I was running errands when I saw them on the front porch. “Hey, what are you doing there?” I yelled from the far side of the street.

There was something conspiratorial in the way the two turned around, looked at me, and then glanced at each other. “What’s our cover here?” they seemed to be asking each other.  

They approached and even though this was Mary Woods’ house and Sherri Schneider was her friend, something was askew…fishy. Then I understood: It had nothing to do with fish and everything to do with mushrooms. These two foxes were headed out mushroom hunting and they intended to throw me off the scent of ‘where’ they were headed.

“What are you doing?” I asked again, getting ready to enjoy the game. And then the big disappointment—Sherri couldn’t play the game. She was too excited about her passion. "We’re headed out looking for mushrooms."

“Noooo.” I thought . Who’d have thunk it when you’re wearing boots, old jeans, work shirts, and carrying work gloves? Round 1 had fizzled, but maybe Round 2 would go better. “Where are you finding ‘shrooms now?” I asked. This was tantamount to asking a fisherman to reveal his best holes or asking an elk hunter exactly where he got big bucks year after year. This would provide good sport.

“I can’t tell you that,” Sherry spat back. And then in the very next sentence, with absolutely no provocation, she blurted where she was headed and what was ripe for the picking.

So where should you go and what’s in season?  Ohhh… don’t you wish I were Sherri? Unfortunately for you, I can keep secrets. I do, however, have a heart, so I’ll give you a clue: Look for them in a stump up a certain creek by Blewett Pass. Oh yeah, there’s also a park in Wenatchee that has delectable edibles right now – just avoid the ‘shrooms that will kill ya. 

One other good thing came from my chance encounter this afternoon: I remembered Sherri had sent me a nicely written article about her passion last spring. I had asked her for pictures to illustrate the article and, from that point on, everything fell through the cracks. So without further ado, without proper pictures, and about six months late, I present Sherri’s article.

Fungal Fever

By Sherri Schneider

Spring is coming and I can smell the fungus.  The dirt is warming up and those creeping sensations in the upper regions of my sinus cavities are not allergies, but the first hints of mushroom spore.  Plants are coming up, the cheat grass in greening and the wildflowers are blooming on Saddle Rock but I don’t care one little bit.  My eyes are searching any bare patch of dirt left for the telltale bump of an underground ‘shroom bloom. 

Can Spring move any slower?  It seems like an eternity since last October when the first snows up in the Icicle Valley came way too early and covered up the baby Shrimps, Matsutakes and Lion’s Manes before they’d had a chance to be discovered, admired, cooked and cooed over.  We still found a few hiding under four inches of snow, but realized that if anyone had seen us like teenage shoplifters cutting mushrooms out of the snow, we might have been institutionalized. What kind of crazy person hunts mushrooms under the snow?  ME, ME, ME, I do!  And all my friends do too.

Spring means that the forest roads will soon be reopened and our tired old Windstar van can once again battle the grades up Mount Cashmere in search of the elusive King Boletes, Morelles and Fried Chickens that hide on south-facing slopes.  Spring means a brief flush of delicious Shaggy Manes growing right under my neighbor’s noses that I can pluck under the guise of “fungal identification.”  Spring means rotational weekday camping at Chatter Creek days in advance of Memorial Weekend to outsmart the tourists who love to kick over the choicest species before we can sauté them with prosciutto and shallots for dinner.

My strange strain of fungal fever means that I can never have more than an uneasy friendship with the likes of Mick Miller, Kevin Kane and Jen Cemenski because I know they’ll be out in the woods trying to find the best mushrooms first.  Maybe their secret spots are better.  Maybe they’ve trained their kids and dogs better.  Maybe there won’t be enough rain this year.  Maybe I should organize a preemptive strike guised as a camping trip and send the serious mushroomers down the wrong trail.  Paranoia is a serious and often fatal symptom of fungal fever.