| Mushrooming - Over There, Way Yonder and Here "And whatever you do, make sure you step on its head and not on its tail!" With these words of warning from our local guide our threesome set off into the woods with some alarm and great hopes of filling our baskets with delicious fungi. Of course the words weren't in reference to some magical mushroom of mysterious powers but instead related to an unhoped-for encounter with the seriously poisonous local snake, the European adder. We would have to be watchful to avoid it and wild boar for us to succeed at our goal. Getting to this location called for the services of FINNAIR from Toronto to Helsinki. There was enough time before the hop to Riga, Latvia, to revisit downtown for some dockside souvenirs, an oh-so-tasty dill-marinated crayfish for a snack and my own personal search for Leningrad Cowboy memorabilia. Besides cell phone and computer programming technology, I'm convinced this band is one of Finland's great gifts to the world in musical performance and film. Alas, I was thwarted in my quest for the great prize of their outrageous wig (and received looks of disgust from several shopkeepers that I would seek such a trashy reminder instead of, say, something by Sibelius). I had picked up a magazine and on the plane chuckled on this joke about their earlier national character: Matti and Jukka went to spend a weekend at the summer cottage. They were equipped with several bottles of vodka and a few cases of beer. Friday and Saturday passed in companionable silence. The men drank and drank without saying a word. On Sunday morning, however, Jukka broke the silence. "Is it time for another drink?" Matti stared at Jukka as in disbelief and answered gruffly, "Have we come here to drink or to talk?" I had a couple days in nifty medieval and Jugendstil Riga to recover from the always-draining flight east. As ugly communist era buildings crumble, restoration slowly continues with neglected good architecture. Modern buildings are sprouting, more colour is evident and vitality is filling the air. The once ubiquitous species Automobilis Sovietkus Lada has been placed on the endangered list and its cousins, Zaparozhets and Moskovich, are pretty much extinct. Hurray for Darwinism! Mushrooming, very much a national passion, had been good that summer. We were expecting even better into less populated countryside a couple hours east near Madona, a modern town that sprang up with the railroad. Located in moraine highlands with lots of pretty lakes and bogs, it's the kind of place they hold car rallies and has the highest point in the land at over 300 meters. When my friend Andris and I met his brother John, who lives in this area, our hopes were confirmed. We'd forget about all the other good rooms and concentrate on harvesting only the King Bolete, there called a baravica. The King, as you would expect from its name, is one of the most prized edible varieties. It was towards dusk when we entered the woods. It's very impressive to wander around and see the floor completely peppered with such a great variety of fungi. Dozens every square meter or so in places. I found the first King and yelped with glee. Beginners luck for these parts but my Mom had stories of her being able to identify some 150 varieties when she roamed for treasure in places nearby in the 20's and 30's. Old pastures in Lambton County would give her pleasure here in Canada. Dusk lingers at latitudes half ways up Hudson's Bay and so by the time we emerged we had easily filled a couple gallon pails. A bit of fishing was followed by a wood-fired country sauna, replete with boughs of birch and nettles for this wonderful and typically weekend ritual. Marinated boletes prepared earlier, incredibly flavourful and seemingly steak-like in texture, provided sustenance between sweats and swatting and dives into the lake. This is properly done in a cycle of 3 rounds to get the desired temporary red blotches on your hide. Sleep comes very easily after such cleansing. We came to visit several different spots the next morning. The woods are very different from what I'm used to around here. They were musical that day. I heard a constant chorus of unfamiliar very pleasing birdsong. This backdrop was occasionally pierced with clucking and whooping inferring something much larger. Loud, raspy, deep-throated croaking indicated ravens nearby. The floor can be carpet-like with soft sphagnum mosses or conifer needles. Elsewhere are thickets of low bushes yielding sweet blueberries and others and even cranberries were starting to show some colour. In amongst all this and the leaf litter and decaying logs you find what you've come to seek, but they can certainly hide from the most experienced eyes. Of every 10 found, John would get 5 and Andris better than 3. With my amazement at his skill, John offered that over the years he had developed a feel, he could sense they were nearby. The places couldn't be too wet or too dry, too sunny or too shady. Tromping the woods for some 20 years certainly helps you find the spots where they reappear consistently. And if they're not where they're expected, it's because somebody else has got there before you. As an indication of his love for this activity, he showed us where he went to the effort to transplant some dirt years earlier that had this particular mycelium and now he had a large blaze of chanterelles for his culinary pleasure. Although I brought up the rear in gathering skill, I had my moments of great satisfaction too. Not that I considered it a contest, but a rank was definitely established. I did hear complaints that I've picked them right out from underneath my friend's nose as we walked the same path, me trailing behind as he had walked right past them. Worst for me was when a chap's driving along the roadway we're following, stops his old Mercedes, gets out and spots a beauty I've missed. He's wearing a grin from ear to ear and with eye contact I can only offer a wry smile and a thumb up as he drives by. There most certainly was enough for all. Finally, there was a curiousity that I came across in places. Why was the earth dug up in some shallow trenches and had potholes here and there? Was it something akin to what us kids saw in the woods in Corunna and speculated to be an Indian burial mound? I was told that during the last war there was heavy fighting here as the fronts stalled. The earth heals slowly and today saws at mills are victimized from shrapnel and bullets from trees harvested here. I couldn't help reflect for a while on my own personal history that has brought me back yet again to a land where my near ancestors used to live. A land that in the larger scheme of things was in the borderlands of competing much greater powers and yet somehow has survived with its culture still intact. Broadly expressed in this region past many national boarders and to varying degrees around the world, the aspect of culture we celebrated together was this great joy of walking the woods, enjoying nature and the thrill of spotting, picking and eating this very ancient species. Cooked in butter with bacon and onions and finished with sour cream is to die for. Before we parted for our separate ways, I had the opportunity and pleasure of buying lunch for my hosts. As it would be, it was a birthday of the major milestone variety for me and the sign in the restaurant said 5% off the bill with proof. The same offer would have been good on my name day in April too. I couldn't have been happier with the absolutely outstanding mushrooming experiences this journey gave me. I hope you too can be so fortunate one day to enjoy similar pleasures with fungi. And Here Having looked forward to this for some time (and Paul Carter even planning his vacation around this event), the day finally arrived when I'd experience mushrooming under the tutelage of Peter Banks. Introductions were made and I was delighted Peter brought along his friend Jurgen from Bavaria, with whom I would compare European notes. I had previously wondered: "Yeah, sure, like Peter's going to show us his secret spots. Fat chance." When Peter distributed a checklist of over 500 species and the identifying language was strictly Latin, I realized that this might be rather different from what I had naively hoped for. I would soon come to appreciate that I fit into the rather unsophisticated (but very happy) category of "familiar with a few species that he likes to eat (and is maybe lucky enough not to have poisoned himself)". In a glorious late summer day, us eight troopers began our excursion into the woods following the trail off the Port Franks road into the Lambton Heritage Forest. I had come prepared with the standard equipment of basket and pocketknife. A pencil was added as a concession for the checklist. Almost immediately I suspect we all intuitively knew the woods were too dry to hold out much hope so my attention soon focused on plant life and sounds in this new spot for me. Running strawberries and the call of a pileated woodpecker were identified for me. Jurgen got introduced to the fragrance of sassafras and the mighty tulip tree. Paul showed several the unfamiliar useful result of looking the wrong way through his binoculars. Unfortunately, most samples of mushrooms were shriveled to make identification dicey. I was impressed Jurgen and Peter could make a case whether it was, if I noted correctly and most likely not, a Russula nauseosa or Russula paludosa. The ladies might be interested to know a debate never arose whether a stinkhorn would be a Phallus impudicus or Phallus ravenelii because we didn't find any. In a similar vein, the cap of a particular specimen resembled a nipple for me. A further test revealed, that yes, it was indeed a lactarius! I also note I didn't find a category of fungi labeled "toadstool" that I commonly use. This excursion was conducted by a master in the protocols of identification, one who offered a multitude of tests to narrow the choices available. My friend Tom Coates, new to the club and with whom I've gathered field mushrooms, found a fresh rare amanita citrina, confirmed by the obvious smell of potatoes. Jurgen was thrilled to encounter and photo a very rare - in his homeland - comb tooth fungi that was a superb example of its kind growing on the trunk of a beech. I got pretty good at spotting the distinctive "Old Man of the Woods", a black one with tubes instead of gills which puts it in the bolete category and which my field guide says is edible when young. Its cap reminded me of the shell of the snapping turtle. I think I'll be careful with that one. When told about finding baskets of morels in an old orchard I almost drooled. People have been known to kill for these. After lunch we visited the Karner Blue property to look for more but it was barren now after being lush a couple weeks ago when Peter visited. We quickly retreated. Regeneration progresses after the first burn two years ago. For our final destination Alf led us to the east side of the Ausauble River north of Hungry Hollow, the "Mystery Falls" stop. He said we had landed on the Wyoming moraine as we walked through the woods. This is pack mule territory with the deep, winding gullies found here. Yet many more varieties of 'rooms and a rainstorm of mealy bugs in places falling off the predominant beeches. As we kept following Peter, several of us detected a suspect aimlessness in travel. After a brief huddle we decided to follow a path ahead that looked to have promise to bring us back to the road. Where was this Mystery Falls anyway? Right around the next bend it turned out, on the now marked Ausauble Trail. If you like Rock Glen, then you'll appreciate this locale, maybe even more. For me, this foray to a couple new places was a real treat. Being able to identify species always adds so much more to any outdoor experience, and as I increase my inventory, I too will have these satisfactions. I was sorry I couldn't enjoy the finale with pizza and wine and a review of the samples at Peter's house. Thanks for the wonderful time Peter and all participants. I'm hoping next time around conditions might be right for fresher samples, some of which could find their way into a frying pan and could substitute for pizza. Then you'd be really talking to me! May you yet find and taste the King Bolete, Peter. George Sunaitis |
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