My quads are burning, and my left knee is giving out from the climb. But with a season-defining harvest of Craterellus tubaeformis and Hydnum umbillicatum pressed close to my chest, I feel no pain. The yellow foot chanterelles and hedgehogs – freshly plucked in the alpine air and still cold to the touch – are pristine and unblemished, a gift from the well of autumn’s abundance.

Catastrophic flooding has ravaged Vermont – inundating the downtown of our charming capital and leaving my quaint little riverside village reeling from damage to homes, roadways, and infrastructure.

I am climbing a steep logging road in the humid, wildfire smoke-tinged air, each sweaty step fueled by a single-minded sense of purpose. My mission: to check on the progress of my favorite early chanterelle patch, where I discovered a small but stunning flush of goldens around this same time last year.  

The rainclouds have cleared and sunlight spills through the hardwood canopy, illuminating acres of verdant ramps. Biting into a raw ramp leaf, I am hit with a potent wild flavor that commands my attention and summons seasonal memories.

On a soggy Green Mountain morning, I am following a mossy streambank under a mixed canopy of hemlock, ash and birch. My every sense is engaged as I scan the surrounding soil in a search of the peerless porcini. After multiple failed early season attempts, my timing is finally perfect. Kings are back in action, and I let the bloated old ‘flags’ – yellow-pored and squishy stemmed – guide me straight to the prime specimens, mycological royalty camouflaged beneath autumn leaves.

Our family enters the forest to find a reinvigorated mycological landscape. Eight-year-old Eliana is mesmerized by a spiraling flush of dainty waxy caps, while three-year-old Noemi munches on trailside blackberries. Jenna is deep in focus photographing summer novelties like purple coral mushrooms and jelly babies, but I have only one thing on my mind: reaching my favorite local black trumpet spot, among the boulders and beech trees ahead.

Golden chanterelles, classic summer wild mushrooms, have arrived early this year in Vermont. My rational mind tells me to wait until July, but instinct carries me up a rocky streambed toward an old patch. I am greeted by a sleek red fox that makes fleeting eye contact before leaping stealthily out of sight. Soon I arrive at a pair of hemlocks that have produced in past seasons, and the hunt is on.

The weather – day after day of sparkling, blue skies and spring flowers – was undeniably spectacular. For a string of sun-soaked days, each evening found children splashing playfully in the river and brown trout rising explosively to flies. Everywhere I looked I saw people smiling, their relief palpable on the heels of another long and trying winter.

I spot a single porcini and veer off-trail on impulse, following the narrow spine of a coniferous ridge along an undefined path blazed by deer. The landscape is steep and unforgiving, and the fungi dwindle as I hit higher and drier ground. Wild turkeys disperse into the trees as I reach the crest of the hill, feeling duped and sidetracked by the lone porcini.

Beneath the beech trees, I am following a vein of black trumpets as it snakes up a craggy hillside. These mossy slopes – rocky loam interspersed with cliffs and boulders – are prime trumpet territory. As I navigate low-hanging branches, I pause to admire the rich duff that has formed a plush saddle at the base of two elephantine beech trunks. The organic matter here is so soft and deep, I fear I could fall through and sink straight into the mycological underworld.  

Our family of four is back in a familiar hardwood forest, adrift in a sea of ramps. While we expected early season conditions, we have found the patch in peak form, with dense clumps of enormous, glossy leaves. Eliana, who has recently acquired a taste for this exquisitely wild Allium, carefully picks a selection of leaves for her basket. Little Noemi – now a hiker in her own right – holds a pungent ramp specimen to her nose, a curious look on her face.

As I travel a familiar trail, the frost-nipped forest offers new perspectives and mycological surprises. With six-year-old Eliana leading the family foray, Noemi descends from Mama’s baby carrier, eager to put her newfound walking ability to the test on some rugged Green Mountain terrain. Grandpa is here as well, joining us for a socially distanced outing.

Lobster mushrooms are having a moment, erupting quietly beneath the leaf litter. These furtive fungi are carefully concealed, for the most part, despite their flame-orange coloring and often hefty proportions. I am exploring a new spot, and a few bloated, dark red giants – now soft and covered in white mold – give away a dense and sprawling patch. I follow the fiery fruiting from a low-lying stream dominated by conifers, uphill for over a mile into an ecosystem favoring hardwoods.

Invigorated by a late October spell of wet, balmy weather, wild mushrooms are making unexpected late season appearances. In the last week, I have seen pristine wood blewits, elm oysters, late fall oysters, shaggy manes, and velvet foot mushrooms (enokitake). These are all hardy fall fruiters, but unusual to find going strong by Halloween in northern Vermont.

Golden chanterelles are on fire throughout the region, visible from a distance with their bright yellow caps. While all fresh chanterelles are delicious, our favorite patch yields dense, chunky specimens with a ghostly white – rather than yellow – stem and false-gilled underbelly. We call these firm and meaty culinary gems ‘white back’ chanterelles, though my hunch is they are Cantharellus phasmatis, first documented in 2013 at University of Wisconsin-La Crosse.

Eliana didn’t miss a beat as I walked in the door, kicked off my boots, and slipped a small brown paper bag into the fridge. “Are those mushrooms? Did you find those in the woods?” She was onto me, leaving her post of helping mama stir shiitake and tofu to investigate.