|Hawkswings and boletes, mostly.|
It's been raining some (although not enough at our house), so M. and I decided to go mushroom hunting.
We went once last week, but brought back only about half a shopping bag's worth. Today was better.
We had filled two bags at the place we call The Mushroom Store when M., who was closer to the narrow Forest Service road, heard a car pass and then stop. Then we heard a man shouting something in the woods.
She came over to me. "He's calling, 'Anya! Natalia!,' " she said. "I thought that I heard kids."
"Oh, ****," I said, "Russians!" Notable mycophiles, those Russians.
Keeping in touch with soft, bird-like whistles, we faded away through the thick firs, crossed a barbed-wire drift fence at a place where we knew it was broken, and circled off down the ridge.
If they spotted us walking towards the Jeep with our heavy bags, we would be coming from the exact opposite direction from where we picked most of the 'shrooms. This is just basic Mushroom Tactics 101.
As quietly as we could, we drove away.
Then we tried another stop, hiking up a washed-out old road to a small mine. The road was just blossoming with Amanitas, but we found more king boletes as well. It's going to be a good year.
Some other blog posts about mushrooms in the Wet Moutains.