Maryland to become the latest to outlaw gathering of plant on state land after study reports rapid decline in numbers of plants

The long tradition of ginseng-hunting in the United States can be traced from Daniel Boone, the folk hero frontiersman, to Glenn Miller, a retired concrete inspector.

Ginseng, a medicinal herb, has become a hot energy-drink ingredient and a trendy remedy for all sorts of maladies. Miller, carrying his $2 ginseng-hunting permit, typically finds the leafy plant in Maryland's Savage River State Forest on steep, shady slopes and digs up the gnarly roots with a long screwdriver.

"Once in a while out there, you run into a bear," said Miller, who lives in Lonaconing, a tiny western Maryland town. "Last year, I ran into an old female, and two cubs walked up to me. That's always exciting. Of course, occasionally you run into a rattlesnake."

Hunting ginseng never made anyone filthy rich, but with the plant picked to near extinction in China, where it is long revered, and with Asians prizing American ginseng's calming properties, a pound (half a kilogram) of high-quality root can net hunters more than $1,000. Miller stores his annual ginseng revenue in an envelope in a safe place.

"A friend of mine once sold 10 pounds and put a gas furnace in his house," Miller said. "It's a nice hobby. It's part of the outdoor experience."

That experience in Maryland is about to change. Officials recently banned ginseng-hunting on state land after a study by Smithsonian scientists and an analysis of harvest records showed a dramatic drop in the number of plants. In 2010, the wild harvest of ginseng in Maryland netted 65kg, according to state figures. That's down from 103kg just 10 years before and 192kg in 1996.

In some places, including Montgomery and Baltimore counties, the plant appears to have been totally consumed. Western Maryland is the only place left to hunt, and even there, ginseng is more difficult to find, state officials say.

The story of ginseng's decline in Maryland – and it is hurting throughout the Mid-Atlantic and Northeast – is primarily one of economics and changing living patterns. China's hunger for American ginseng has led to overpicking in a state where urban sprawl has overrun land once rich with foliage. And a decline in game hunting has been good news for white-tailed deer, which enjoy snacking on the plant.

"Some of the prices for ginseng look now like the prices for illegal drugs," said Jonathan McKnight, the state's associate director for habitat conservation and the official who made the recommendation to ban ginseng hunting on state land. "But we have a declining population. I think the stuff is declining so rapidly that there weren't many years of traditional picking left."

Ginseng hunters are upset at McKnight. They will now have to dig on private land – if they can get permission.

"I know it's a tradition, and I hate to get in the way of it," said McKnight, who nevertheless knows he is, in his words, "the Ginseng Grinch."

During the past 30 years, hunting has evolved from a custom passed down through generations – families have secret honey holes whose locations are closely held secrets – to a global business connecting people deep in the woods to fast-talking brokers in New York, who move roots to buyers on the other side of the world.

"It may be the most interesting plant in the world," said James McGraw, a plant biologist and ginseng expert at West Virginia University.

"What other plant is desired by people on the other side of the world, that stimulates rural harvesters to go into the woods and know enough about botany to dig up a plant and sell it to an Asian buyer? It's a remarkable economy."

Ginseng harvesting begins on 1 September, when hunters go into the woods, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends, sometimes with grandchildren who have their very own $2 permits. They hunt for the plant: the stems are below knee-high with bright red berries in the middle.

With any luck, hunters find a few plants with roots resembling the shape of humans. Some Chinese buyers will pay a premium for such roots, believing that breaking off and eating a ginseng leg, for instance, will help heal leg ailments. Even without a human shape, American ginseng is coveted for its cool, calming qualities compared with the Chinese stuff.

When Miller gets lucky, he goes home and calls James Fazenbaker, one of a dozen or so registered dealers in the state. Fazenbaker, a retired forest ranger, will bring a scale to Miller's home, weigh the roots, pay him in cash and then find a broker in New York or a direct buyer in Asia.

Fazenbaker is not just a hunter and buyer. He uses the stuff in his tea. Asked what he does with the money, Fazenbaker said: "Gee whiz, it helps my hunting licence and it pays for guns and shells and fishing rods and clothing and shoes and anything to help you out as far as your income."

Only come this September, Fazenbaker, Miller and other hunters in the ginseng economy won't have state land to hunt on.

"There will be a great reduction in where we can go," said Miller, who has written letters to state officials bemoaning the recent decision. "You're talking about thousands and thousands of acres. If you don't have access to private grounds, you have nowhere to go."

Fazenbaker added: "Gee whiz, if you can't hunt it, you can't hunt it."

But ginseng can be grown, and the ban affecting state land could be good news for Maryland ginseng growers.

There are a few varieties of ginseng: the wild stuff, which hunters dig up in the middle of nowhere; there's cultivated, which is grown in raised beds, often in artificial shade. – Wisconsin, although known for cheese, is the largest cultivated ginseng producer in the country – and there's wild-simulated ginseng, which is planted in woods and left to the mercy of nature.

Wild ginseng fetches the highest prices because its gnarly roots are the most potent while the least gnarly, least potent cultivated brings the lowest prices. Wild-simulated ginseng can fetch prices as high as the truly wild variety, especially as wild ginseng becomes scarce.

Steve Galloway, pictured left, grows both wild-simulated and woods-cultivated ginseng on three hectares of rolling land behind his home on the rural outskirts of Frederick, Maryland. Galloway, a technical writer who writes manuals for air conditioners and humidifiers, became interested in ginseng after reading an article about the plant in Mother Earth News.

To keep deer away, Galloway has strung CDs around his property. The reflection apparently gives deer bad vibes about the path ahead. He comes home for lunch every day and checks his increasingly valuable plants, making sure no poachers are stealing them. He also sells ginseng that other hunters dig up. His company, Catoctin Mountain Botanicals, sells ginseng around the world.

"Most ginseng growers are infatuated by it," said Galloway, surveying his plants one recent evening with a walking stick in hand. "We tend to be obsessive-compulsive about it."

Another grower, Larry Harding, the proprietor of Harding's Wild Mountain Herbs in Western Maryland, raises wild-simulated ginseng on more than 20 hectares, making him a sort of ginseng kingpin.

Both growers realise that their bottom lines could benefit from the ban, but as part of a tightknit ginseng economy, they also realise that their operations could be beneficial to the wild plants.

"We can take some of the pressure off," Harding said. "We're the next best thing."

McKnight, the Ginseng Grinch, is hoping that's what happens. Otherwise, the next step could be a total ban on wild ginseng harvesting, which at least 15 states have done. Miller and other ginseng hunters fear that such a decision is near.

But officials hope that over time, with a ban in place on state land, the plant will recover, much as rockfish did in the Cheseapake Bay after a five-year moratorium on taking rockfish ended in the early 1990s.

"We really hope to be able to see a recovery on state lands," McKnight said.

By the time that happens, there might not be anyone left in the ginseng economy, which is populated primarily by a greying, older, non-smartphone-using population – people who like to get their hands dirty and experience nature while actually in nature. There aren't a lot of young people interested in ginseng, except to slurp up in an energy drink.

"The next generation isn't as interested as we are," Galloway said. "They aren't as interested in hunting. They'd rather sit behind their computer and play Atari. We're losing part of this culture."

This article appeared in the Guardian Weekly, which incorporates material from the Washington Post