Chaga Hunting Around McGinnis Creek: A Very Cold, Very Canadian Adventure

Let me start by saying that looking for chaga in March in northwestern Ontario is the kind of activity that sounds majestic and romantic right up until your snowshoe slips on a half-buried spruce root and you faceplant into the side of a birch tree. With your backpack on. And a thermos full of now slightly leaking tea pressing into your kidney. But hey, I did say I was going to be more adventurous this year—and unlike the time I tried to ferment garlic and accidentally invented a bio-weapon, this trip actually turned out alright.

So, yes. I went looking for chaga. Specifically, I headed out toward McGinnis Creek. If you’re not familiar, McGinnis Creek is the kind of place that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into a postcard. Snow-covered trees, winding water, just enough animal tracks to keep things interesting, and not a soul in sight. Unless you count the ravens that kept following me around like the forest’s very own neighborhood watch.

I don’t usually go chaga hunting alone, but I’d been itching to get out, and everyone else I knew was either working or using the weather as an excuse. It was only -12°C and not even that windy. Practically tropical. So I layered up, grabbed my saw, my snowshoes, a thermos of strong tea, and of course, my Forager’s Notebook (yes, that’s a shameless plug, and no, I’m not sorry).

Now, if you’re new to this whole wild-foraging thing and wondering what in the frozen heck a “chaga” even is, let me explain. Chaga is a fungus that grows mostly on birch trees and looks like a chunk of black charcoal sticking out of the bark. Not the most glamorous fungus, I’ll admit. But slice it open, and inside is this golden-orange treasure that’s been used in traditional medicine for centuries. People brew it into tea, grind it into powder, or make tinctures from it. Me? I just wanted a few decent chunks for tea and bragging rights.

I parked the truck where the logging road starts to get more “don’t even think about it” than drivable and strapped on my snowshoes. Snow was deep but crusty enough that I only fell through every fourth or fifth step. Classic late-winter nonsense. I followed an old trail I remembered from the fall, winding my way through mixed bush with a fair number of birch trees—mostly paper birch and the occasional yellow birch hiding among the poplar and spruce.

Every time I spotted a birch, I slowed down and eyeballed it like a suspicious raccoon checking out a trash can. No chaga. No chaga. Woodpecker hole. Weird lichen that kind of looked like chaga from the side but wasn’t. More no chaga. It’s a bit like mushroom hunting in that way—there’s a rhythm to it, a back-and-forth between hope and disappointment, followed occasionally by a triumphant “YES” yelled at full volume into the silent woods. Sorry, ravens.

About an hour in, just when I was starting to second-guess whether this was worth it or whether I should just go home and make spruce tip jelly (from frozen tips, because obviously the trees aren’t budding yet), I saw it. A big, burly birch with what looked like a burnt chunk of wood protruding from halfway up the trunk. Real chaga. Not “kinda chaga if you squint.” Not “tree burl that’s messing with you.” Honest-to-goodness, gold-inside, pitch-black, medicinal-grade chaga.

It’s not a magic potion, despite what some folks on the internet will claim. But it’s earthy, calming, and deeply satisfying to sip something you found with your own two (now very sore) legs.

-Kevin

Now, here’s the thing: getting chaga off a tree is not always graceful. This one was about seven feet up, which doesn’t sound bad unless you’re 5’10” on snowshoes in two feet of snow trying to balance a saw while nature decides now’s the time to drop snow off a nearby spruce branch and blind you. I managed, though. I braced myself against the tree, used the saw carefully, and coaxed the chunk off without doing damage to the tree or myself.

The piece came off with that satisfying “crack” that foragers know and love. I turned it over in my hands, admiring the golden interior, and immediately jotted a note in my notebook: “McGinnis Creek area. East-facing birch. About 1.5km in. Big healthy chunk. Return in 2-3 years to check for regrowth.” Yes, I really do write that stuff down. No, I don’t always remember where I left the notebook afterward.

Feeling encouraged, I kept going. That’s the thing with chaga: once you find one, your eyes kind of lock into a mode where suddenly you’re seeing possible chunks everywhere. Some were false alarms. Some were too high up or on unhealthy trees, so I left them. (Ethical harvesting, folks—don’t be a jerk to the forest.) But I ended up with three good-sized chunks by the end of the trip, plus a smaller one I almost stepped on that had already detached from its host. Free sample!

By that point, I was a good ways in and figured it was time for a break. I picked a spot near the creek—frozen solid and covered in snow, of course, but still beautiful—and set myself down on a log. Poured out the last of my tea, chewed on a piece of smoked moose jerky (thanks, freezer stash), and just... listened.

There’s something about being out in the bush alone that’s hard to describe. It’s not quiet, exactly. There are creaks and cracks, birds calling, wind rustling the trees. But it’s a different kind of noise. One that doesn’t demand anything from you. You just get to exist in it. I probably sat there for 20 minutes doing absolutely nothing and loving every second.

Eventually, the sun started to dip a bit lower, and I figured I should head back. I marked a few promising birches on the way with my GPS, just in case they decide to sprout chaga in the next few years. And yes, I talked to a squirrel that chattered at me from a branch. No, I don’t remember what I said, but I’m pretty sure I won the argument.

Back at the truck, I tossed the day’s haul into a crate and peeled off a few sweaty layers. My legs felt like jelly, my thermos was empty, and my fingers were just starting to lose that feeling of “attached to a warm-blooded human.” But I was grinning like an idiot.

Chaga hunting isn’t fast food. It’s not something you can just dash out and grab. It takes time, patience, and a certain willingness to trudge through deep snow and talk to trees. But when you do find it, it feels like the forest is letting you in on a secret. And that’s worth every awkward snowshoe tumble.

I got home, smashed the chaga into chunks, set it aside to dry, and brewed myself a fresh cup of tea from the dried chaga I had left over. It’s not a magic potion, despite what some folks on the internet will claim. But it’s earthy, calming, and deeply satisfying to sip something you found with your own two (now very sore) legs.

If you’ve never gone chaga hunting, I highly recommend it. Just make sure you know what you’re looking for, harvest responsibly, and for the love of pine needles, wear layers you can take off. Because one minute you’re freezing, and the next you’re overheating like a baked potato in a parka.

I’ll definitely head back to McGinnis Creek again before the snow’s gone. There’s more out there, I can feel it. Or maybe that’s just the muscle strain. Either way, it was the kind of day that reminded me why I started this homesteading, foraging, slightly ridiculous lifestyle in the first place.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to soak my legs and figure out what to do with three pounds of medicinal fungus. I’m thinking tea, tinctures, and maybe a few gifts for friends. Because nothing says “I appreciate you” like a jar of mysterious black chunks with a handwritten label.

Until next time, happy foraging—and keep your eyes on the birch trees.

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