I was hiking on June 25th with my wife and my niece when I found the giant puffball on the right. I cut it in half to make sure it was still fresh enough to take home—and it was.
Then as we were driving the little road out from the trailhead, my niece, who was in the right-hand back seat, starts shouting, "Wait! Wait! Stop!"
She had spotted the other puffball. She has good instincts — she spent her teen years on my sister's farm, where aside from electricity and motor vehicles, it was pretty much 1890 — hand pump for water by the sink, wood heat, and the privy was out back. You blast the kudzu with a shotgun when it tries to crawl in through the screen door, that kind of thing.
"I never foraged from a car before," she said, climbing back in.
"That's doing it Texas-style," I said.
But seriously, while the Western Slope is baking, here in southern Colorado we are getting early tastes of monsoon weather, and I have never picked so many mushrooms this early at this altitude (below 8500 feet, give or take). It was the first year that we had the dehydrator running in June.
M. and I will be heading for higher country soon. We have hopes.
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