Black Trumpets Beneath the Beech Trees
Beneath the beech trees, I am following a vein of black trumpets as it snakes up a craggy hillside. These mossy slopes – rocky loam interspersed with cliffs and boulders – are prime trumpet territory. As I navigate low-hanging branches, I pause to admire the rich duff that has formed a plush saddle at the base of two elephantine beech trunks. The organic matter here is so soft and deep, I fear I could fall through and sink straight into the mycological underworld.
Craterellus foetidus (left) and Craterellus fallax (right); Yellowfoot chanterelle in background (also in the Craterellus genus)
The landscape has laid out a trail of trumpets, and I follow instinctively, feeling thunderous jolts of adrenaline as I discover each new fruiting of unblemished beauties. Even a thick, unyielding spiderweb to the face does not dampen my reverie as the true scale of the patch begins to reveal itself. I’m lucky enough to find two distinct (and equally delicious) types of trumpet today – Craterellus fallax, with a smooth underside; and Craterellus foetidus, with clearly defined, veiny wrinkles underneath.
This sprawling spot is new to me, which doubles my delight. While golden chanterelles can be spotted from far away, one could easily walk right past a black trumpet patch without any awareness of the camouflaged bounty below. Black trumpets are not exactly rare, but these hidden treasures should not be taken for granted. Ecology, timing and awareness are critical, making a reliable patch hard to find.
I’ve been lucky enough to encounter several memorable patches throughout the years, places where the picking could be almost unbearably good. These patches are etched deeply into the architecture of my mind, as astonishing and indelible as my most bountiful morel memories.
One particular patch, from my early mushroom hunting days near Ithaca, stands out as the undeniable winner when it comes to sheer density and ease of picking. In that singular spot, I stumbled upon a flat beech forest packed so tightly with trumpets, they seemed to define the texture of the entire forest floor over endless acres. I left that patch behind when we moved to Vermont a decade ago, but perhaps one day I will return to find it just as I left it, in its peak July glory.
Today, my new spot is not a thick carpet – it is a series of subtle, intricately woven strands, punctuated by explosions of black trumpets that keep me bursting with anticipation as I crane my neck around each new promising corner. I pick just enough to delight my daughters, leaving the vast majority in the ground, as I make a mental note of this patch for next year.
Back at home, we feast upon black trumpet pizzas and share stories of a day enriched by mushrooms flushing and Eliana’s pet monarchs hatching, released into the wind. When the forest is this full, so am I – enriched by abundance, acutely aware of each step upon the rocky trail.
