The Mountain and The Mushroom

Birds sang their melodies high in the pine trees bathed in the hot sun of mid-spring. The silky strands of web connected grass to twigs, branch to branch, making a hammock for a spider who’s just looking for a place to relax, and for lunch to be served. If I had to let my imagination run wild I would accuse him of looking for a larger snack than a few flies who happened to pass through. Probably something a little more like my face wide eyed with sweat trickling down my temples, as I meticulously scan the soil for any signs of life besides more spiders and caterpillars. The ground was dirt dry, the river was roaring, and somehow the wild flowers found enough water to grow, but the mushrooms laid dormant deep in the earth without even a strip tease of what may come. It was the second time this year my boyfriend and I went Morel mushroom hunting, and found nothing. My brain tried to reason that it was still too early, and maybe the conditions weren’t quite right yet. The other half of my brain played on repeat how I had no clue what I was doing, and half the locations I sought after were merely guesses on maps I threw darts at. It was the beginning of my fourth year as an active forager, my first year as a pregnant forager, and I kind of knew the basics of what Morels needed to thrive, one of them being a recent forest fire. Since our valley is notorious for fires—every year we brace for the damage—I was not lacking in the need of fertile, scorched earth. I just wish I could put the wild in wildfire, since that would be a natural and common thing in our forests to occur on their own, but more often than not it’s caused by a stoner ashing a pipe with too hot cherries, an owl flying into power lines in an electric spark of feathers, or plain intentional arson. Whether it was caused by pure thoughtlessness of human, or a freak accident of birds, it still gave all of us foragers a reason to look forward to every spring, and whatever bounty may follow.

This extensive area of last year's burn was not giving me what I had expected, but we can’t rush mother nature, and mold her into our idea of success. Instead, we have to wait and see what she has to offer, or which blessings she’ll abstain from giving us. At eight months pregnant, I wasn’t prepared to play these games with her. My belly hung low, weighed down with a little baby girl due sometime within the next six weeks. With her natural desire to grow outwards and down, her added weight to my skeletal frame made our venture that much harder. Even though we traveled an hour to get there it only took minutes till I was exhausted. My uterus protested in fits of fake contractions, the sweat pooled in my armpits in wet, sticky discomfort, and I had had enough.

For the last three years, foraging was what made my heart sing. It was the reason to pack up the dogs, and head to the forests just to be. I figured with my current state of being this season was not my season to crawl over logs, trek up mountains, or tromp through tall grass. I would just have to come to terms with the fact I was heavily pregnant, and unable to do the things I loved to do so much years before with my lighter, autonomous body. After twenty minutes of searching, we got in the car, ate our lunches, and headed back to town empty handed. Even if my mind had made the rational decision that this was not our year, my heart still needed to look for the elusive fungi just to sustain some normalcy in my rapidly changing psyche and body.

A few weeks later, after days of heavy rain, the mountains were calling my name. I wanted to take a spin around my tried and true location that’s given me a little every year. It may not have been the honey pot, it may not have given me hundreds of Morels in one given year, but it was consistently faithful in providing at least one meal for us to enjoy. Not only was I semi-confident the mushrooms would be present, but I knew the terrain would better accommodate my nearly nine month pregnant body. The gradual slopes and higher altitudes that made for cooler weather were conditions my uterus could agree with. I was not disappointed. Within minutes of stepping outside the car, three Morels were patiently there to greet me, as if they popped from the ground singing my name in unison. After two hours we had enough for one dinner, and that was plenty.

After eight hard months of growing a baby it made me feel more aware of, and grateful for, what the mountain does and undergoes to provide for those who wish to partake, and respect the process. From humans, to elk, to birds, and bears, and bees, we all depend on the mountains to give us what we need to survive. Like the mountain and the mushroom, I understand the active participation in developing a foreign object that is separate from me, but also of me. I must brew a child within my body before it becomes fruitful enough to deliver to our world for others to pluck, admire, or consume. The only time this child has ever been wholly mine were the short nine months it took to create her toes, fingers, feet, and precious nose. I was the only one to feel her first small daily pitter-patter movements grow into strong and large orchestrated nose dive, flips, kicks, and punches. I was the only one to feel her hiccups in the night, her head ram against my bladder, her toes dig into my ribs. We had a secret language of tears, and pokes, and nudges that no one could possibly take from us. Does the earth feel the life brewing in her womb after a long, hard winter? Does she feel the sprouting ferns dig roots deep into her skin? Does she feel the spores sneeze from her nose? The tickles of Balsamroot petals deep in her gut? The earth also feels the minute life exponentially grow within her being. A conception from destruction of flame and body, and a hard labor from heat, rain, sweat, tears, and water. Birth and growth does not come easy for either the earth, nor the mother, but it’s part of the subjective experience of existing.

I started this season expecting this large belly to keep me from the activities I enjoyed most, but instead I received one of the most fulfilling days in my four years of active Morel hunting. It wasn’t fulfilling just for the amount of mushrooms we went home with, but it helped me understand that motherhood is not the death of a single woman, rather, its a rite of passage, and connection to the long tradition of procreation the earth, and every mother before me, had experienced. I couldn’t help but say thank you to every mushroom harvested. From the dirt to the ash, the sun, the rain, the spores, and pine needles, and logs—even thanking the ones I left behind for their future endeavors. Never have I experienced complete and utter gratitude for the fertility, and giving nature of the land. It brought peace to my anxiety of my own impending birth, and gratitude for my body knowing exactly what to do when the time comes. It’s an ancient language passed onto me from the millions of years of interconnected experience of other mothers and nature. Whatever happens, in whatever way, it will be as it should. A new understanding fell upon me that this child is not the end of this life, but a beautiful addition. Next season I will have an 11 month old strapped to my back in awe at all the beauty and newness around her, and I will teach her about the mountain and the mushroom.