Autumn's Quest

As late autumn rains begin in earnest, they take hold of the Pacific Northwest where I live. I notice the start of annual soaking and am aware my mood has suddenly turned giddy. Fall down-pours, which at times cause tire grooves on Hwy 22 to become misplaced rivers. Together with impatient little waterfalls springing from mountainsides along the highway, they burst across the asphalt racing alongside the rain-rivers. They are forgotten perils we Oregon drivers encounter annually. Yet my mood remains buoyant and optimistic.

 Summer’s dusty crust of dirt clots quickly as the falling moisture transforms landscapes into familiar soggy over-ripeness each fall. Dirt becomes mud in the blink of an eye. Again.

I remain lighthearted knowing full well the time is almost upon me. Waves of anticipation hover around me. I know what simmers in the forest, growing quietly, creeping upward, nearing the required eruption to allow discovery. A secret I won’t allow my mind to record as anything but my secret alone.

Clouds grow fuller and darker with each passing day and roll steadily inland from the coast. As they jam up against Cascade Mountain foothills, they stall and unload their fodder over us. Not always in a steady pounding rain but, at the very least, a consistent daily wet. Watching from the porch, my mood remains bright and cheerful. I wait for the next required piece of the puzzle knowing it will be soon.

Within days sunshine reappears and our wait is almost over. After so much rain, a few days’ worth of sunshine is needed. Our quest requires several days of sunshine for looting to be successful. Break-outs begin. I can almost hear it. I look to the hills surrounding our house and smile. “We are coming.”

Outfitting for battle, I don a quilted rain-resistant winter jacket, snuggly tie Snowy Creek boots on my feet, place a pocket knife deep inside my jeans pocket, top my head with a knit cap pulled low over ears and hang an empty denim pouch around my neck. I am ready. No gloves; never gloves; they hamper the harvest.

Next, a brief drive to our secret spot. Arriving ten minutes later, I find my husband and I are alone, which further fuels my belief that it really is our secret spot. Delighting in the timbered silence we’ve dared to interrupt, I breathe in air filled with heavy forest musk knowing that rotting is taking place. The day is perfect. Stubborn rain drops still attached to tree leaves drop as they are jostled by our movement and melt into the new/old carpet of rich slime on the trail. Slick layers of birth, death and rebirth under my feet as I slog along. These are old forests. As I tramp along, I strain to hear its’ ancient tales, knowing mine will someday be among the songs of leaf rustling or the melodies of the wind as it gusts its’ way through treetops high above the forest floor.

 Vision is limited as we navigate our way through a blanket of earth-bound clouds. I shiver with damp expectancy. I am lured onward. We are close. We are determined and well educated about our target. 

Thin sunshine scrambles through a small break in the clouds heating up the air just around us, giving minor afternoon warmth. Autumn sun takes aim from its low position in the southern sky, slinging arrows of sunbeams through the timber, one hitting its mark, a tree to my left. The tree alights with smoke; vapor from sudden unexpected heat as moist outer bark is dried by a bolt of sunlight. Vapor that all too quickly dissolves back into chilly mist.

Chirping birds and small animals harmonize a perfect forest tune. Their song alerts anyone who cares to know, of our approach. We are noticed. Squirrels chitter about our intrusion and run ahead from tree branch to tree branch alerting those who hadn’t seen us. Overhead, a formation of Canadian geese begins squawking loudly; trying, it seems, to divert our attention from the task at hand. “Go back. Go back,” they seem to cry. Nothing will veer us away from our search. We are laser focused. 

We seek our treasure, deeper into forest shadows, eyes darting here and there. Stepping off trail onto spongy moss covered earth, plunging ever further into the wet foliage.

Always deeper into the shadows. Time passes. Eyesight focused closely on the ground ahead, my son’s voice echoes in my head. “Mom, watch your steps. Scan the forest after you stop walking.” I’ve fallen a lot these last few years but choose to ignore his warning. I continue walking and searching, tempting roots to snag my boot tips or rocks to twist an ankle. All my senses keen to uncover secreted treasures.

 Ears catch the slight trickle of a hidden creek. Faint and far away, I follow the sound and locate its source. I am close. I check the base of near-by trees, scanning hard for eruptions in the topsoil. My heart races; hammering away in my chest. I am barely breathing as I reach a likely spot. There! Dig there! Using my fingers to gently move layers of tree needles, damp earth and moss I uncover the orange top of this much sought after jewel. Once found others are located very near; some fully grown, fully exposed, no longer camouflaged, and wearing only the sheerest hats of moist pine needles they become easy prey.

Chanterelle mushrooms tend to grow in groups; sprouting only during dark, rainy fall when specific conditions are optimal. Rain, sun, and rich rotted underbrush together are all necessary to produce these flavorful fungi. Each fall we pillage woodlands around us knowing we will savor the bounty deep into winter when snow and sleet hold us hostage indoors.

Using my pocket knife to cut the base rather than yank the whole mushroom from the ground, I help ensure next years’ crop, next years’ quest.

Finally my pouch fills with delicious reward. I smile, thanking the forest for all it provides. I come away wet, cold and content as I whisper to the trees, “Can you keep a secret?”