Boots on the trail is how I deal with most things. I go into the woods to settle my soul. I headed to some woods near Stone Mountain early on a fretful, foggy Tuesday morning, looking to “drink the wild air,” as Ralph Waldo Emerson said.
We live in a time of doing more things in less time. The simplicity of nature is valuable to my happiness.
The canopy of trees not only blocked the sunlight and the gentle rain that began to fall, it also deflected the disquiet going on inside — a peach-sized mass growing on my ovary, leading to months of oncology visits, labs and procedures. Sitting at my desk to work is difficult, because of all the what-ifs looming. But, among the trees, I’m forced to acknowledge my percolating anxiety, process it, and move on.
Under the tremendous girth and height of the trees, I felt as small as the scurrying creatures gathering fallen acorns. The fog unleashed my imagination. “My brain is foggy,” I thought, as my mind progressed to Brigadoon appearing in the fog of heather on the hill and then to pea soup. Pea soup is delicious; why is it used as a negative description?
The light of the forest played with shadows and colors. There are so many shades of green. Little wonders invited me to touch — perky ferns, smooth rocks, fungi growing on a fallen log, a leaf cascading down to the forest floor.
The tranquility of scents was ineffable: petrichor, damp moss, pine needles, wet stumps and layers of loamy earth. It was quiet, yet alive with forest sounds. My boots squished in mud, branches snapped somewhere up above, a woodpecker whittled chip by chip.
I was there, wholly present in seclusion and peace. I had no thoughts, except those about the beauty of this place. My mind and body were in harmony.
Credit: Angela Hansberger
Credit: Angela Hansberger
My only distraction was the mushrooms. I spent the summer foraging for chanterelles, cooking and storing them and giving basketfuls to chef friends. The sought-after, edible mushrooms shine like an exotic golden flower against the drab forest floor covered in dead leaves. I must have hunted down 100 pounds on my many expeditions. This mushroom season was bountiful and long, but I never expected it to run through the end of September.
Which is why I didn’t come prepared to harvest and carry them out of the woods.
I walked by a couple of petite chanterelles, rising from a patch of moss, and was able to leave them be. Then, I laid eyes on a beauty the size of an orange. I plucked it from under a spider web, carrying it like the prettiest bouquet. I looked ahead into the pathless woods and saw more in succession — golden trumpets sprouting up from the leafy detritus surrounding them in almost a fairy ring around a couple of hardwoods.
I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to collect them, and share them with friends. I still could hike while carrying a few, right?
I kept spotting more, rushing to them as my face tore through intricate spider webs. I collected as many as my plaid shirt could hold (a few pounds worth). They were big, and soon my overflowing shirt was giving off their telltale fruity scent. When I realized how far I had to walk back, I decided my wander was over. I hiked back to my car, a good mile or so. I gently placed the pile of shrooms on the passenger seat and drove home.
The fog had lifted; so had mine.
I got home, and again enlisted my shirt to carry the mushrooms to the kitchen counter. I began the process of cleaning and trimming the golden beauties. At the same time, I heated up a skillet with Amish butter, thyme from my garden and some of the pieces and uglier mushrooms. I always save the pretty ones for friends.
Credit: Angela Hansberger
Credit: Angela Hansberger
After filling up a sheet pan with cleaned chanterelles, I picked up one of the big ones. It was as large as my open hand; truly, an impressive specimen.
Bringing it to my nose, to appreciate its apricot-like perfume, I suddenly realized that a baby snake was curled up inside it, like a fungiform cradle. He was gray, with stripes.
I shrieked and jumped back, which knocked the slithering beast into the compost bin, where I was tossing snipped stems. I ran the bin out to the yard, and let the snake loose at the foot of a tree.
And, now, I once again am frazzled, thinking about how I carried a snake around in my shirt, and in my car, for a long time of togetherness.
He is somewhere in my yard, presumably, growing bigger — and hopefully not carrying a grudge.
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