Day 283: By and large, mushroom hunters are secretive people who defend their favourite locations with a wall of silence. Many of us prefer to go out alone, and some (myself included) have been known to lay a false trail by parking well away from the most productive spots and then hoofing it overland through terrain which might deter any local who happened to recognize our vehicles. Occasionally, though, we are moved to include a trusted friend in our pursuits, but only after a thorough vetting. I was introduced to a particularly productive patch of chanterelles by my fishing buddy's brother-in-law Eddie. The three of us picked it for a number of years until the bridge washed out, cutting off the only feasible access. When Uncle Eddie passed away, his mushroom basket came to me and although I now use it to hold wool when I'm spinning (preferring to keep my fungi hidden in a bag in my pack), its golden sheen is enhanced by a varnish of memories from the time I spent with Eddie and Sande in the woods. After the bridge was rebuilt, our chanterelle spot was found by commercial pickers as was my alternate location and, within a mere pair of years, they had depleted the sites beyond any hope of recovery. By then, however, I'd found another spot and had been judiciously picking my "one fry-up and a bowl of soup" in a manner which left the mycelium healthy.
Before he retired from his job as the Park's Plant Ecologist, my dear friend Arnie asked me if I'd take him 'shrooming. There would have been no person in whom I could have placed a greater trust, so I agreed. We gathered just enough chanterelles for our two households to have a meal apiece, leaving behind the buttons and older fruiting bodies to continue the cycle. Arnie moved to southern Oregon the following spring, and we've stayed in touch, sharing our botanical discoveries regularly. Yesterday, I received a gift from him: a luxuriously soft bamboo-viscose/cotton t-shirt imprinted with (you guessed it!) two gorgeous chanterelles.
