Continued

A Mushroom Hunter's Hope

Now I love going mushroom hunting. I think I love mushroom hunting even more than I love eating them. You get your basket and go to the woods, hoping to find oyster mushrooms, chanterelles, cauliflowers, lobsters, bear’s teeth, lion’s mane, morels, chicken of the woods, Matsutakes, or any other type that strikes your fancy. You come across what you are looking for and you kneel down and feel delighted, lucky, and humble: feel ever so grateful to the earth and the sun it's orbiting, feel grateful to the trees and the mycelium that are working with each other, feel grateful to the certain dirt that has been conditioned by the trees and ferns, feel grateful to the wind, the rain, and the sunshine that created the micro climate, feel grateful to the moonshine, the starlight, and all the other elements, and the almost impossible happenstances that created your life and made possible the encounter between you and the mushroom, feel grateful to the friends who go mushroom hunting with you and the people who have loved this forest and have protected the trees. The old growth forests are our favorite because the old growth forest floor is easy to navigate, they support the most diverse mushrooms, and often there is plenty of each kind.

While we feel happy about the harvest of the mushrooms, rejoice in the company and connections among different generations and cultures, we also breathe in the cool and moist air, observe the slugs and chipmunks, get startled by the sudden flight of a grouse, and wonder whether we would run into a cougar or a bear. When we admire the undulating mountains at the lookout point of the meandering trail, when we adjust our pace to the music of the birds, the wind, and the creek, we feel accepted, supported, and gifted by the forest. Thus, the mysterious and great mountains bequeath us their serenity and strength. 

For a mushroom hunter, nothing is sadder than the clearcut. Not only does the expanding clearcut kill the trees, deprive the birds and other animals of their homes, and starve the mycelium, it also snatches away a sanctuary for the community of people. Whenever I see a clearcut in the U.S., I also mourn a village that I visited in Yunnan Province, China. In 2019, I went backpacking in the subtropic forest in Xishuangbanna, Yunnan, hometown of elephants and peacocks. I stumbled in the moss-covered forest, admired the wild-climbing vines, shuddered at the 5-foot-long snakes, rested on the fallen petals of the Bombax ceiba flowers, wondered at the elephant footprint and droppings, and woke up to the screeching of the peacocks at night. All was old, mysterious, and balanced, until I walked into a clearcut area with young rubber trees sticking out of the terraced bare ground. The rubber tree farm was like a huge scar on the beautiful mountains. Villagers were as nice as ever but not aware what a loss they suffered when the rubber company clearcut their forest and planted the rubber trees. If it was saddening for the villagers to agree to the clearcut because they did not know the everlasting effect of losing old growth forest, then it is maddening to witness the clearcut logging in the US, because we already know what havoc clearcutting logging wreaks. From the spotted owls to the mushroom hunters, we already know.