It’s official: Ramps are springing up in West Virginia, so it’s really spring. This wild leek is prized by mountain people, including me, for its savory taste and nutrition. But, even more than eating ramps, I love digging ramps. Every year for the past few years, Michael and I have anticipated the day in early spring when we will hike, each of us carrying a sturdy bag and a knife, up and up and up the mountainside until we find that special spot where the ramps grow. Ramps are more plentiful than morels, so people don’t guard the secret quite so carefully, but you don’t tell just anyone where your favorite ramp grove is. Ours is a long, steep hike, but well worth the effort.
So, yesterday, they were there. Not large, not nearly as tall as they will be in a week, but perfectly tender and ready, and springing up too numerous to count. Digging ramps is one of my favorite activities. You kneel down in the soft, wet soil, rooting under it with your knife to slice the leek at a spot just above the root, so that it will be easy to clean by sliding off the outer layer, and so that the root remains in the ground to reproduce. Your fingers get blackened with dirt. You breathe in the smell of earth and sun and fresh air and, of course, the rich aroma of ramps. Your senses seem to concentrate on a space just around your hands — the green/red/white ramps, the stones in the soil, the mossy fallen log on which you lean. From time to time you become aware of birdsong, of sun on your neck, of the breeze passing above you in the treetops. Your thoughts wander, or maybe you simply don’t think. This is probably as close to meditation as I get, and I think it does me good.
An hour later, or maybe two hours later, you get up for the last time, your knees and back stiff, your bag heavy and redolent, and begin a slow, easy walk down the mountain. Already planning the ramp feast, already hearing the sizzle in the pan.
