Fog today. Ten feet inside the fence beside the freeway, young doe grazes a mowed field.
Yesterday we wandered through the woods by the river. I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time now. Not much to collect yet besides wild hops growing everywhere, made a door wreath out of them and a bunch of berry vines gone red.
Walked past some hand-drawn signs saying things like, “do not pass” and “wander lost here” and “bring water river” there. Nonsensical enough not to take seriously; at the same time, weird enough to make you imagine a crazy man in each hunter’s blind, and the woods were full of those.
No mushrooms?
No photos? :-)
Too bad there weren’t any mushrooms, I could’ve just linked eeksypeeksy instead of writing my own post. But alas the hot, dry summer here made for a bad mushroom crop. We never really have any where we live anyway, none I can safely identify anyway, just big ugly fuckers in our yard; we have to go south for the chantrelles, to the mountains near the Italian border, where my father-in-law is from and knows all the good secret mushroom places. He’s almost seventy now and hard as ever to keep up with as he runs up and down the slopes, filling his bag. Although you have to be careful now, they’re getting strict now about limits. Something like 2 kilos a day now, and if the fungus warden catches you with more – like the Italians who came over to pick and got caught with 40kg or something of chantrelles – you’re in trouble.