A little frantic about things like books, the woods, music, plants and the seasons

Close your eyes and become a mountain.

Ask her what she craved, and she'd get a little frantic about things like books, the woods, music. Plants and the seasons. Also freedom. - Charles Frazier, Nightwoods

It all started, I reckon, with a cloth sack we spontaneously fashioned out of the old gray t-shirt Cory was wearing when we stumbled upon a clump of pale golden orange Chanterelle mushrooms glowing like sunset along the side of the road.

Summer, 2017. Cory and I walked along a dirt road that stretched like a dirty white ribbon ahead of us, carving a path through the middle of Bald Eagle State Forest, located smack dab in the middle of the big rectangle that is Pennsylvania.

He stopped short and pulled me aside to point out a cluster of what, had I seen them, would have mistaken for a summer flower blooming in the weeds bordering the old road. A lot of them. More than we could fit in the t-shirt sack. “These are a delicacy,” Cory, who once upon a time earned a degree in Recreation and Parks Management from Penn State, explained. “We could probably sell these to a chef at a restaurant for a pretty good chunk of change. We won’t. But we could.”

I was delighted. Expensive delicacies featured in the world’s finest restaurants just sitting right here along a dusty road in the Pennsylvania woods? Love it. Let’s take them home and cook them tonight!

We carefully plucked each one, using our fingernails as pincers to separate them from their stems, taking care to leave enough of a stem that they could quickly grow back, and nestled them in our t-shirt sack as delicately as if we were collecting eggs from our chickens.

I pressed my face to their soft, fleshy forms and inhaled. They smelled like a beautiful hippie goddess who has emerged from her hidden cabin in the woods where she spends her days gardening and canning fruits and vegetables. Layered and earthy, cool with a hint of fruit, like apricots.

Foraging is as old as the human race. Obviously, I was familiar with it in some capacity. At the very least, like everyone, I was well aware that there is food in the woods for picking. I just hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought other than ruminating on captivating passages from favorite childhood books like the Little House on the Prairie series that detailed Ma making jam from berries freshly picked by Mary and Laura.

For much of history, before organized agriculture, early humans depended on what they could find in their environment. They hunted and fished and foraged for berries, nuts, roots, and greens. Albeit an accidental, measly effort, I felt pleased to be continuing the human hunt for forest food that day.

As we walked back to our vehicle, Cory talked about other gourmet mushrooms that grow in our area. Fungi like the Black Trumpet, with a cap that looks like one of those antique Victor Victrola phonographs people used to crank to play records; Coral mushrooms that look exactly like the kind of thing you see growing on the ocean floor; Puffball mushrooms that feel and look like giant balls of tofu, and of course, Morels.

Then there are plants like ramps (wild leeks), Fiddlehead ferns, and even dandelions that are tasty when boiled to eliminate the bitter taste and then sautéed with olive oil or butter, garlic, and a sprinkle of salt and pepper. Dandelion pasta, anyone?

Eating plants that grow of their own accord appeals to my pioneer, prepper, food storage, apocalypse-is-imminent Mormon heritage. I was enchanted by the accidental discovery of the flowery, orange mushrooms and asked Cory what else he knew about foraging.

He warned that mushroom foraging is a tricky business - eating the wrong kind can mean illness and even death - so beginners, like us, definitely want to stick strictly with what they know. Mushroom discussion forums abound with tales of painful illness and even death, usually featuring the accidental ingestion of a deadly mushroom species, Amanita, also known as “Death Angel” or “Destroying Angel.”

Later. After stopping to fill our coffee cups with wineberries and raspberries glowing among the greenery like Christmas lights, the Chanterelle treasure trove safely in the back seat, Cory stopped the car in the middle of the country road we were slowly rolling over.

Wordless and shirtless, he hopped out and began picking black-eyed Susans, orange lilies, and purple-blue chicory he would soon present to me with gentle eyes and a shy grin so I could fill the giant mason jar sitting atop the kitchen table he built me from old barn wood he also scavenged from the side of the road.

In the passenger seat, dirty bare feet resting on the dash, I watched him in the rear-view mirror as he loped through weeds and wildflowers, pausing periodically to thoughtfully add to his bouquet. I popped the berries into my mouth one at a time to make them last longer and thought strange things about them.

Raspberries; nature's finest jewelry, I declared aloud to no one as I studied the dozens of delicate caviar-like pouches of juice that comprise a single raspberry. It looked like a precious stone bauble that might adorn the wrinkled hand of an aging, wealthy socialite. Strawberries hog the berry spotlight most of the time, but raspberries have always been my favorite. A strawberry can be cloying, the sweet, good girl of the berry world, all straightlaced and churching. The raspberry is her sassy cousin from the big city. Zingy. Church? Girl, please. We goin' clubbin’.

We brought the Chanterelles home and sauteed them in butter with a sprinkling of salt and pepper, put them over a handful of fresh spinach then had berries and cream for dessert. I was blown away by how much more flavorful the Chanterelles are than regular mushrooms from the grocery store. We dried the remaining mushrooms in a dehydrator and stored them in glass jars for later use.

I was hooked.

Dehydrating chanterelles

The Chanterelle discovery led to more research which resulted in years of walks and crawls through the woods in search of the various mushrooms that can be found in Pennsylvania.

For a stretch of time, we found ourselves glued to hours-long sessions watching the YouTube page of Chris & Cathy, a retired, mild-mannered, nature-loving couple from the Midwest who are full-time RVers making off-the-grid videos that could pass for SNL or Portlandia sketches. We couldn’t get enough of them. An excerpt from their website reads:

“We can the food we gather like muskrats, deer, grouse, rabbits, squirrels, cattails, mushrooms, jams & jellies & anything else you can find in the wild. We love to metal detect mostly for fur trade & archaic copper, but I won't turn down a nice silver ring lost out in the desert of Arizona. We sell our crafts at flea markets, craft shows & farmers’ markets. We make a lot if not all our crafts from the woods.”

“Hi, this is Chris…” He’d start each video staring earnestly into the camera. “And Cathy,” she’d pipe in from behind the camera like they were performing a much-rehearsed outgoing couples message on an answering machine. Teach us your wilderness ways, Chris & Cathy. Show us how to make tea from a chaga mushroom or pine needles. The gentle, always calm, nature-lovin’ parents I never had.

Over the years Cory and I have discovered all the best places in our area for the various edible mushrooms you can find in Pennsylvania. In addition to Chanterelles, we find Oyster mushrooms, Coral, Black Trumpet, Chicken of the Woods, Puffballs, Morels, and even a variety called Old Man of the Woods that, when sauteed, tastes almost like you’re eating steak.

Black Trumpets

Puffball mushroom

Oyster mushrooms

Chanterelles, Coral and Black Trumpets

They’re all delicious but Morels are my favorite. They’re the hardest to find and the tastiest to eat. Lightly sauteed with butter, salt, and pepper, a bit of garlic if that’s your thing, laying on a bed of spinach or potatoes.

So freshly picked, and so mouth-wateringly flavorful, you don’t have to do much between plucking it from the earth and putting it on your plate for it to taste incredible. Nutty, earthy, peppery, chewy. Add them to scrambled eggs, toast, salads, pasta, or pizza

Morels

Morels and Chanterelles

Morel mushroom pizza

It has become a yearly ritual to head out every weekend in May to tramp around our secret Morel spot. Most Morel hunters have their own secret spots, locations that they guard until death. As forager Spencer Neuharth writes, “I’ve had strangers offer up pins for where to find roosted turkeys and spawning walleye, but rarely do foragers volunteer Morel mushroom spots. Like a good family recipe or secret bait, a lot of Morel honey holes go to the grave with whoever found them.”

Secret location, crawling around with a knife on the forest floor beneath a lush canopy of greenery, scanning for a mushroom identical in color to the dirt it grows from is always an adventure. Like a scavenger hunt that, if won, yields many delicious dinners.

A rough start to the year resulted in me drinking too much while staring through shit TV as anxiety relentlessly snarled at me like a mean dog straining at his leash. Beer and bad TV helped dull the stress, pain, and rage over the court documents and eventual court orders relating to my unfortunate co-parenting relationship that arrived in my mailbox.

Getting outside to mushroom hunt this May felt like returning to the comfortable arms of an old lover.

Oh, hello.

I forgot this could feel so good.

We always enter the woods together but Cory and I quickly go our own ways based on our separate observations of tree species, plants, and greenery. Morels grow on the edges of wooded areas, especially around Oak, Elm, Ash, and Aspen trees. I always look for dead or dying trees because Morels tend to pop up near them. I immediately spot a massive Maple, its rough bark peeling away from a skin-smooth trunk like a woman undressing and start heading that way.

As I’m searching, I feel wholly absorbed into wood life. I lose time and, blessedly, forget myself. Monica, the partner, mother, employee, and ex-wife ceases to exist. I become an awareness. Energy in the forest. I walk as quietly as possible so I don’t disrupt animals or birds. Stepping gently through trees, their limbs reaching toward each other across barely detectable deer trails, branches mingling like the entwined fingers of lovers. Overhead, a cerulean sky winks between a patchwork of leaves forming an emerald canopy. Like an old West movie come to life, the iconic predatory cry of a Red-tailed Hawk echoes distantly as it soars somewhere above the trees.

I walk through a small field of Garlic Mustard. Leafy, green stems topped with lacy white flowers that look like snowflakes have just fallen. The fragrance of damp honeysuckle after a dewy morning envelops me, like walking into the bathroom after a woman has just washed her hair.

Tree branches creak like haunted houses as a breeze blows through and then a sound like pattering rainfall as leaves and blossoms pelt the ground. Hickory nuts litter the ground, appearing to me as though a pig is attempting to snort its way from the depths of dirt back to air, snout first.

Inevitably, I think of snakes and the day darkens subtly like clouds moving in front of the sun. Every curvy stick becomes a snake slithering at me. I whirl in terror at sticks or plants that scratch my calves and pick my way around an enormous tree that has tipped over, thick roots exploding from the earth like a skeleton clawing out of a grave.

I walk slowly forward and constantly scan the ground around me, chuckling to myself over the wrinkled walnuts that always remind me of shriveled ball sacks, a notion that works wonders on one’s humor when trying to rid an Ophidiophobic brain of snake thoughts.

Depending on where they’re growing, Morels can be easy to miss. You can be looking right at one or two or a whole patch of them and not realize it. Kind of like those digital pictures that contain a 3D image that eventually comes into focus if you relax and slightly cross your eyes? You’re staring at a wooded scene and slowly, like stage actors stepping from shadow to spotlight, the Morels come into focus.

It’s always an exciting, victorious moment when I spot a Morel or hear Cory’s whistle indicating a find. Sometimes, when we find Morels, we don’t tell each other because it’s exciting to meet up after an hour alone and see what the other person has discovered. Other times, a find is too exciting not to share so we whistle or do silly bird calls to draw each other’s attention.

As I search I sometimes have to step around or through the remnants of nighttime partiers. Charred wood indicating a recent fire or crushed beer cans and glass bottles glinting in the filtered sunlight. I crouch down and study a couple of spent shotgun shells lying dead in the grass like used fireworks. A bee hums near my ear as I study the plastic red hulls with brass ends that remind me of red lipstick tubes. I like to look at all the items left behind and, like a detective arriving at a crime scene, try to figure out who was here, how long ago, and what they were up to.

Teens escaping prying parent eyes? Hunters after more than mushrooms? I’m from a state where huntin’ and fishin’ is more lifestyle than hobby. A quick look at your male Tinder choices if you happen to find yourself assessing dating options while in Utah will reveal profiles showcasing at least one but probably more photos in which they’re posing with a shocked fish yanked from water or crouched next to the hulking body of a just-killed buck, holding its lolling head aloft by once-regal antlers, in triumphant victory.

Growing up I was secretly disgusted by the hunters, horrified by the dead animals who, after their murders, were splayed carelessly across the beds of pick-up trucks. The carcasses would hang in garages awaiting cleaning, eventually forced to endure the ultimate indignity; facing eternity as taxidermied trophies hanging on someone’s wood-paneled wall next to a goddamned plastic singing fish.

In the woods, whenever I stumble onto the aging, sun-bleached bones of a deer I pause in quiet respect and, hoping it wasn’t the result of a gunshot, wonder what its last moments were like.

A good death probably, I think. A dignified death.

If the bones haven’t been disturbed and are basically intact, I can conjure an image of what went down. The deer was lying here beneath this tree, its head tucked over there under this bush, its spine right here. I imagine fringed eyelids slowly closing and opening over limpid, brown eyes as breaths get farther apart. The Red-tailed Hawk shrieks in the distance, an airplane sounding close and far at the same time drones overhead. Breaths come slower now. The wind rustles in the trees, and the deer’s eyes track a single yellowing leaf that flutters to the ground near its head. The animal’s brain thinks its last thoughts now. Maybe it remembers nursing from its mother, bounding across green fields, lying beneath bushes with other deer. Birds twitter to each other, a squirrel scampers up the trunk of the tree under which the deer decided to die. Millipedes and ants bustle busily inches from the deer’s face as it imperceptibly sighs its last breath.

In the distance, I can hear Cory’s quiet footfalls as he lives out his own adventure. Feeling slightly sad yet grateful to be alive I go to him. Eventually, there will be sex under the green canopy of leaves, bird chirps and twitters sounding like applause as we finish. When we walk away, Cory will point out the “dirt angel” we’ve left behind in the ground. Imprints of our frenzied movements celebrating life spelled out in the dead leaves and dirt.

How many people have had sex here, I wonder. In these woods. I think about all the people over the years who have passed through this exact area and what their lives were like. Their perspective of life and the earth. I think about that kind of thing a lot. The era we’re in and how it’s all we’ll ever know, this microcopic perspective of life in the grand scheme of millions of years of existence on earth. All we will ever know is this tiny slice of perspective straddling the twentieth century into the 21st century. A quick blip of a few years and gone.

I think about what life was like for people alive throughout all the years before my existence and how many layers and levels modern man keeps building between himself and nature. Man vs. nature instead of man among nature. Are more levels between man and nature an improvement? Are we better for the internet? Worse? What is progress? When is progress actually regress? And oh my god ChatGPT is freaking me out did we learn nothing from multiple Terminator movies and TV shows?

I realize I lost my glasses and we backtrack to the dirt angel to see if I left them there. We spend a while kicking the dirt angel around, overturning leaves and peering closely in the grass but cannot find them. In lieu of anger, we spend several minutes riffing on a fantasy that some industrious young squirrel will discover them and use the lenses as windows for his penthouse tree condo in the sky.

Farewell, glasses. It’s onto a new adventure for you.

Farewell, sweet deer. A new adventure awaits you, too.

I think of all the beautiful people that orbit my universe, their existences all over the earth winking at me like satellites moving across the night sky. Family, friends, acquaintances, and you, dear reader. All of you are stars forming constellations in the vast skies of my universe. Sometimes I don’t see you or talk to you but I know you’re there. Maybe we only exchanged a few emails or DMs or you left a comment here once but whether our connection was for a minute, a month, years, or a lifetime, we are now characters in each other’s stories and hopefully better people for it.

I know this much is true: All we have and will ever have are these connections we’re making with each other and the earth. It’s a miracle any of this exists at all. I feel so much love and gratitude for the simple fact of living on this planet that it hurts sometimes.

Humans are terrible and beautiful. Yin and Yang. You cannot have one without the other. And so, in all our terrible beauty, I love us. Our good parts and the bad. The pain, anger, and shame. We’re all trying so hard. Yet we’re all so hard on each other and especially ourselves.

I think of how I’d like to die when my time arrives. Fuck a coffin. Embalming someone and putting them in an expensive, varnished coffin to prolong the inevitable? What a stupid idea, a coffin. Another, final, manmade layer between us and nature.

Like the deer, I want to find an alcove in the woods. Maybe at the base of a centuries-old tree, ivy adorning its trunk, moss fuzzing its thick roots that snake visibly across the dirt, leaves fluttering in the breeze and whispering the secrets of the universe to me as I fade from existence.

Instead of moldering in a coffin, my body decaying right into the earth. Instead of cremation, my fleshy fingers clutching handfuls of rich dirt, quietly dissolving into the loamy forest soil beneath a tree-sky patchwork.

One future day, my mystery bones will spell out my long-ago presence in these woods where I hunted mushrooms, fucked, and breathed my last breaths; eyes opening and closing against the blue-green canopy as the spectacular sun waves a lingering goodbye across my body.

Later, the mitochondria in my cells mingle with the mitochondria and the subterranean networks of fungi communicating throughout the forest floor. Threadlike fungi fused with tree roots, welcoming my cells aboard.

The social life of the forest takes control of what’s left of me, spreading into the mushrooms, the trees, their fruit, and into the animals who fill hungry bellies with us.

Me, nowhere.

And everywhere.

Artist: Dan Deacon. Song: Become a Mountain. Album: Mystic Familiar

Photos: Monica/Cory

Note: I’m truly blown away by the response to paid subscriptions. Initially, I felt embarrassed to go that route, telling myself that the writing is somehow more meaningful if I just put it out in the world without money tied to it in any way but am so glad I went through with it. This may sound so extra, or whatever, but I feel you all supporting me and lifting me up throughout my days. Some of you have been with me for nearly two decades. It’s unfathomable to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart.