Mountain Mushroom Treasure Trove
Yellow foot chanterelles, also referred to as winter chanterelles
My quads are burning, and my left knee is giving out from the climb. But with a season-defining harvest of Craterellus tubaeformis and Hydnum umbillicatum pressed close to my chest, I feel no pain. The yellow foot chanterelles and hedgehogs – freshly plucked in the alpine air and still cold to the touch – are pristine and unblemished, a gift from the well of autumn’s abundance.
Encountering this ruggedly resilient patch, tens of thousands of dainty mushrooms flourishing on a mossy mountainside, is less a find than a revelation. What begins as a modest collection of yellow foot chanterelles becomes a lush carpet. I follow as the carpet becomes a well-adorned necklace of earth toned jewels that weaves its way through the rolling landscape. Soon the necklace has unfurled into a tapestry, each lacy band of winter chanterelles flanked by fiery orange revelers with toothy bellies and dimpled caps just barely poking above the emerald moss. With the hedgehogs as sentinels, the tapestry becomes a quilted dreamscape, an elegantly edible ecosystem that stretches further than my legs could carry me.
And yet it is the quality, even more than the quantity, that I find most stunning. These dainty mushrooms are perfect in form and function, an exquisite manifestation of Green Mountain terroir. In this endless patch, for a fleeting moment time stands still. Each fruit is an architectural wonder, seemingly beyond the reach of rot or the inevitable onset of winter. The hardy winter chanterelles and hedgehogs seem to genuinely enjoy each other’s company.
I harvest sparingly and selectively, taking as much pleasure in the fruiting bodies I leave in the ground as in those I carry with me. These delicate species can be abundant, but are not heavy like lion’s mane or chicken of the woods; it takes patience to fill a paper bag with a few pounds. That is more than enough to share with family and friends, deliver a gift to a favorite Burlington restauranteur, and hopefully have enough left to sauté and freeze for leaner times. The vast majority stays put in the soil, humble and innumerable.
It’s nearly October, and maitake is on my mind. I have my eyes on a baby hen that is slowly fattening up at the base of a favorite red oak. Indeed, Grifola frondosa has a short season and may be the one mushroom I could eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But the indelible glory of this yellowfoot and hedgehog treasure trove will linger in my thoughts and dreams, long after frost has fallen upon the hills.
