Closer to the Ground

by Dylan Tomine

  I show him how to rock the mushroom back and forth while lifting it to pull it from the ground. When he succeeds, he hands me his prize in triumph. We quickly put half a dozen into our bag, he crouching and I lying on my belly in the wet dirt. So much for managing expectations. I peel one apart, showing him the fibrous, chicken-breast texture, and he sniffs the distinctive vanilla-apricot scent. We high-five and grin stupidly at each other, and then, after a thorough search of the surrounding area, crawl back out and hit the trail leading deeper into the forest. “Dad,” Weston says, “Let’s hold hands and run real fast.”

  We don’t run very far, for two reasons: one, I’m out of breath, and two, Weston skids to a stop every 10 feet to examine fallen leaves, stomp through mud puddles, and throw fir cones. A quarter-mile in, we leave the trail and start searching again. We thrash through underbrush, pulling spider webs off our faces and tripping over blackberry vines. I worry the terrain might be too rough for Weston, but he’s hanging in there. And he’s having a whale of a time. “Can stickerbushes stop Tyrannosaurus rex? No! T-Rex can go anywhere!” he yells, adding a passionate roar for emphasis.

  After tromping along in full dino-mode for some distance, he says, “Dad, can I eat these black huckleberries?” We have a family rule that before the kids eat anything they find in the woods, they have to ask and show it to us, no matter how sure they are. I look at the clump of shiny black berries he’s eyeballing and tell him to go ahead. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he stretches up on tippy-toes to eat them off the branch without using his hands. He gets a mouthful, then pulls away, stripping berries from the branch. When he catches me watching, he smiles and laughs with purple berry juice dripping down his chin. We continue deeper into the woods without a word.

  My eyes are focused on the ground now, searching. As often happens, I lose all track of time and space. A week ago, in another spot nearby, I snapped out of my chanterelle trance realizing that not only had I lost track, I was lost, period. A mile from the house on an island full of people and homes, I felt the panic of complete disorientation. I had thought I was working my way back toward the trail, searching for mushrooms as I went, when I came to a creek bed I’d never seen before. I stopped, looked around, and a creeping dread came over me. The trees and brush looked exactly the same in every direction, and when I tried to determine which way I’d come, I could not find a trace of my passage anywhere.

  For a master plan, I decided to walk 100 steps in several different directions. If I didn’t see anything that looked familiar, I’d retrace my steps to where I first realized I was lost. Three directions out and back, and it all looked the same. And it was getting dark fast. Just as I was plotting some new, equally lame strategy, the setting sun broke through the clouds, and I was saved with a bearing point. Two hundred yards in the direction I hadn’t taken, but which I now knew was south, I hit the trail and jogged back to the car, relieved.

  At dinner that night, I told Stacy and the kids about it and we laughed. But I kept thinking there must be some deeper meaning or lesson to be learned from getting lost in the woods so close to home in this era of suburban sprawl, cell phones, and GPS. Like carry a compass, dumb ass.

  So, as Weston and I search our way through the brambles, I make a mental note to stay a little more in touch with reality and not get so absorbed in the hunt. Then, standing up from looking beneath a big clump of Oregon grape, I realize that I can no longer see or hear the little guy. “Weston?” I shout. Nothing. “Weston?” louder now. Still nothing. A panic far greater than I felt when I was lost rises in my chest. Small branches snap somewhere to my left. “I’m right here, Dad, I just have to climb over this.” Then a sharp cracking sound and the loud “Ooof!” of a body hitting the ground. Silence. The kind of dreadful post-thud, pre-cry silence every parent knows. I wait, and even worse, there is no crying. Fear surges through me, and I tear through the brush in a cold sweat. A new sound fills the forest now, quiet at first, then louder. Laughter. He’s laughing. By the time I reach him, he’s roaring with hilarity, lying on his back below the broken-off branch of a fallen maple.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to hide my fading distress, “What’s so funny, bud?”

  “Falling down in the forest is fun,” he giggles, “because the moss is so soft it doesn’t hurt.”

  I laugh with him and when I reach to lift him up, I let him pull me down instead. We lie on the moss looking up into the tall trees and the sky beyond. “Dad,” he says, “May you please…I ride on your back for a while?” “Absolutely, buddy, absolutely.”

  After a short piggyback ride, I set him down in a likely-looking clearing and we start searching again. “Here’s one,” he says casually, as though he’s been finding chanterelles his whole life. “And there’s another one.” He’s so close to the ground, he’s spotting them under ferns, around fallen logs, and in tight spots I can’t even see. In a very short while, we have enough in the bag for dinner and then some. With each find, Weston wants to hold the chanterelle and look at it, and more than that, he wants to smell them, sniffing deeply and saying “They smell sweet!” (Actually, he says they “they fell sweet,” which reminds me of yesterday in the grocery store checkout line, when he tried to tell everyone he had a very smart daddy. Which reminds me I need to take him to see Smarty sometime soon, just for a laugh. That joke never gets old.)

  Now we’re really in the chanterelles, and I decide we should keep picking. We can dry what we don’t eat right away (the intensified flavor more than makes up for what you lose in texture), and there are always friends who could use a few. But I also have another motive: I’ve already traded “mushroom futures” for an apple pie made by a neighbor who’s both an unbelievable baker and a serious chanterelle lover. Stupid, perhaps, to trade something you don’t have, but I couldn’t resist that pie. Now, I’m not only in debt, but we’ve long since eaten the pie. It was delicious. This is an unexpected chance to make good.

  When we’ve filled the bag and even stuffed a few extra chanterelles into our pockets, we stop and sit on a moss-covered log, eating pretzels and toasting our big score with the shared water bottle. A sharp drumming sound breaks the silence and we watch a pileated woodpecker pounding holes in an old fir stump, searching for lunch. “Is that a p-p-p-pie-laded woodpecker?” Weston asks, his almostgone baby stutter making a brief return. Last year, we were concerned about the stammer; now, I think I’m going to miss it when it’s gone.

  Busting our way back to the trail, Weston says under his breath, “There aren’t any bears ’round here,” and again, louder, “There aren’t any bears ’round here.” I wonder if my panic earlier might be causing him some fear or stress. “There aren’t any bears ’round here,” he repeats, trying to convince himself, and then, “Are there, Dad?” I’m caught in a classic parenting dilemma. The chances of running into a bear here are infinitesimal. Microscopic. But not impossible. The odd bear does occasionally make its way onto the Island. What if I lie to assuage his fears and we actually run into one? What credibility would I have with him in the future? But I don’t want to scare him, either. I compromise: “No, there aren’t any bears around here. But if there were, they would be more scared of us than we are of them.” I wait for a response while he digests the information. “Yeah,” he says, finally. “They’d be more scared of us. That’s funny. Can I look in the bag at the chantrulls again?”

  At home, Weston is buoyant over our success. He insists on carrying the bag into the house “to show Mom,” though the handles are too long and he’s forced to hold his arms above his head to keep it from dragging. We spread the chanterelles out on the kitchen table, examining them and holding up the largest specimens to admire. Skyla comes in from school, and to her credit, especially for a six-year-old, hides her disappointment at missing out, and compliments Weston on the harvest. That her compliments fall something short of full enthusiasm goes unnoticed. I brush fir needles and bigger clumps of dirt off the mushrooms, and put the bulk of our haul in
to paper bags to be stored in the fridge.

  We take the dozen or so Weston has selected for dinner to the sink and I quickly rinse away the remaining grime. Many chanterelle aficionados will recoil at this cleaning process, insisting as they do that washing the mushrooms in water removes flavor. But I just don’t like eating dirt. And my uneducated taste buds can’t detect any difference after a quick rinse anyway.

  Now the possibilities are limitless. Should we sauté them in butter and scramble creamy farm eggs into the pan? There’s crabmeat in the freezer, how about adding that and a little garlic, too? Or would that be too rich and decadent? What about a slow simmer with shallots and white wine? I briefly consider a stir fry, but decide that wouldn’t be giving the mushrooms enough respect. Finally, Stacy, who appreciates chanterelles most of all, comes to the rescue.

  She’s already roasting a chicken with rosemary and garlic for dinner and feels the chanterelles would be best served over creamy polenta, next to the sweet, late beets and sautéed greens from the garden. When the bird comes out of the oven and the polenta has thickened, I quarter the mushrooms the long way and drop them into a hot, dry pan. As they sizzle, releasing their fragrant moisture, I add a chunk of butter and a little crushed garlic. And before the “sauce” can evaporate, I pour the contents of the pan over each serving of steaming cornmeal pudding. An incredible, savory aroma fills the kitchen.

  The flavors are even better. There’s the warm, comforting chicken with crispy, garlic-scented skin. The mineral sweetness of cold-weather beets and their contrasting, slightly bitter greens. The hearty, creamy cornmeal texture of polenta…and, of course, the chanterelles: a mild, earthy taste of the forest with natural buttery hints enhanced by the actual butter I added – distinctive, but much less assertive than shiitakes or portobellos. Nothing like grocery-store button mushrooms at all. Stacy can’t wait, and picks hot chanterelle pieces directly from the pan with her fingers. Skyla gamely eats a few, although without much gusto.

  “Weston,” I say, “you’re eating everything but the chanterelles; give ’em a try.” He spears one with his fork and examines it closely. Sniffs it. And nibbles the tiniest corner before spitting it out with a frown. “Chantrulls…I say blech!” he says, already scooping a spoonful of chanterelle-free polenta into his mouth. Could there be a better chanterelle-picking partner? Finds and picks but doesn’t eat the treasured harvest. Perfect.

  Late at night, the pounding rain returns, driven from the south by a rising 30-knot gale. Drops pelt the bedroom windows like thrown gravel. Our brief intermission is over and the storm parade marches on. There’s a long winter ahead, but I think we’re ready for it. As I drift off to sleep, I dream of finding a dead bear in the woods behind our house. I am overcome by an urgent need to drag the carcass away before the kids come outside. Pulling frantically on one enormous, outstretched paw, I discover that the bear isn’t dead after all, but sleeping. When he wakes, the bear is not more afraid of me than I am of him.

  CONVERSATION WITH A THREE-YEAR-OLD

  Weston: Why are we outside in the middle of the night, Daddy?

  Me: You have a little fever, bud. We’re just trying to cool you off. Can you smell the clean air?

  Weston: Queen? Like a girl king?

  Me: No, clean, like fresh from the rain…can you see the rain coming down?

  Weston: I’m not afraid of the dark.

  Me: Okay, good. We can just leave the porch light off then.

  Weston: Yeah, we don’t need the porch light…Dad? I think we should turn on the porch light.

  Me: Okay. There.

  Weston: I’m not afraid of the dark.

  Me: Hey, are you feeling better, bud?

  Weston: Yes. Can we go shark fishing?

  Me: Maybe this summer we can catch some dog sharks when we’re salmon fishing.

  Weston: Yeah, or a great white, or a mako, or a blacktip, or a tiger, or a whale shark.

  Me: Probably just dog sharks, but you never know. You ready to go back inside?

  Weston: I’m not afraid of the dark.

  Me: Okay, you feel cooler now. Let’s go up to bed. You ready?

  Weston: Dad? The air smells sweet like candy.

  LAST CHANCE

  Sweeney already has his deer, a beautiful, thick-shouldered, forked-horn he shot on the first day of the season. This little venison-craving piggy has none. In an obvious attempt to reduce the amount of meat I’m going to “borrow” this winter, Sweeney suggests we hunt the last day of the season together. And since he’s already tagged out, I will be doing all the shooting. Sounds good to me. Two sets of eyes and ears beat one, and if nothing else, it’ll be a good excuse to hang out together and spend some time in the woods. With another storm headed our way, conditions couldn’t be better. We should get our deer.

  Fact is, I haven’t been deer hunting in more than 20 years. Last time I went, my buddy, Nate, and I spent a foggy afternoon on a steep coastal hillside glassing the valley below. Late in the day, when the fog cleared, we spotted two does and a nice buck. Between us and the deer lay 200 yards of near-vertical, blackberry-covered slope, littered with old stumps and blowdowns. I put the crosshairs on the buck’s shoulder, steadied my breath…and couldn’t squeeze the trigger. I’m not sure why. The rough terrain provided a good excuse – neither of us wanted to haul a deer up that hill, especially in the dark – but there was something else going on. I just didn’t feel like killing a large animal anymore.

  In the years since, though, my taste for venison has grown. And grown. To the point where my mouth waters while chasing tame local deer from our garden and I feel hunger pangs at the sight of road kill on the highway. Fortunately, I have enough friends who are hunters that I can usually beg, grovel, and trade for deer meat to take the edge off my craving. I have traded everything from smoked salmon and chanterelles to firewood and even writing for deer.

  I’m not picky, either. I like it all. The pungent gaminess of our small, forest-dwelling western Washington blacktails; the tangy sage flavor of high-desert mule deer; the tender, marbled flesh of wheat-field whitetails…to me, it’s all good. We marinate thick rump steaks in olive oil, garlic, and rosemary, then sear them rare in a hot cast-iron pan. Scraps – usually labeled “stew meat” – are never wasted on stew in our house, but instead skewered and quickly charred over white-hot coals. Sausage patties, well-seasoned and mixed with pork fat and apples, have become our favorite breakfast meat. And the coveted, melt-in-your mouth backstrap that nobody ever wants to part with…well, the only problem is, nobody ever wants to part with it.

  My feelings about killing a deer are changing. Not back to the pure bloodlust I felt when I was younger, or because of my current yearning for venison, but somehow connected to having children. Part of it is a concern for our health that has grown with our awareness of the antibiotics and growth hormones used in industrial meat production. But there’s also a sense that we, as carnivores, should participate – at least on some level – in procuring the meat we eat. There’s really only one solution: Go get my own deer.

  Two hours before dawn, Sweeney and I pull into a gas station convenience store for coffee. The rising wind swirls dry leaves through the halo of white fluorescent glare around the pumps. A neon sign in the window advertises BEER BAIT AMMO, and the parking lot bustles with hunters packing two of the three items out to their trucks by the case. Nobody’s going fishing, either. Business is booming, and with good reason – we are just outside a vast private forest that produces one of the highest deer harvest rates in western Washington. The timber company that owns the land manages it for maximum lumber production, with a byproduct of exceptionally robust deer numbers. As a gesture of goodwill – or shrewd public relations – they open this parcel to the public during deer season, and hunters respond by converging en masse. We won’t be alone in the woods today.

  When I express some concern about the Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms crowd running through the forest fully locked and loaded, Sweeney says
it actually works in our favor. “With all the people and this wind, the deer’ll have to keep moving. We should see a lot of deer.” I pull on my fluorescent orange vinyl “hunter safety” vest in the parking lot, wishing it was Kevlar.

  We turn off the paved road five miles beyond the gas station, pass through an open gate, and start up a winding, muddy two-track in pitch-black night. Sweeney stops to lock the hubs on his old black Chevy truck and gets back into the cab soaking wet. “Weather’s perfect,” he says, without irony. Worn-out wiper blades chatter across the windshield and I can hear wind whipping through the trees.

  Halfway up the mountain as the truck crawls along in four-low, a big doe streaks through the headlights and disappears into a wall of sapling firs. A few minutes later, another deer, possibly a spike, bounds across the road. A good sign, but the reprod – reproduction timber – planted along the road for future harvest is too thick to hunt. Hell, you couldn’t walk through it sideways. The density of wrist-thick trunks and brushy foliage, grown in typical monoculture style, is no accident. It’s designed to block sunlight and suppress the growth of any less profitable vegetation. During hunting season, reprod also provides ideal refuge for the deer. Shooting time won’t start for another half hour, so we continue up the increasingly steep road. It could be the convenience-store coffee, but my heart’s beating a little faster now.

  We park the truck on the edge of an apocalyptic landscape. The clear-cut stretches out below us, 100 acres of treeless earth, the ground shredded by heavy equipment and littered with piles of stumps, root wads, and branches waiting to be burned. To anyone other than a deer hunter (or timber corporation accountant) it would be an atrocity…but today, we’re looking for deer, not beauty. And this is prime deer habitat. The ravaged ground, newly open to the sun, grows thick with young shrubs and tender, sweet grass. A deer feedlot. Without trees to obscure our view, we have clear sight lines all the way across.