The Unusual Sport of Rose Hunting

Looking for botanical gold treasures in graveyards, ghost towns and along old roads.

Poking around old graveyards is our favorite date. My husband goes looking for the oldest recorded death in the cemetery. I head to the back of the cemetery and start scouting around the perimeter for old forgotten roses.

Not being the most patient person and still waiting to experience the supposed drug-like scent that I hadn’t even the privilege of having known and then forgotten, I read a book by Thomas Christopher, In Search of Lost Roses, and decided to become a rose hunter. This was like looking for lost pirate treasure, only I was after heirloom smells.

The first old rose I found was growing within a mile from my house, and I literally walked over to the side of the road to ‘smell the roses.’ It was the smell I didn’t know I needed. The missing mystery essence. The smell of Persian perfume. The scent of ancient awareness. The fragrance of France, old castles and monastic gardens in the summer. What rose was this? I had no idea, and whatever research I could do didn’t help. It was a mystery that I was dying to solve. I joined the local Heritage rose group, where I was mentored by a sweet older lady named Judy, and went to some plant lectures I didn’t fully understand. My sweet new friend Judy came out to see my first roadside find and investigate. Damask? Bourbon? Hybrid? I figured with her pretty silver hair she would have all the wisdom. She did not, and assured me it can be very hard to tell. Well, that was a big letdown for identification. We did have some fun times in the greenhouse, where she showed me how to propagate from cuttings and brought some from her own roses to share.

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