Post by Woody Williams on Oct 18, 2005 15:49:14 GMT -5
Moss Men
October 18, 2005
LOOKOUT, W.Va. - Deep in the forest, miles from anything resembling a town, even logging roads and rutted four-wheeler paths dissolve. That's when J.P. Anderson gears down his battered Suzuki Samurai, crashing up the side of a mountain with bone-rattling force.
"Hang on," he says, scanning the trees for gaps and snapping the smaller ones in his way. Eventually, the engine goes silent, and the vehicle comes to rest against a trunk 6 inches thick.
Anderson hops out and hikes downhill. Then he spots it: a long-fallen, rotting tree covered in a blanket of brilliant green moss some 2 inches thick and several feet long.
Quickly and gently, he rips up a long section of the living carpet and stuffs it into one of eight woven-plastic sacks he'll fill in an hour.
"They told me money don't grow on trees. They was lying to me," he says, grinning through his black beard. "I know better now. It grows on rocks, too."
Moss is the all-purpose sponge of the forest, storing water, releasing nutrients and housing tiny critters. But across Appalachia and in the Pacific Northwest, it's more than that. It's a way to make ends meet when jobs are few.
Picking is hard work on a hot day. Sweaty. Dirty. And it pays only about $5 a sack. But for 33-year-old Anderson, who lives simply as a single father to twin boys, the solitude and independence beat the construction jobs that often pay the bills.
What Anderson picks could end up in a floral arrangement or a craft project, maybe even on a movie set. Along the way, it will support more than a dozen jobs, from people who sort it, dry it and package it to those who ship and sell it.
But biologists, businessmen and pickers themselves say the good stuff is getting harder to find - and the
money harder to make.
Moss is not commercially grown, so buyers depend on the wilderness. Some state and national forests, though, have already banned harvesting, worried about what they are losing when moss leaves the ecosystem.
Among those banning harvesting is Hoosier National Forest based in Bedford, Ind., where spokesman Frank Lewis said there's always a chance someone could misidentify one of the forest's sensitive or protected plants as a moss. Those found taking moss out of the Hoosier could face a fine, he added.
However, the public can collect a number of items, such as mushrooms and leaves, for personal use. By contrast, at Shawnee National Forest in Southern Illinois, commercial harvesters of moss can apply for special-use permits, although spokeswoman Becky
Banker said approval isn't automatic.
The public can take small amounts of moss out of the general forest, just not designated wilderness areas, recreation areas, natural areas or within 200 feet of a road.
A less ethical picker will strip the logs bare, but Anderson and father James, who have witnessed the devastation of strip mining and clear-cut logging, always leave clumps behind to help the spore-driven plant regenerate. To thrive, it needs moisture, cool temperatures and shade.
How long that takes is a question that has some scientists and U.S. Forest Service officials wrestling with the regulation of this secretive industry, where there are plenty of opinions but few facts.
North Carolina's Pisgah and Nantahala national forests expect to ban moss collection Jan. 1 after studies there indicated a growback cycle "on the order of 15 to 20 years," says botanical specialist Gary Kauffman of the Forest Service.
That's twice as long as some veteran pickers and moss buyers think it takes.
Nationwide, it's hard to tell how many people make a living from moss. Most search out private land, where they go unnoticed and untracked by hunt clubs and logging companies.
Nor are all pickers alike. Some are chronically unemployed, living on society's fringe. Some are recreational, filling sacks while hunting or hiking. Some teenagers do it at county fair time for pocket money.
Sue Studlar, a West Virginia University biologist who has studied the business, argues that overall, moss is "mined, rather than sustainably harvested." Large-scale removal can inadvertently damage other species, from ferns to salamanders.
The Monongahela National Forest banned mossing in 2001 until it could study the impact. Two years later, Studlar concluded that picking should be discouraged near limestone cliffs and wet areas, that no log or rock should be stripped bare, and that known "biodiversity hot spots" should be off-limits.
But "potentially, if you did it right," moss could be harvested without harming the ecosystem, Studlar says. It falls off in clumps naturally as it regenerates, and pickers could harvest those remnants.
Whether it's done sustainably or on the sly, there's little doubt mossing will continue.
Pat Muir, a botanist at Oregon State University, figures mossing was an $8.4 million to $33.7 million business in 2003, with anywhere from 4.2 million to 17 million pounds being harvested in the two dominant regions, Appalachia and the Pacific Northwest.
In the town of Rainelle, W.Va., moss hangs bark-side-up on wires strung across a 5-acre lot, drying in the sun.
"This is hillbilly laundry," jokes Tim Thomas, owner of Appalachian Root and Herb Co.
Moss accounts for 65 percent of all sales at this family business whose first client, some 33 years ago, was Cleveland Plant and Flower of Elyria, Ohio.
"The first year I was here, Dad dragged me through the woods on a daily basis, teaching me about the plants," Thomas says. "We were on roads no one had been on since Daniel Boone."
Today, he says he sells "a couple hundred thousand pounds" of moss a year, for sales of $750,000 to $1 million.
www.courierpress.com/ecp/community/article/0,1626,ECP_737_4165570,00.html
October 18, 2005
LOOKOUT, W.Va. - Deep in the forest, miles from anything resembling a town, even logging roads and rutted four-wheeler paths dissolve. That's when J.P. Anderson gears down his battered Suzuki Samurai, crashing up the side of a mountain with bone-rattling force.
"Hang on," he says, scanning the trees for gaps and snapping the smaller ones in his way. Eventually, the engine goes silent, and the vehicle comes to rest against a trunk 6 inches thick.
Anderson hops out and hikes downhill. Then he spots it: a long-fallen, rotting tree covered in a blanket of brilliant green moss some 2 inches thick and several feet long.
Quickly and gently, he rips up a long section of the living carpet and stuffs it into one of eight woven-plastic sacks he'll fill in an hour.
"They told me money don't grow on trees. They was lying to me," he says, grinning through his black beard. "I know better now. It grows on rocks, too."
Moss is the all-purpose sponge of the forest, storing water, releasing nutrients and housing tiny critters. But across Appalachia and in the Pacific Northwest, it's more than that. It's a way to make ends meet when jobs are few.
Picking is hard work on a hot day. Sweaty. Dirty. And it pays only about $5 a sack. But for 33-year-old Anderson, who lives simply as a single father to twin boys, the solitude and independence beat the construction jobs that often pay the bills.
What Anderson picks could end up in a floral arrangement or a craft project, maybe even on a movie set. Along the way, it will support more than a dozen jobs, from people who sort it, dry it and package it to those who ship and sell it.
But biologists, businessmen and pickers themselves say the good stuff is getting harder to find - and the
money harder to make.
Moss is not commercially grown, so buyers depend on the wilderness. Some state and national forests, though, have already banned harvesting, worried about what they are losing when moss leaves the ecosystem.
Among those banning harvesting is Hoosier National Forest based in Bedford, Ind., where spokesman Frank Lewis said there's always a chance someone could misidentify one of the forest's sensitive or protected plants as a moss. Those found taking moss out of the Hoosier could face a fine, he added.
However, the public can collect a number of items, such as mushrooms and leaves, for personal use. By contrast, at Shawnee National Forest in Southern Illinois, commercial harvesters of moss can apply for special-use permits, although spokeswoman Becky
Banker said approval isn't automatic.
The public can take small amounts of moss out of the general forest, just not designated wilderness areas, recreation areas, natural areas or within 200 feet of a road.
A less ethical picker will strip the logs bare, but Anderson and father James, who have witnessed the devastation of strip mining and clear-cut logging, always leave clumps behind to help the spore-driven plant regenerate. To thrive, it needs moisture, cool temperatures and shade.
How long that takes is a question that has some scientists and U.S. Forest Service officials wrestling with the regulation of this secretive industry, where there are plenty of opinions but few facts.
North Carolina's Pisgah and Nantahala national forests expect to ban moss collection Jan. 1 after studies there indicated a growback cycle "on the order of 15 to 20 years," says botanical specialist Gary Kauffman of the Forest Service.
That's twice as long as some veteran pickers and moss buyers think it takes.
Nationwide, it's hard to tell how many people make a living from moss. Most search out private land, where they go unnoticed and untracked by hunt clubs and logging companies.
Nor are all pickers alike. Some are chronically unemployed, living on society's fringe. Some are recreational, filling sacks while hunting or hiking. Some teenagers do it at county fair time for pocket money.
Sue Studlar, a West Virginia University biologist who has studied the business, argues that overall, moss is "mined, rather than sustainably harvested." Large-scale removal can inadvertently damage other species, from ferns to salamanders.
The Monongahela National Forest banned mossing in 2001 until it could study the impact. Two years later, Studlar concluded that picking should be discouraged near limestone cliffs and wet areas, that no log or rock should be stripped bare, and that known "biodiversity hot spots" should be off-limits.
But "potentially, if you did it right," moss could be harvested without harming the ecosystem, Studlar says. It falls off in clumps naturally as it regenerates, and pickers could harvest those remnants.
Whether it's done sustainably or on the sly, there's little doubt mossing will continue.
Pat Muir, a botanist at Oregon State University, figures mossing was an $8.4 million to $33.7 million business in 2003, with anywhere from 4.2 million to 17 million pounds being harvested in the two dominant regions, Appalachia and the Pacific Northwest.
In the town of Rainelle, W.Va., moss hangs bark-side-up on wires strung across a 5-acre lot, drying in the sun.
"This is hillbilly laundry," jokes Tim Thomas, owner of Appalachian Root and Herb Co.
Moss accounts for 65 percent of all sales at this family business whose first client, some 33 years ago, was Cleveland Plant and Flower of Elyria, Ohio.
"The first year I was here, Dad dragged me through the woods on a daily basis, teaching me about the plants," Thomas says. "We were on roads no one had been on since Daniel Boone."
Today, he says he sells "a couple hundred thousand pounds" of moss a year, for sales of $750,000 to $1 million.
www.courierpress.com/ecp/community/article/0,1626,ECP_737_4165570,00.html
