Mushrooming—searching for and collecting mushrooms in the wild—is not a simple past time for the innocent the naïve, or the weak of heart. No, hunting for mushrooms is for the risk-takers, the loners, the secret-keepers and sometimes, the bloodthirsty. It is a sport requiring dedication, perseverance, a keen eye, intuition and the perfect weather. Shroomers search for a prey that is shy and elusive, springing up here, then melting away as dreams shrivel in daylight. The competition drives true fanatics to lie, steal, destroy, in their quest for the most impressive harvest.

The mysterious morel is one of the legendary mushrooms. Dedicated collectors will stick a needle in their eye before revealing the source of their bounty. Though it is considered one of the more recognizable edible fungi, there is still the danger, the Russian Roulette, of misidentifying the merkel’s poison mirror twin. Nothing is certain except for the waiting, the watching, the constant gauging; starting in March, anticipation of days with mild temperatures and warm rainy nights reaches a fever. Night owls become early birds for the six week window of the season. Cloud watchers, weather checkers, scientists and sportsmen are made of dissolute hippies, heavy lidded barflies, and cynical waiters.

It was in the company of a troupe of disgruntled and underpaid line cooks that Eva first entered the realm of the mushroom. It didn’t take her long to realize that her squinty contact lensed nearsightedness was not exactly suited to an activity that required some semblance of normal vision. She had always considered herself a modern and artless Van Gogh; a night trip on the interstate was a barrage of canvasses, all variations on “A Starry Night”. After about five minutes of shuffling through the crunchy leafy golden chamber of the wooded slope on which they were trespassing, Eva’s eyes started crossing and her nose was itchy.

She clutched her onion sack moistly , wondering why she thought this was the occasion to get to know Rex, her latest, and definitely the absolute last in a string of cabin fevered tequila fueled one, or, in this promising case, two, night stands. He was just so into all things culinary, including boring foraging for disgusting wild food, it really annoyed her after a while. Why not just go to a store with all its convenience, large selection, and the all important absence of ticks and snakes? This entire idea of going to some random location and looking for food, that might or might not be there and might or might not be poisonous was on the brink of idiocy. Still, Rex’s arms were absolutely amazing. They didn’t bulge, but the definition just made her want to lick them every time he walked by in his chef’s coat. His sleeves always were rolled above his elbows exposing those smooth strong muscles to the most enticing effect. Eva was a girl who wore her hormones on her sleeve, she couldn’t help watching him as if she were at the Wimbledon finals, and he were the ball.