Foraging Wild Mushrooms: How My Obsession Began

Strobilomyces sp.

Old Man of the Woods

Introduction

A professor, colleague and friend suggested I write about my recent obsession foraging wild mushrooms.  It is September in the Northeast U.S., it rained two days ago, and it is 80+ degrees Fahrenheit today. In other words, the conditions are excellent for foraging.  If my friend had not asked me to write, I’d be in the woods… right now…. looking.

Be that as it may: I began to write and I did not resist when the Muse took control of my pen. The result is a four part essay tumbling through non-mushroom memories wholly relevant and formative to my foraging obsession. 

I begin at the beginning.

PART ONE

A Bracket Fungus:  

See the flat surfaces? Those are the surfaces from which spores fall; they form facing down to get a gravity assist. This picture suggests the mushroom grew a long time on an upright tree that fell over. And, while the tree’s life ended, the mushroom adapted and kept growing. 

Like fungi, children are adaptable too.

Part One: My Childhood

I was born in the 1950s and, from age 10ish ’til I-don’t-remember, I played with the kids on my block most every day; the block was a quarter mile circle of homes nestled among other blocks that comprised a post WWII middle class track-home development. Mine was carved out of a potato field. I also recall feeling I was different than my friends. But with hindsight, I believe my friends all felt they were different too. After all, growing-up is a process of evolving self-awareness.  This awareness naturally leads to comparisons and judging oneself against others and the realization that each of us is different: taller, shorter, faster, smarter, richer, poorer… ad infinitum. Thus the seeds are also sown for feelings of inferiority or superiority.  Like snowflakes, we are all different; but unlike snowflakes, we judge.  That said…

In backyards we played Dodge Ball, Freeze Tag, Red Light Green Light, Soccer and Football (flag and tackle)

In streets we played stickball, half-ball, I-Declare-War, Kick-the-Can, and Hide & Seek (Hide & Seek was played after dinner until well into the night; a lamppost served as a beacon in the darkness as well as home-base for moths and kids.)

In random locations we had crabapple fights, road bikes to fishing holes, and, during heavy rains, sailed sticks down the “streams” created where the black-top road met the concrete curb. Our imaginary boats raced and tumbled in the runoff and disappeared down dank sewers.

While running, hiding, throwing and the like, my eyes often turned to the sky to watch birds in flight. (As I said, I was different.) I liked playing with friends (mostly), but wanted to hike in the woods and go camping (not ‘go to Camp’ which I considered a nightmare scenario).

One last thing about growing up: Like so many of us, I did not like school and, thus, for me, with little effort nor vision for my future, I was able to achieve grades of B’s and A’s, and, in high school, added extra curricular activities. For example: four years of varsity tennis, prom committees, theater crew, American Field Service, Key Club, and the like.  (When I listed my activities for my senior yearbook, the editor removed several because she didn’t believe I did what I claimed.  In truth, I was active and invisible.)

What does this have to do with foraging mushrooms? I’ll get to that.  But, first, Part Two.

PART TWO

Gymnopilus luteus

A beautiful mushroom growing in the woodlands of the Northeast U.S.  It contains the mind expanding chemicals psilocybin and psilocin. 

Like some fungi, teachers expand minds too.

Part Two: Teachers

I already mentioned I did not like school.  That changed in college and, as The Muse would have it, I am compelled to offer short tributes to the professors who instilled in me a passion for learning, nature study and, thus, my recent interest in wild mushrooms. 

Dr. Norman Reynolds, SUNY Cortland. He taught Bio 201, the required  Biology Major introductory class in Botany.  I took his class the first semester of my freshman year and I became excited about botany and learning in general. (He and his entire family were killed by a drunk driver before the start of my sophomore year.)

Dr. Eugene Walbauer, SUNY Cortland. He taught Plant Taxonomy. A gentle soul: quiet, understated, always attentive to students, kind, and an excellent botanist and teacher. (After reviewing my herbarium sheet collection of 50 plants, he returned 49, removing the sheet upon which Cannabis sativa had been mounted. I collected the plant growing near my dorm.)

Dr. Cook, SUNY Cortland. He taught mammalogy.  Feared by most students… I suspect that’s why he had no first name… he was scarred, petite, muscled and gnarly.  Gruff, gray, and unapproachable until approached, and then his heart-of-gold was revealed. (He softened to me with a smile when I came to class reeking from skunk; I had found a road kill and prepared it for a study skin & skull project.  Dr. Cook got cancer and I believe his scientific mind studied the phenomenon with dispassion.)

Dr. John Gustafson, SUNY Cortland. Chair of the Biology Department. I never enrolled in his classes.  I did, however, attend them and was in awe of his knowledge of birds, reptiles, amphibians, vascular and non vascular plants, et cetera. He knew everything. (On field trips, and out of the blue, he would gather the class around him and recite Robert Frost poetry; the pause from science coupled with Frost’s words always added meaning to the moment.)

Doug Wade, Northern Illinois University. A student of Aldo Leopold (one of the great minds of the early years of forestry and conservation); Doug was a prairie restorationist, genius, and... John Gustafson’s professor. (While John was a student at Dartmouth College, Robert Frost was the Poet-in-Residence and Doug the Naturalist-in-Residence.) Doug knew everything. And more. And while I could tell countless stories about him (like how, with his wife Dot, they built their home out of indigenous stone and nestled it in a Illinois prairie they had restored, or that he had a hot & cold running waterfall as the bathroom shower, or that, at any moment, he recited Frost poems) suffice it to say that Doug smoked Swisher Sweets and, after lighting his stogie, he started many prairie fires by accidentally dropping a lit match onto a tinder pile. Coincidentally,  I was often there with a galvanized steel Fire Pump filled with five gallons of water strapped to my back. Prairies need fire to thrive and with every puff of wind they sing Doug’s name in praise.

There are, of course, many more teachers who shaped my life and should be in this dedication… but I’ll stop.  

But why did I offer a dedication to these professors in an essay about foraging mushrooms?  Simply put, they passed their passion for nature to me. (Plus, I think it is important not to forget the good teachers in our lives.)

PART THREE

The Wood Ear

Is Nature listening to us? Are we listening to Nature?

Part Three: Nature Study

While a passion for nature can take many forms, here’s what it looked like for me: 

I sat for hours with field guides, and scoured and memorized the pictures of birds, trees, flowering plants, nonflowering plants, amphibians and reptiles, insects, geology and the like.   If there was a field guide, I consumed it.  

I immersed myself in nature when I could and my time with books enabled me to recognize birds, trees and more, the first time I saw them in the wild.   (In my mind’s-eye, I could see the page in the field guides where they were described.)

Passion sears moments into memory and, to this day, I recall many first times: For example: The first time I saw:

• Woodcocks doing their ritual mating flight was in Hoxie’s Gorge, Cortland, NY, 1973.  (If I close my eyes I can smell the damp field where they ‘displayed’ and hear their distinctive call -peent- and whirring flight that launched them like a rocket into the sky.)
• Indigo Buntings, sitting on the ground in a recently harvested corn field outside of Cortland, NY, 1974.  (They looked like bits of turquoise scattered on the ground.)
• Black Skimmers, majestically dipping their beaks into the waters of New York Harbor at Gateway National Recreation Area, 1976. (Beautiful and odd looking birds.)

I could go on with my mania: My first great horned owl, screech owl, crossbill, & ruby crowned kinglet; my first nibble of such plants as Jack-in-the-Pulpit and Indian Cucumber; and my first glimpse of prairie plants like little blue stem, big blue stem, and compass-flower.  All deserve a mention, but I’ll stop. Suffice it to say, however, these plants and animals were then and remain my friends.

But not mushrooms.  I feared mushrooms.

I feared mushrooms because of the stories I was told by my parents, friends and teachers.  “Don’t touch them. They are poisonous. They can kill you.”

Thus, my relationship with mushrooms was poisoned and I avoided them. After all, they were forbidden; they were dangerous.

PART FOUR

Amanita muscaria var Guessowii

Considered poisonous by some, edible by others (when prepared properly), and having hallucinogenic affects for mind-expansion by all, though care is required.

Beautiful. Forbidden. Dangerous. Mysterious. Mystical. Delicious.

Part Four: My Obsession

Of course, forbidden, dangerous things have attraction. 

I don’t know precisely when it happened but, sometime after I retired from careers that began in outdoor education and ended in higher education, I was hiking and my eyes were drawn to a red-capped mushroom poking out of the forest leaf litter; it was luminous, dotted with yellowish speckles, magical.  I’d seen it before on the covers of children’s books and, in particular, Alice in Wonderland. (You know the one.) I stopped and looked closely.  It was beautiful.  That brief encounter put my obsession in motion.  I bought mushroom field guides and immersed myself in study as I had done so many years ago.  (The mushroom was Amanita muscaria and it is hallucinogenic or poisonous, or, if prepared properly, edible.  Confussing, I know.)

Why My Obsession?: When thinking about my obsession, I return to the idea that forbidden things have attraction.  And while that is true for mushrooms, other words come to mind as well.  Words like: Beautiful.  Mysterious. Delicious. Medicinal.

Mushrooms are also serendipitous; by that I mean, unlike members of the plant kingdom that grow obviously (apples grow on apple trees and you can see apple trees), mushrooms are not plants and seem to pop-up out of the ground… as if by magic… and, to the untrained mind, you never know where or when they will appear.

Additionally, mushrooms also have social capital.

Tell someone you’re interested in edible wild plants and they say: “Like what?” And you say, “raspberries,’ and they say “I like raspberries.”  

You say “ramps,” the sought after wild onion, they say: “That sounds delicious!”  

You say “sumac” and they say “What’s that?  I’ve heard of poison sumac.” Then you say… “Well, they really can’t be confused with each other.  The fruit of Stag Horn Sumac (or similar varieties) can be made into a delicious, tart red spice that is used a lot in mid-east cooking.” You know they hear ‘blah blah blah’, are stuck on poison sumac… and think you are doing something reckless.

You say “ wild mushrooms” and they say “Oh! You better be careful. They’re dangerous. You don’t want to get poisoned.”

Truth-be-told: There are very few deadly mushrooms (though there are some and they are very very dangerous).  So you explain that fact, but their eyes glaze over… so you stop explaining and bask in their admiration for your foolhardy, self-destructive interest. (Foraging wild mushrooms is akin to driving a Harley.)

Two more things: 

• First: Hunting wild mushrooms encourages mindfulness.  When I am foraging, I am tuned into the environment. I attend to the sights, sounds and smells; I am aware of shade and sun, temperature and moisture, and, in these moments, my busy mind lets go of past and future concerns.  I am simply where I am.  Hunting mushrooms.  
• Second: Foraging wild mushrooms is fun and puts delicious food on the table.  (Win/Win.)

I know there is more to explain and, in Chapter 2, I will.  But, the Muse has abandoned me so I’m going for a walk.  Who knows what I will find.

10/21

MSS