The text showed up around 7 p.m. on a Thursday night in late February. I had been loosely communicating with a truffle hunter named Ava, who, like any good forager or fungus seeker, had been pretty cryptic. The message read: “Can you join me on a hunt tomorrow at 9:10 a.m. at the Walgreens with $50 for the land owner?”
The answer was a resounding yes. A few minutes passed after I replied and she shared the address of the site, opting to go straight to the patch instead of meeting at the drug store. “Do not share with anyone!!!!”
We met at 9:10 a.m., somewhere in the Willamette Valley. The area is mostly known for its booming wine scene and patchwork of farms and open roads. Evergreens stand tall in just about every direction you look, and there’s a freshness to the place that’s distinctly Pacific Northwest.
And while above ground, there’s no shortage of delicacies—Pinot Noir vines, hazelnut orchards, Christmas tree farms, berry patches—the real gems are hiding just beneath the topsoil. This is where truffles hang out in abundance, including four indigenous species. They don’t look like much, but they’re treated like gold by chefs, foodies, and foragers alike.
The excitement with which Ava talks about truffles is enough to get anybody interested. She’s beyond passionate, and, admittedly, the lifestyle seems pretty ideal. Wake up, pack your pups in the car, meet some clients in an undisclosed location (often on private property with the owners’ permission), and spend a few hours in a dark forest of younger trees, trying to snag the gold before the dogs eat it.
About the dogs. On this trip, we’re with Ava’s yellow lab, Joey. She’s adorable and sprightly, showing some big puppy energy. But when the special command word is delivered from her owner, it’s all business. Joey’s nose hits the dirt, and she’s on a mission. Her extensive training shows almost immediately as she puts a paw to the ground and starts digging. That’s when you praise her work, gently nudge her aside, and see what all the commotion is about.
Her success rate was incredible. I can only think of a single time or two when that intro dig didn’t lead to a truffle. You take a trowel to the spot Joey so kindly points out and dig in. Usually, just a few inches beneath the soft earth, you’ll find a truffle. And, as Ava says, the experience is transformative.
Often, you can smell the thing before you even see it. It’s an absolutely intoxicating aroma for those who like it and a befuddling one for those not into truffles (it seems so are very for and some are very against). Many have probably tried some form of truffle, whether shaved over pasta or infused into some potato chips. But there’s nothing like the real thing, in the palm of your hand, still covered in dirt. The fragrance is quite simply unlike anything else, at once earthy, nutty, musky, assertive yet delicate, sometimes even showing some tropical fruit. One whiff and you’re achieving a colorful sense of synesthesia not unlike Remy in Ratatouille. Turns out that heaven is a damp forest in the Willamette Valley, lined with ferns and occupied by a truffle dog.
Soon, you find your rhythm, learning never to lose sight of the dog and to dig gently so as not to cut into the truffle. Within an hour, we’ve filled a decent-sized Tupperware container about halfway with truffles. You can smell them every time the lid is opened, even if you’re ten feet away. It becomes more of a sport, and it’s impossible not to get fixated on finding the biggest truffle of the day.
The hunt involves so many great things, during a decidedly downtempo time of year in the Willamette Valley. While most residents are in hibernation mode, yawning at the site of drizzle and short days, those on the hunt are milling around in forests, getting muddy and making their evening dinner a lot more interesting. You get to connect with nature, exercise and sharpen your senses, treasure hunt, and hang out with a dog.
Around lunch, we’re back at the ca,r working on a makeshift truffle cleaning assembly line. The dirt is wiped off gently with damp paper towels, the truffles are brushed with toothbrushes, and the the lesser parts are neatly trimmed off with a blade. Meanwhile, Ava is telling us about the miracle of infusions, which require little more than the truffles to be in the same vicinity as what you’re infusing. In other words, a handful of truffles in a sealed container with a paper towel and a stick of butter will give you truffle butter in a few days. And the results are magic.
We tend to think of truffles as physically infused into things or sliced atop dishes. That can happen, but there is the risk (however unlikely) of botulism. But you can achieve the same flavor-injection from the method mentioned above. And I can’t wait to dial-in my approach in infusing things like cheese and salt. Every time I smatter some truffle butter on toast in the morning, I’m whisked back to that forested flat on a late winter morning with Ava and Joey. Like umami, or a piercing dry Riesling, there’s nothing quite like freshly-foraged Oregon truffles.
The truffle business is real but mostly unknown to the masses. There are festivals and foragers with direct and important relationships with area restaurants, which prize the fungus. There’s even something called the Joriad, or an annual truffle dog competition open to North American competitors that convenes in Oregon every February.
If you’re feeling adventurous, get out there on a hunt. Ava works through an outfit called First Nature Tours and the experience is truly singular.
Check out some of The Manual’s other adventurous content. We’ve got features on Willamette Valley wine and different pasta types, two things that happen to go great with truffles. Here’s a tandem piece on preparing winter truffles. After all, nothing tastes better than the things you forage for and make on your own.
