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(A recent gift of wild mushrooms brought back the following memory of 1969 and the year I spent on Tucker Lake.)
Dick and I were crossing the portage on a sunny autumn day with Al, the eccentric bachelor from Gunflint Lake, on our way to the cabin. Suddenly Al, dropped to his knees and peered into the yellow underbrush. “Look at those mushrooms. They’re huge! I’ve never seen such big ones and so many. We’ve got to pick them!” His excited voice urged, and he took off his never-seen-the-inside-of-a-washing-machine cap and began filling it with mushrooms.
Our skepticism must have been obvious because he went on to explain. “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. I know only one kind of mushroom, and they are safe. Come on”. He commanded. Normally he was a passive person, so I quickly obeyed his order. He was serious.
I twisted my blue bandana handkerchief into a little pouch. Dick took off his duck hat, and we began picking mushrooms. When our hats were full, we filled our pockets until we could think of no other place to put them. Finally, we got in the canoe and went home. Al raved all the way. “Did we know how lucky we are? They’ll be delicious.” I wasn’t convinced. How different from store-bought mushrooms could wild ones be? When we reached the cabin, Al gave Dick a quick tutorial on the dos and don’ts of mushroom appearances. “They should be white with no pink gills. Ask me if you’re not sure.” As they culled through the fungi, occasionally, I heard Dick ask Al to check one.
Al issued cooking instructions to sauté the mushrooms in bacon grease, add a few chopped onions and cook until tender. Mushrooms were the whole meal and what a meal. Al was right. They were delicious. We enjoyed every morsel. Dusk was falling, so Al picked up the ax he always carried and prepared to walk the mile or so though the forest to the Gunflint Trail. Before he disappeared in the woods, he called, “If you see buzzards circling, look for my body. Ha ha” I thought Al was funny until a strange look crossed Dick’s face, and I was quick to ask if there was a problem. Dick’s answer wasn’t what I wanted to hear. “He was pretty relaxed about supervising me. I’m wondering, did we cull all the poisonous ones?”
My stomach lurched at the word “poisonous” It gave an ominous gurgle and kept gurgling for the next two hours. Part of me wondered if I was dying. Another part of me figured my vivid imagination was to blame. The uncomfortable look on Dick’s face told me he was feeling the same. For the next two hours, we listened to our stomachs gurgle.
Eventually our roiling stomachs settled down, and somewhat sheepishly, we agreed that the mushrooms were fine, but we’d eaten too much and too fast.
(If you’d like to read more of my adventures, my book, Tucker Lake Chronicle, is available at local bookstores, gift shops and Amazon.)
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