You can feel it in the air, can't you? When the seasons change from summer to autumn, it's a poignant and unmistakable feeling of relief like the exhalation of your breath. Just before the icy veil of winter begins to descend on the landscape, autumn's vibrant colors reach a fiery crescendo before the hushed tones of winter murmur through the hills.

The days become shorter, cozy fires feel warmer, and it seems as though the whole world begins to prepare to slumber. Much of the natural world dies away, transcending from this world into the next. One organism most associated with death is the mushroom. They are harbingers of death, creatures of the shade and darkness, consumers of fallen plants, trees, and insects.

I grew up in very dry, arid landscapes, and was seldom exposed to mushrooms in the wild. The only time I really saw them or thought about them was in fairy tale books or perhaps at a grocery store. My vague acknowledgment of them consisted mainly of indifference because they simply were not part of my natural surroundings.

When I first came to Norway, I was intrigued by the widespread passion for mushroom picking. It was endearing to see families foraging in the forest together, their rustic wooden baskets brimming with a variety of mushrooms. In my second autumn, I decided to join a mushroom picking class. Led by experts from the local mushroom association, we walked through the nearby hills to learn techniques for how to distinguish between edible and poisonous mushrooms. We learned to examine the mushroom caps, the stalks, the bruising patterns when cut open, and the color of milk excretion.

To my novice eyes, many species seemed indistinguishable, but the instructors effortlessly highlighted subtle differences, like unique aromas or distinct skin patterns that set each mushroom apart. It was awe-inspiring to watch these experts spot tiny clusters concealed beneath the leafy forest floor with hawk-like precision. Inspired, I bought several books to deepen my growing curiosity.

Harbingers of Death

In 2022, I had met Edward, a dear soul who recently passed away. We had quickly found a common fascination for fungi, and although my time with him was a brief, I was inspired by his mushroom expertise and appreciative of the guidance he shared about how to safely forage for mushrooms. In a cruel irony, the last time we talked I had been mushroom picking in a forest and was sending him pictures of a bountiful pile of chanterelles. His passing left me to deeply contemplate the cycle of life and death, and how prominently this is represented in the world of mushrooms.

Mushrooms naturally emerge from and contribute to the cycle of decay in nature. They thrive by breaking down dead organic material, recycling it into nutrients that are vital for the ecosystem. These fungi are commonly found attached to decomposing tree trunks and branches or emerging from the leaf litter that blankets the forest floor each autumn. Their role extends below ground through mycorrhizal networks, where they form symbiotic relationships with plant roots. These networks are crucial for nutrient and water exchange, supporting plant growth and maintaining soil health.

Observing this ecosystem, there’s a constant reminder of death and rebirth. As organisms die, they decompose and become part of the soil, where their nutrients are reabsorbed and redistributed by fungi and other decomposers. Mushrooms are the facilitators of this decomposition, and the fruiting bodies that we see are only a brief display of its life cycle. This cyclic process demonstrates the necessary relationship between life and death, reminding us that endings are often just new beginnings.

Perhaps it is a coping mechanism, but Edward’s death sparked within me an inward reflection and determination to pursue my artistic endeavors with a new vigor. I think he loved nature as much as I do, and in any small way that I can, I would like to pass on some of his knowledge and inspiration to others, much like the mushrooms pass on nutrients.

A Bounty in the Forest

Even three years later, it is still a strange feeling to me that I can walk into the mountains and find food to eat. We were exploring a new location in the hills, where we had been told there was an exceptional bounty of chanterelles. It was late and cool when we left, the sun felt heavy in the sky, but we were armed with headlamps, baskets, and an excitement to find mushrooms.

One of the easiest and safest mushrooms I learned to pick was Yellowfoot (Craterellus tubaeformis), since it cannot be confused with any poisonous or inedible mushrooms, and it looks similar to the equally safe Chanterelle (Cantharellus) genus of mushrooms. They are both bright yellow, trumpet-shaped mushrooms without gills and have a beautiful nutty sort of flavor when cooked. Up until this point I had only foraged yellowfoot, but this trip I finally found chanterelles too.

It was a particularly mystical feeling this evening in the dark woods. The air was humid and lichen clung to the trees like clumps of frost. There were mushrooms abound, sitting patiently atop the rich green mossy floor, but most were inedible or poisonous. After an unproductive 15 minutes of searching for edible mushrooms, we finally found a speckled path of yellowfoot creeping up the hillside. After each handful, we would notice another and another popping up just a few centimeters away. As our baskets filled up quickly, we suddenly started to find large chanterelles hidden near decomposing tree trunks. We definitely underestimated how plentiful this forest was as our collection began to spill out over the basket.

Rekindling Childhood Magic

I had been feeling a little down one day and decided to go to the mountains to refresh my mind. I slowly walked past a large golden field of wheat and entered the dense, green forest, overgrown with moss, plants, and vines. The air was cold enough to see my breath even in August, and the rocks still glossy from recent rainfall. Under the dense canopy, light filtered through softly, with little spotlights illuminating plants here and there.

The water in the river here bubbles and giggles, but from a distance it sounds like people murmuring in conversation. As I stood with the river flowing at my feet, my breath turning to mist in the dense air. I glanced upstream and noticed on the far right bank was a small cluster of bright, yellow mushrooms. I scampered over to the other side for a closer look. Armed with my trusty mushroom field guide and a little patience during my investigation, I determined that these were Spotted Milkcap (Lactarius scrobiculatus). As always, I later sent this to the iNaturalist app for secondary identification.

Feeling quite satisfied with myself, I continued wandering in the forest to look for other interesting mushroom species to practice identifying. I sat down on the mossy forest floor with little clovers dappled on the ground. A small cluster of white flat mushrooms was nearby, some of them brightly lit by a few errant rays of sunshine. What a beautiful moment, I thought. Here I am looking at mushrooms for fun in my free time and doing it purely because it brings me joy. I want to do more things like this that remind me of my childhood, when the world was wide open for imagination and exploration.

One of the funny things about hiking in Norway is that sometimes you don’t know if you’re walking on a trail, or a washed out path carved by a river, or a route created by an ant colony. There were several times I followed a faded path only to be led into thick, impassable undergrowth. I could tell I wasn’t the first person looking for mushrooms this season. There were numerous overturned mushrooms as I wandered along, indicating that someone had already been there investigating as I was.

I followed a steep path in the tight forest until I reached a crossing. I was compelled to go towards the sunlight, and I’m glad I did because I found an old campfire site and sat down on a conveniently placed stump with a view overlooking the city. Blueberries and bunchberries surrounded my ankles. The sun wasn’t quite as clear and bright as it had been a couple of months ago. The light quality was softer, it’s not even halfway through August, but I can feel autumn rapidly approaching. It was quiet enough that I could hear the whisper of a breeze brush through the trees, its cool touch arriving a moment later. A red squirrel eyed me suspiciously from a nearby tree, chattering his displeasure with my presence, and left shortly.

The sun shifted into shadow and I became chilled, so I decided to find a new sunny spot to relax. A few meters away, I found a free stone to sit on and continue “sunbathing”. I closed my eyes and began soaking in the sun rays, but about 20 minutes later I was jolted awake by the screeching sounds of a creature nearby. I had never heard the sound before, and I wasn’t sure if it were a bird or an animal, something dangerous or not. My eyes flashed over the hillside and I eventually saw some large birds jumping between the trees. I took out my cell phone and recorded their screeching in the Merlin Bird ID app, and it was identified as a Eurasian Jay. There were three jays hopping between the trees, screeching intensely at each other. Eventually they disappeared over the hillside, the echos of their quarrels dampened into silence.

One thing that I really enjoy about going for a hike alone is that I don’t feel pressure to rush from one destination to another or find a topic of conversation. I can take my time walking at a slow pace and stop to enjoy a particularly interesting nature point. There is a magic in childhood that can fade with adulthood — the desire to explore and be in awe of learning something new. This year I felt that magic as I learned so much about mushrooms and I plan to nurture that in years to come.