I spot a single porcini and veer off-trail on impulse, following the narrow spine of a coniferous ridge along an undefined path blazed by deer. The landscape is steep and unforgiving, and the fungi dwindle as I hit higher and drier ground. Wild turkeys disperse into the trees as I reach the crest of the hill, feeling duped and sidetracked by the lone porcini.

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.  

Our family of four is back in a familiar hardwood forest, adrift in a sea of ramps. While we expected early season conditions, we have found the patch in peak form, with dense clumps of enormous, glossy leaves. Eliana, who has recently acquired a taste for this exquisitely wild Allium, carefully picks a selection of leaves for her basket. Little Noemi – now a hiker in her own right – holds a pungent ramp specimen to her nose, a curious look on her face.