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.