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.

Plump hedgehog mushrooms are fruiting at the forest’s edge, but there’s no time to stop for these gourmet edibles – Eliana has already scurried up the rocky path far ahead of us. “Pa! Waxy caps!”

No matter how many morels one has found, the first find of the season is always a revelation. I’m making a pilgrimage to an old favorite ramp patch, following a trickling streambed up a craggy hillside of hickory, yellow birch, ash and beech. It still feels early for morels in northern Vermont’s hills and I’ve learned to pace myself, saving the epic hunts for peak conditions. But with the sweet smell of springtime in the air and the temperature pushing 80, I can’t help but slow down beneath a hefty ash tree that somehow feels just right for Morchella.

Gary Lincoff, legendary mushroom expert, naturalist, writer, teacher, and radiant spirit, passed away on Friday morning. He will be deeply missed. I never had the chance to meet Gary, but his work left a lasting impression on me and instilled an enduring sense of wonder for the mycological world. When I was all of ten, his Audubon guide caught my eye in a bookstore display, and I begged my mom to buy it for me. She reluctantly obliged, and that became the bible that I took on countless hunts and used to identify my first hen of the woods as a child.

It’s nearly dusk and I am bushwhacking up a steep hillside of mixed conifers, punctuated by ancient oaks. The oaks that stabilize these craggy slopes are survivors - spared widespread logging not due to conservation but to convenience, the prohibitive price of hauling hardwood out a ravine.

The season’s first morels, even if growing in highly questionable soil in downtown Burlington, always are a true sight to behold. Jenna, right out the passenger seat window as we were parking, spotted two plump yellow morels on woodchips among dog-doo and debris.