Lobster mushrooms are having a moment, erupting quietly beneath the leaf litter. These furtive fungi are carefully concealed, for the most part, despite their flame-orange coloring and often hefty proportions. I am exploring a new spot, and a few bloated, dark red giants – now soft and covered in white mold – give away a dense and sprawling patch. I follow the fiery fruiting from a low-lying stream dominated by conifers, uphill for over a mile into an ecosystem favoring hardwoods.

Once tuned into lobster mind, every lump in the leaf litter becomes a potential gourmet wild mushroom. Some are enormous, but the best specimens are the size of my fist and display only a speck, if any, color until I kneel down and gently peel back a few leaves to reveal a chunky orange or red fruiting body.

While I have always been fascinated by the appearance and alchemy of the lobster (Hypomyces lactifluourum), which works parasitic wonders to transform its inedible hosts into an esteemed edible, it has never been one of my top tier favorite wild mushrooms. That list is reserved for a select few including porcini, maitake, umbrella polypore, chanterelles, hedgehogs, black trumpets, and morels. This season, however, one of the first summers I do not expect to make it to the coast for the cherished seasonal ritual of Maine lobster, I have newfound appreciation for our local, mycological crustacean.

I hold a gnarled, grotesque behemoth to my nose and inhale deeply, summoning the salty sea and sand. The smell cannot carry me all the way to the coast, but it may be as close as I can get for now, and it does capture an ephemeral forest funk and a terroir of rocky Green Mountain streams. Watching the brook flow past, I reflect upon movement and stillness, connection across distance. If I had to choose a place to sit, to be still for a moment in a turbulent time, I could not possibly have done better than right here.

Invigorated by a late October spell of wet, balmy weather, wild mushrooms are making unexpected late season appearances. In the last week, I have seen pristine wood blewits, elm oysters, late fall oysters, shaggy manes, and velvet foot mushrooms (enokitake). These are all hardy fall fruiters, but unusual to find going strong by Halloween in northern Vermont.

I must admit that I laid my basket and knife down too early this fall, hanging up my mushroom hunting hat a couple weeks ago in favor of a few last casts in the brook trout streams. Yet today, hiking with Jenna and Noemi on the lower slopes of Camel’s Hump, we saw two gourmet species that I was shocked to see fruiting so late, especially at a higher elevation.

First, I spotted three mature hedgehog mushrooms, fresh and plump, with long teeth covering their undersides. I rarely see fresh hedgehogs any later than early October in the region, and it felt auspicious to see an old friend once more before the winter.

But what we saw next was startling – a heat-loving mushroom that thrives in July and August, and which typically goes to bed by the time hen of the woods picks up in September.  Jenna spotted the signature deep yellow-orange hue of a golden chanterelle. This was not the chanterelle’s cold hardy relation the yellow-foot chanterelle, but a classic golden with rich orange autumnal coloring. Typically, even a heat wave in October would not be enough to summon summer chanterelles. Temperature and rainfall are important variables, but so is the date and timing.

My evidence may be too anecdotal to speculate that these late season finds were anything more than an aberration. That said, as mushroom hunters, part of the role we play is one of ecological awareness. With this awareness comes responsibility, and we can all contribute to citizen science by taking notes about the timing, patterns and abundance of wild mushroom flushes in our favorite patches each year.

It takes time to gather meaningful data, due to the highly seasonal, unpredictable and ephemeral nature of wild mushrooms. Still, it is important to understand whether wild mushroom fruiting habits are shifting in a changing climate and forest ecosystem.   

Golden chanterelles are on fire throughout the region, visible from a distance with their bright yellow caps. While all fresh chanterelles are delicious, our favorite patch yields dense, chunky specimens with a ghostly white – rather than yellow – stem and false-gilled underbelly. We call these firm and meaty culinary gems ‘white back’ chanterelles, though my hunch is they are Cantharellus phasmatis, first documented in 2013 at University of Wisconsin-La Crosse.

Incredibly, the same researchers discovered three new chanterelle species within twenty meters of each other, a reminder of how much remains unknown and ripe for exploration in the field of mycology.

We find our hefty white-back chanterelles (right), strictly under hardwoods. We find the related Cantharellus flavus more often – this golden enjoys the company of conifers and has yellow false gills and thin yellow stem. C. phasmatis is also distinguished by the fact that its flesh bruises brownish (see photo), and it has pinkish spores rather than yellow.

If you’re wondering what happened to the name Cantharellus cibarius, recent research established its range as being limited to Europe. Of course, this is just an example of variation within the classic “golden chanterelle” group – let alone the diversity present among related delights like yellow-foot chanterelles, cinnabar reds, smooths, and black trumpets!

Whether your chanterelles are yellow or white underneath, you won’t be disappointed by their flavor once they hit the buttered cast iron. Still, it is fascinating to explore the spectrum of textures and aromatic subtleties within the overarching, fruity and floral ‘chanterelle’ flavor profile.

Before you make a meal of any of these species, you must know the group’s forking, false gills like the back of your hand, and have the ID down with certainty. You should also be familiar with look-alikes, particularly the nasty Jack-o’-lantern. Enjoy the abundance, and stay safe out there!

Eliana didn’t miss a beat as I walked in the door, kicked off my boots, and slipped a small brown paper bag into the fridge. “Are those mushrooms? Did you find those in the woods?” She was onto me, leaving her post of helping mama stir shiitake and tofu to investigate.

Born at the end of morel season of 2014, she’s nearing her fifth birthday – old enough to have a refined palate and nostalgia for ephemeral forest flavors, but too young to have committed the ForageCast to memory. Still, she knew this May was a special time of year – and had noticed Papa’s eyes being stubbornly peeled to the forest floor on recent father-daughter outings. 

Truth is, this spring brought a delight even more poignant than morels – we welcomed her baby sister, Noemi Adela, to the world on May 16. Sweet and snuggly, she is a spring delight.  And yet, while having two daughters born in morel season is a beautiful thing, it doesn’t make for ample time to pursue those fickle fruits. While I’ve had more than my share of banner morel years, 2019 has not been one of them for this foraging father. Things were getting down to the wire – morel season ends in early June in Vermont – when I finally got a moment to myself and trudged off onto ash-laden slopes in the throes of a relentless rainstorm.

So, when I arrived home with paper bag in hand, squishy socks on my feet and a smile on my face, Eliana smelled a rare culinary opportunity. She stood on her highchair, yanked the bag out of its hiding spot in the fridge, and picked out two pristine yellow morels. She gazed at them as you might look at an old friend, one you had almost forgotten even existed, but whose presence summons the warmest feelings when your paths serendipitously cross again. I savored the moment, taking in this blossoming mycophile’s reverie.

There would be no waiting for Eliana, who had already jumped into action. A budding cook, she pulled her chair over to the stovetop and stood up tall as we sliced the morels into a dozen pieces and threw them onto a hot cast iron pan. We dry sautéed the mushrooms on a high heat to sweat off any moisture before adding a morsel of butter. If you’ve ever cooked morels, this is when the magic happens. Fresh, they are stunning visually but have an underwhelming fragrance. But as soon as those yellows hit the heat, they release an olfactory overload of gamey, umami goodness.

This is when I saw another lightbulb go off in Eliana’s head. “Oh, I remember what these mushrooms taste like,” she remarked, her young mind flooded with memories of morels she’d eaten in seasons past. “And what do they taste like?”, I asked rhetorically. Eliana offered as articulate a description of the morel’s ineffable flavor as I’ve heard in all my years of hunting: “Like mushrooms, mushroomy…like salt, and a little bit of butter”.

Then came the negotiation tactics. “Papa, you get two slices, Mama gets two, and I get the rest, OK?”, she implored. “No, Papa…you get one slice, Mama gets one, and I get the rest, because I love them so much,” she rescinded, realizing the first offer may have been a tad too generous.

As much as I love eating wild mushrooms, I derive just as much joy in sharing them with others, and this little girl was tugging at my heartstrings. Once the morels had been lightly browned, chewy and crispy at the same time, we scooped them out of the pan and I let Eliana plate them into three bowls. Needless to say, she got all the biggest and juiciest pieces, signaling her approval with a resounding “Mmm” chorus as she indulged.

Noemi, our newborn, may be in for some stiff competition once she’s ready to move beyond milk and try a morel for herself next May. Until then, Eliana is the family’s reigning morel queen.

Plump hedgehog mushrooms are fruiting at the forest’s edge, but there’s no time to stop for these gourmet edibles – Eliana has already scurried up the rocky path far ahead of us. “Pa! Waxy caps!”

While not edible, these brilliant, diminutive red mushrooms that evoke the realm of woodland sprites are a favorite find for our mycophilic daughter. But this is no time to slow down. By the time I’ve reached the waxy caps, Eliana is already on to the next find, which she confidently identifies – “Pigskin poison puffballs!”

It doesn’t take much to excite the kid, yet she keenly understands the stakes of our hunt and keeps her eyes on the prized culinary gems: “Pa, do you know what my favorite mushrooms are?” I don’t have time to wager a guess, for she has swiftly answered her own question. “Chanterelles, black trumpets, lobsters, and lion’s mane. Can we find some of those?”

Our party of three resumes the hunt, feeling poised and purposeful in the wet September woods, and soon we have found each of Eliana’s favorites except for lobsters. That’s quite all right, since a hearty catch of lobsters already awaits us in a paper bag back home in our refrigerator.

One find stands out – a pristine golden chanterelle beside a bubbling brook, that Eliana carefully plucked and affectionately coddled as we traipsed through the woods. When we got home Jenna cooked a medley of our finds in a light cream sauce with tortellini, and Eliana devoured the morsels of black trumpet, yellow foot, and lion’s mane before noticing she had not yet tasted that lone golden chanterelle. “Mama! Is my gold chanterelle in here?” she demanded.

Sure enough, it was right there on Papa’s plate, the false, forking gills and golden hue still visible. Relieved, Eliana grabbed her fork, reached across the table and dug in, claiming the mushroom that was rightfully hers – that she had harvested from the cool earth just hours before.  There is nobody who would have appreciated that forest-to-table chanterelle more, or with whom I would have preferred to share it.

Early September may be my favorite time to hunt mushrooms in New England, with stunning diversity and no shortage of surprises. There are still a few more weeks to get out and enjoy the fruits of fall, as each crisp night finds new species joining the autumn entourage. We hope you are savoring the season.

No matter how many morels one has found, the first find of the season is always a revelation. I’m making a pilgrimage to an old favorite ramp patch, following a trickling streambed up a craggy hillside of hickory, yellow birch, ash and beech. It still feels early for morels in northern Vermont’s hills and I’ve learned to pace myself, saving the epic hunts for peak conditions. But with the sweet smell of springtime in the air and the temperature pushing 80, I can’t help but slow down beneath a hefty ash tree that somehow feels just right for Morchella.

My instincts do not let me down. The familiar feeling of disbelief and awe hits me as I spot an unmistakable black, honeycombed pattern just barely poking up above the leaf litter. I bend down to find a pristine pair of black morels, humble creatures of the earth that somehow never fail to capture a certain timeless reverie and glee.

I am alone in the woods, pondering what would have been the 60^th birthday of my mother, who passed away in 2013. The early morel find cuts through everything, and suddenly every inch of the forest floor bursts open with potential and wild richness, a transformed interior and exterior landscape. It’s an ineffable feeling every seasoned hunter knows, and any new mycophile can experience for themselves with enough patience and prudence. When the morels find you, all you can do is graciously accept the gift, harvesting humbly and returning the delight in an act of reciprocity.

That is what I did, picking one and sharing it among the three of us that evening. By sharing, I mean our almost four-year-old Eliana pretty much ate the whole thing, Jenna got a tiny bite, and this papa was left to soak up the morel-infused butter in the cast iron pan!

Now that my eyes are on, morels are everywhere. I even spotted two yellows curbside in Montpelier today as I walked over to pick up my car from an oil change. I prefer my morels to be growing in a forest rather than along a freeway, but these coveted mushrooms can be found just about anywhere. Of course, that does not mean finding them will be easy. Morel hunting is hard work – more than any other species, it can demand profound patience and practice, and an intuitive sense of ecological patterns and landscape that can take thousands of hours in the woods to develop.

Still, even for new hunters, there’s always the chance of a serendipitous surprise. With the temperature, timing and moisture finally just right throughout New England, now is the time to try your luck!

Northeastern ForageCast for the month of May

Gary Lincoff, legendary mushroom expert, naturalist, writer, teacher, and radiant spirit, passed away on Friday morning. He will be deeply missed. I never had the chance to meet Gary, but his work left a lasting impression on me and instilled an enduring sense of wonder for the mycological world. When I was all of ten, his Audubon guide caught my eye in a bookstore display, and I begged my mom to buy it for me. She reluctantly obliged, and that became the bible that I took on countless hunts and used to identify my first hen of the woods as a child.

Lincoff’s later work The Complete Mushroom Hunter is even more accessible and full of colorful, candid stories. But my wrinkled, field-tested Audubon guide will forever be the book that sparked my passion and awakened me to the vast, enigmatic world of wild mushrooms. Thank you, Gary, for your prodigious contributions to the wild world of mushroom hunting, and for sharing your knowledge so graciously with the next generation. It is work like yours, finding the pulse and abundance of the wild even in the heart of New York City, that breaks down boundaries and brings us closer to nature.

It’s nearly dusk and I am bushwhacking up a steep hillside of mixed conifers, punctuated by ancient oaks. The oaks that stabilize these craggy slopes are survivors – spared widespread logging not due to conservation but to convenience, the prohibitive price of hauling hardwood out a ravine.

One elder oak invites me to sit down and rest my spine against its sturdy trunk as I gaze down at the sloping forest floor and catch my breath. Sometimes the hunter sees more by slowing down. A sliver of sunlight catches the rich, rosy hue of a collection of brightly colored mushrooms, so I leave my pack by the oak and stumble downhill to investigate.

Soon I have harvested a handful of fragrant cinnabar red chanterelles, more elusive and exotic than their celebrated golden relatives. Cinnabars tend to be small and can be good hiders despite their brilliant red coloring, and I wonder if I am just scraping the surface of a bigger flush. In the dimming daylight I carefully massage the duff, pulling back a clump of decaying pine needles and oak leaves to find several new cinnabars stretching up from the ground. More and more cinnabars begin popping into view – most too young to harvest – but my hunter instincts keep me surveying the scope of the patch and planning a return later in the week.

Crawling around under a darkening sky, well aware that it’s time to head back uphill to reclaim the pack I’d left by the oak, I notice an odd buzzing sound. I look at the soil, just inches from my face, and see a few massive earthworms wriggling around nervously. I wonder if the wriggling of these behemoths is creating the buzzing sound, but I’ve never known earthworms to be very vociferous creatures.

I clumsily uproot a small cinnabar I did not intend to harvest, and as I lament my overzealous twilight hunting I hear the buzzing noise escalate.I look down and notice it is originating from my hand. A bee! I feel a sharp pain as the stinger sinks into the pad of my forefinger and, recalling the time my father was swarmed after sitting on a rotting log, I take off sprinting. I could hear more buzzing and envisioned a fiery swarm on my tail, and I bolted back up to my backpack and out of the woods, now dark. When I ran out of breath and looked back, I found not one bee had followed me. And why would they have? The bees were quite content to return to their duties protecting the cinnabar patch.

Baby chanterelle bursting from the forest floor.

With wild strawberry and spearmint on my tongue, and chanterelles on my mind, I walk past the sun-splashed frog pond and into a dark glade of spruce. I’m back in familiar territory, having recently returned to northern Vermont after a stint in the southern Green Mountains.

I have not forgotten my spots, and it seems the chanterelles haven’t forgotten me, either. Dozens of flakes of gold, no bigger than fingernails, stud the soil like a fine necklace. Just where I expected them to be, the chanterelles cut through time and welcome me back home. With my chanterelle eyes on, I wander into a beech and maple grove and discover another dozen hearty new chanterelles. They’ll need at least another week to mature – chanterelles take their time.

The woods don’t need a calendar to know we’re safely into the sweet hours of summer. Warm soils and relentless rain have created prime conditions for summer porcini and early golden chanterelles. Meanwhile, oysters and reishi are ready for harvest throughout the region.

Chicken of the woods and giant puffballs have made early and impressive showings, but it’s not just edibles that enjoy the warm rains. Poisonous fly agarics and deadly destroying angels are back, too – bold reminders of the vital imperative of safe, prudent and ethical wildcrafting.

Northeastern ForageCast for the next two weeks!

Our first morel find of 2017 – pictured is one of two chubby yellow morels we spotted yesterday morning in downtown Burlington, VT.

The season’s first morels, even if growing in highly questionable soil in downtown Burlington, always are a true sight to behold. Jenna, right out the passenger seat window as we were parking, spotted two plump yellow morels on woodchips among dog-doo and debris.

We gazed out the window at the majestic morels, knowing we would not eat these urban fruits but that their presence was a sign of a delightful season to come. Morels have burst into season with gusto, with Vermont flushes reported from Barre to Burlington to the Northeast Kingdom. In higher spots or mountain areas throughout New England you should not expect good flushes for another couple weeks. But in warmer microclimates, even up through New Hampshire and Maine, we’re again reaching the season when we foragers begin our pursuit of the elusive and exquisite morel.

Of course, it’s not just one species of morel we’re looking for – yellows and blacks are equally delicious, and rare and diminutive half-frees are tasty, too. Michael Kuo and collaborators describe 19 DNA-distinct species of North American morels in their 2012 study, an impressive number of outstanding morel variations. Region of harvest is an important factor in keying out morphologically similar morel specimens. It makes the wildcrafter wonder about terroir and flavor, and the need for further studies (sign me up!) exploring the taste of the myriad species and sub-subspecies of gourmet wild mushrooms in North American forests.

But don’t forget – diversity of false morels is also phenomenal. As a rule, do not eat false morels, or any “morel” which does not have a completely hollow, contiguous cavity from tip to tail. The Verpa and Gyromitra false morels may be most likely to confuse foragers – neither has the signature hollow cavity of a true morel.

The stakes are high, but morels are unbelievably good and maddeningly fun to find. True morels are distinctive once you find them in the field with an expert forager and master a few key ID characteristics including the hollow stem. And if you’re ever in doubt, morels are one mushroom any forager would be happy to take off your hands for you!