Coral fungus juts skyward from the forest floor, sentinels at the gateway to the woods. Little thin fingers crawl out of the blanket of fallen leaves, like winter-white antlers, at the base of redwood trees. As they mature, they begin to yellow, indicating the possible age of the other fungi you may find. Their presence promises that more mushrooms are around if you dare to search within.
In terms of wild and cultivated foods and seasons, this time of year is just as fruitful as any pulsating summer garden if you know where to look. Knowing where to look brings both bounty and battle - as it happens, a lot of people know where to look, and that can be a very disappointing reality when scouring beneath the trees for mushrooms, only to be tricked by discarded orange peels (to the eager eye, they sometimes look like golden chanterelles from a distance), tramping over snapped branches, and finding discarded mushroom ends from hunters who beat you to it. It’s a painful sight to see toadstools kicked over out of curiosity and lack of reverence. A simple touch beneath the cap of a mushroom can often tell you what you want to know; I call it mushroom braille. Feeling for gills, pores, or teeth means that many mushrooms can fulfill their life’s cycle instead of being prematurely uprooted, dismissed, and cast aside. I sigh and shake my head, and scuffle along over the fallen pine needles, eyes directed downward.
For the last two years, the mushrooms in this area have been reluctant to grow due to serious lack of rainfall. The last couple of seasons were so fruitless, that only the very dedicated foragers claimed to have had good yields. They must have also had plentiful time on their hands. This year, however, they “practically jump into the car with you,” as the woman issuing picking permits put it. Almost all of the mushrooms I’ve picked this year have been within a short distance from the road. In a new area, or “spot”, I found a pound in under forty minutes. That’s impressive to me, but perhaps not to some, especially knowing that much more efficient picking is possible given these conditions.
At the end of the day, victory is often celebrated in a remote location with a couple of cold beers and some time to eye the haul. Clothes and boots are caked in mud in various shades of brown, and pine needles have ended up in the deepest threads of your garments and beyond. There are sticks and leaves in your hair, you are hungry (of course you brought beer but no food), a bit cold, and you are loving every moment of it. Even if mushrooms were scant, the day was still spent walking in the forest, which can’t exactly be filed away as a loss. If mushrooms were abundant, you are slightly daunted by the thought of what to do with all of them. You will soon likely have a full dehydrator and some very happy friends. Even better, you may have sparkly-eyed chefs willing to trade or pay you for your gettings. It’s an all around winner of a way to spend a day off, no matter which way you cut it.
The car’s windows fog up with moisture from the cool, damp mushrooms in the back seat. It smells like apricots, tree sap, and spice. The aroma from freshly picked mushrooms is heady, complex, and deeply alluring. It coats the olfactory and when I fully breathe in the fragrance, I temporarily lose consciousness, eyes fluttering. After they’ve been refrigerated, although they keep remarkably well, that fragrance dissipates. It is a treat to savor it after a long day of picking.
The season will last until the end of winter, when the yields dwindle to the likes of a few yellowfoots, dry hedgehogs, and a black trumpet or two. Then, wait patiently for autumn, for rain and sun. Trips to the forest will result in dry silence until then, save for the crackling footsteps over softly laden dry leaves. Wait then to see the coral, that modest harbinger of heavy baskets of exquisite and desirable mushrooms, for which you would happily wait all year, because you will, and you must.
In terms of wild and cultivated foods and seasons, this time of year is just as fruitful as any pulsating summer garden if you know where to look. Knowing where to look brings both bounty and battle - as it happens, a lot of people know where to look, and that can be a very disappointing reality when scouring beneath the trees for mushrooms, only to be tricked by discarded orange peels (to the eager eye, they sometimes look like golden chanterelles from a distance), tramping over snapped branches, and finding discarded mushroom ends from hunters who beat you to it. It’s a painful sight to see toadstools kicked over out of curiosity and lack of reverence. A simple touch beneath the cap of a mushroom can often tell you what you want to know; I call it mushroom braille. Feeling for gills, pores, or teeth means that many mushrooms can fulfill their life’s cycle instead of being prematurely uprooted, dismissed, and cast aside. I sigh and shake my head, and scuffle along over the fallen pine needles, eyes directed downward.
For the last two years, the mushrooms in this area have been reluctant to grow due to serious lack of rainfall. The last couple of seasons were so fruitless, that only the very dedicated foragers claimed to have had good yields. They must have also had plentiful time on their hands. This year, however, they “practically jump into the car with you,” as the woman issuing picking permits put it. Almost all of the mushrooms I’ve picked this year have been within a short distance from the road. In a new area, or “spot”, I found a pound in under forty minutes. That’s impressive to me, but perhaps not to some, especially knowing that much more efficient picking is possible given these conditions.
At the end of the day, victory is often celebrated in a remote location with a couple of cold beers and some time to eye the haul. Clothes and boots are caked in mud in various shades of brown, and pine needles have ended up in the deepest threads of your garments and beyond. There are sticks and leaves in your hair, you are hungry (of course you brought beer but no food), a bit cold, and you are loving every moment of it. Even if mushrooms were scant, the day was still spent walking in the forest, which can’t exactly be filed away as a loss. If mushrooms were abundant, you are slightly daunted by the thought of what to do with all of them. You will soon likely have a full dehydrator and some very happy friends. Even better, you may have sparkly-eyed chefs willing to trade or pay you for your gettings. It’s an all around winner of a way to spend a day off, no matter which way you cut it.
The car’s windows fog up with moisture from the cool, damp mushrooms in the back seat. It smells like apricots, tree sap, and spice. The aroma from freshly picked mushrooms is heady, complex, and deeply alluring. It coats the olfactory and when I fully breathe in the fragrance, I temporarily lose consciousness, eyes fluttering. After they’ve been refrigerated, although they keep remarkably well, that fragrance dissipates. It is a treat to savor it after a long day of picking.
The season will last until the end of winter, when the yields dwindle to the likes of a few yellowfoots, dry hedgehogs, and a black trumpet or two. Then, wait patiently for autumn, for rain and sun. Trips to the forest will result in dry silence until then, save for the crackling footsteps over softly laden dry leaves. Wait then to see the coral, that modest harbinger of heavy baskets of exquisite and desirable mushrooms, for which you would happily wait all year, because you will, and you must.