Though the foreshadowing was thick, it seems sudden: the ground is frozen, the trees are bare, and the berries are shriveled. The earth withholds now. And this brings my meandering mind to the things I lack: my Christmas wish list.

From February to March, my calendar of Wild Offerings is full, but in this quiet, dead place, where we hope rejuvenation is churning beneath us, I think of all the things I will not write about, even in seasons of opulence, because they are not "mine".

I want you to know about them, though. If the opportunity arises for you to try them, I want you to seize it. And learn and eat until you are full, and brag to me about it later.

Among these, is the now reclusive, yet still famous Camas.

From the University of Idaho hails one Joy Mastroguiseppe, an encyclopedia of local, ancient Native American meals. Speaking at Neill Public Library in March 2006, at the invitation of the Palouse Prairie Foundation, she informed attendees that the stretch between Moscow and Pullman (now an enormous blacktop fit for a fleet of Jumbo Jets) was once prime and coveted Camas land. Highway 270 has since supplanted Camas's purple star blossoms and humongous bulbs; although there still seems to be a humble vestigial bloom tucked between two hills, visible at bicycle speeds, in April.

Ms. Mastroguiseppe's slides illuminated the extensive preparations of Camas, which involved a three-day lasagna-like layering of bulbs, leaves, and coals. The rumored result is a sweet, digestible starch, the backbone of Native American cuisine used for cakes and gravies.

Camas preparation appears to have been a mega-project requiring a tribe, which has also been superseded by the social equivalent of Highway 270. Women dug up the Daffodil-looking roots with sticks, sometimes competing for poundage to show off wifely prowess. It was a task to which the men would have brought bad luck according to Edible and Medicinal Plants of the Rockies by Linda Kershaw. The men apparently tended the large fire pits, smoldering the bulbs. Women would cause death in the family if they touched them. Common stereotypes would suggest that these pre-urban myths kept barbeque projects in the jurisdiction of men, and gathering a ladies-only affair. Which was probably a little sad for the men who wanted to dig and the women who wanted to smolder. But that's what this Wild & Free is about: unfulfilled dreams.

If the preparations alone weren't discouraging enough, there's also the pesky identification problem posed by its evil twin, Death Camas.

Lichens also are a Wild Edible draped across the branches of my dreams. The hairy locks dangling overhead are allegedly edible. Although the gag-texture of Big Foot sheddings may be too much for some, I simmer with curiosity about this ancient staple. When born of a tasty habitat, these hirsute plants were pit-steamed into cakes, added to soup and pulverized into bread flour (Kershaw). It could be gathered year round, dried for any occasion (perhaps Christmas or a birthday?), and was considered a survival necessity (Food Plants of Interior First Peoples by Nancy J. Turner). Whereas, expert Turner refers to only Black Tree Lichen, expert Kershaw notes imaginatively dubbed Speckled horsehair, Old-Man's beard, and Witches hair.

This wild, hairy food, remains locked in mystery to me, in part because Kershaw warns that lichens can be poisonous from area to area. She notes that the experienced taste small amounts before gathering. I suspect that my Westernized palate would be unable to discern a poisonous taste in something that is already incomprehensibly foreign to my tongue.

Although not dissatisfied, I dream of the earth's more esoteric provisions finding their way to my reverent mouth. Perhaps these foods, like tribal-living, make a better fantasy than a reality. But what are these long dark nights in cold, barren lands made for other than such dreams? Looking closely at each bare tree branch, I notice that even before winter sets in, the buds have found their places and are snuggled in for winter, dreaming of spring and opportunities for the adventures, which will someday, surely, be theirs.