Rain-Soaked Ramp Forage: Mudslide Truck Burial Fiasco

Ever chased wild ramps after a storm?

I did, boots squelching through misty Appalachian hollows, the air thick with earthy promise.

Rain pelted my hat as I spotted clusters of those oniony gems peeking from leaf litter.

Heart racing, I knelt, knife flashing, harvesting handfuls while thunder grumbled overhead.

Little did I know, the hillside was plotting revenge.

Loaded with ramps, I trudged back to my old pickup, sack bulging like a green trophy.

The path turned treacherous—mud sucking at my heels, rain turning dirt to slurry.

I slipped once, laughed it off, but the ground shifted underfoot.

A low rumble echoed; the slope above cracked, unleashing a cascade of sopping earth hurtling toward me and

the truck.

No time to react—the mudslide roared down, a chocolate river of doom.

I dove aside as it slammed into the truck, burying it nose-first in a gooey grave.

Ramps flew everywhere, mingling with the muck in absurd confetti.

Engine sputtered once, then silence.

There I stood, drenched and ramp-less, staring at my submerged ride.

What a hillbilly veggie vortex—nature's prank on a forager's folly.

Dug out the truck eventually, ramps mostly salvaged from the slop.

Now I eye rainy days warily, but those wild flavors?

Worth the slide.

Lesson learned: respect the hill's mood, or it'll serve you a mud pie with your harvest.