Fiddlehead Frenzy: A Love-Hate Relationship with Curled-Up Ferns

Ah, fiddleheads. Those tightly wound little green coils that pop up in the spring, promising culinary delights and, in our case, a few weeks of delightful chaos. We jumped into the fiddlehead game back in 2017 when we stumbled upon a patch so large, it practically screamed, "Sell us!" And so, a seasonal business was born.

Let's be honest, fiddlehead picking is a mixed bag. On one hand, you're basically a hero. People love fiddleheads. It's like delivering pure, unadulterated spring joy to their plates. Plus, on those glorious, sun-drenched days, you're out by the river, communing with nature. I've been known to cast a line and try my luck at snagging a trout or two for supper. There's something about the quiet rush of the river and the green all around that just… fills you up. And, of course, the extra cash flow after a long winter is always welcome.

But, oh boy, can it go south. Fast.

The weather, my friends, the weather. This year was a prime example of Mother Nature's fickle sense of humor. One day, we were soaked to the bone in a chilly downpour, the river feeling like liquid ice as we gave the fiddleheads their first wash. My wife, Lisa, has this charming habit of breaking out in hives when she gets too cold, so picture her, shivering and covered in red bumps, valiantly scooping up ferns. A truly beautiful sight. Then, a few days later, we were back at it, battling frigid winds that threatened to carry us away.

And let's not forget the bugs. Thankfully, they weren't too bad this year, but there have been times when we've resembled beekeepers, completely covered in netting just to keep from being eaten alive.

But the real comedy gold comes from the mishaps.

This year's highlight? I had a giant backpack, overflowing with what I estimate to be 50-60 pounds of fiddleheads. One wrong move, and whoosh, they all cascaded into the river. Lisa, bless her heart, immediately jumped in, hives be damned, to rescue as many as possible. We managed to salvage most of them, but the image of rogue fiddleheads floating downstream as we left will forever be etched in my memory.

My fishing rod also seems to have a knack for getting into trouble. This year, a rogue rock decided to crumble under my weight, sending me knee-deep into the river and my rod downstream. Lisa, thankfully, has quick reflexes. Another time, I simply forgot it by the riverbank and had to make a sheepish return trip later in the day.

And then there was the goose incident. We were strolling along, minding our own business, when a mother goose decided we were a threat to her nest. Daddy goose, clearly a devoted partner, swooped in for the attack. Lisa, demonstrating impressive self-preservation skills, bolted. I, on the other hand, tried to back away slowly, only to have the goose brush my back as it flew past. I have video proof of this, by the way.  You may have seen it.  

So, yeah, fiddlehead picking is a love-hate thing. But through the cold, the bugs, and the occasional near-disaster, it's given us some truly great stories. And to everyone who bought some fiddleheads from us, thank you. You made the chaos worthwhile.

Here is the goose video if you haven't seen it.  Click Here