up from the ground to let my gaze meet the elm’s weathered trunk – voila! An enormous fruiting of polypore mushrooms pops into view: tan caps pock-marked with darker scales, its undersides covered in white, angular pores (which up close, I know, evoke the nostalgic aroma of watermelon rind). In my pursuit of the coveted and capricious morel, I almost overlooked a humble and reliable spring edible.
This mushroom has two equally fitting common names: Dryad’s saddle and pheasant back. Whether your imagination’s inclination is nymphic or avian, this mushroom’s saddle shape and scaly, featherlike cap make both names apt. Mycological taxonomy is constantly evolving, so depending on the vintage of your field guide, you might see this species listed as Polyporus squamosus or, more recently, Cerioporus squamosus. The Latin squamosus, means “scaly,” and while not exactly appetizing, describes the scaly cap that, combined with the white, slightly squishy pore surface, makes this species among the most distinctive of polypores.
Polypores, pored mushrooms that grow shelflike on wood, tend to be tough and woody, better suited to tea or tincture than to the frying pan. Pheasant backs are among the more tender mushrooms in this group and, when young, make a fine sauté (enlivened by oregano and sage). The plump stipe and pliant cap toughen with time and expand to dinner-plate proportions. The stem is whitish in emergent fruiting bodies, exhibiting cracked, brown shades where it meets the tree; the robust base darkens to a chocolate tone at maturity.
As the cap stretches out and hardens like a stale pancake, its surface fades to a pale tan or white, at which time these leathery saddles are suitable only for soup stock. The irregularly shaped pores below expand with maturity while remaining whitish – fading or developing brown spots as insect damage and the elements take their inevitable toll. Expired, fruiting bodies can persist for months, like flags that indicate predictable places to check for new specimens. Occasionally, pheasant backs produce a second flush in fall, the fresh fruiting bodies intermingling with the rotten and forgotten.
This recognizable mushroom is capable of colonizing a variety of hardwood trees, but in the Northeast, it almost always grows on one of three substrates: American elm (Ulmus americana), box elder (Acer negundo), or silver maple (Acer saccharinum). These native trees have a common affinity for floodplains and are well adapted to the riparian niche. They are comfortable in saturated soils, even capable of surviving intermittent flooding, making riverside rambles the perfect scouting ground for a spring saddle foray.
Just a short walk from my village home, along a narrow footpath that follows Vermont’s sprawling Winooski River, I find all three common hosts, along with hearty spring fruitings of pheasant backs, co-existing in a flood plain family, tied together by site and circumstance. Ironically, the affinity of Dryad’s saddle for trees that can tolerate wet feet makes this among the most drought-tolerant mushrooms, seemingly capable of finding and harnessing the tiniest bit of moisture in its substrate. In times of severe drought, I have seen fresh pheasant back fruiting on dead, standing elms swallowed by a beaver pond – the only fleshy mushroom for miles.
Mycologists classify Dryad’s saddle as having two distinct niches: it can be a saprophyte (decomposer) of dead hardwoods such as elm or can behave parasitically on living hardwoods, especially those in the Acer (maple) genus. In the former role, it breaks down dead trees and cycles nutrients, building forest soil fertility and organic matter. In the context of elm, for example, Dryad’s saddle is a saprobe of standing trunks or downed logs that have already died, breaking down lignin and gracefully shepherding dead elms through their decomposition process. In the latter role, it is capable of infecting living trees (often via an existing wound created by a woodpecker, blight, or beaver), causing a white rot that decays heartwood.
Even when it behaves parasitically, Dryad’s saddle appears capable of co-existing with the host tree for decades. Just outside my town hall stands a mighty maple that produces new saddles each spring, tender new growth that intermingles with the previous year’s hardened fruiting bodies. I don’t harvest from that venerable tree, but its charismatic and oversized saddles add whimsy to the sidewalk scene.
This spring, don’t be disappointed if your basket turns up empty after a morel foray. If you adjust your eyes and expectations, you just might find a windfall of fresh pheasant backs.