Frequently Wrong, Rarely in Doubt

You know that thing where you decide to get into a new hobby to be a better, more enlightened person? A person who communes with nature, understands the intricate dance of ecosystems, and maybe, just maybe, learns to forage for their own food? Yeah, that was me. My mom and I signed up for the Annual Foray for the Arizona Mycological Society. We were ready to fill baskets, to learn the difference between a mushroom that tastes like heaven and one that makes you question your life choices. I was basically going to be a wood nymph, only with cell service and a crippling caffeine addiction.

The reality, however, was less “wood nymph” and more “bone-dry desert.” I’m not sure if you’re aware, but Arizona is a little…parched. The conditions were dry, which is apparently bad for mushrooms, but it meant each find was a small victory. I got to spend the weekend with my mom, talking to other foragers and learning a ton about mushrooms as medicine; dyeing with mushrooms, and mushroom identification. We only found two types of edible mushrooms, but they were worth the effort: Wood Ears and the glorious Amanita Cesar. The Amanita Cesar, in particular, was an absolute revelation—rich, earthy, and so much better than the Wood Ears, which were… bland. It was less about the quantity and more about the quality, a valuable lesson in a world that always expects more.

But the mushroom-related success was just the side dish for the main course of my personal brand of chaos. On day one, when we got to the campsite, Ron, our campground host, greeted us. “How many people are coming?” he says. “Two” I say. “No,” he says “how many people in total?” “….Two…” I say. We go back and forth like this a few times before we figure it out. In a spectacular display of state run websites failing me (or, let’s be honest, me thinking I don’t need to read the whole website), I hadn’t just rented an individual campsite. No, I had somehow managed to rent the entire campground. The whole thing. For the weekend. I was now, for all intents and purposes, a weekend land baron. I had a feeling the Arizona Mycological Society would have some very pointed questions about this, but I was busy trying to figure out if I could legally charge them for parking.

We had a great time searching for mushrooms over the next few days. And what was the logical reaction to finding almost zero mushrooms and accidentally becoming a feudal lord of a small patch of dirt? You guessed it. I immediately went online and spent a small fortune on mushroom grow kits and supplies. Because why would I learn from my mistakes when I can just throw money at the problem? The joy of finding a single, beautiful mushroom has now morphed into the logistical and financial nightmare of cultivating a fungus empire in my laundry room. I’ve gone from wanting to be a whimsical forager to a full-blown mycological industrialist. It’s giving “peak consumerism disguised as a deep connection to the earth.” Besides – I’m a land baron now – I can afford it. 

So, there you have it. My foray was less about finding mushrooms and more about finding myself—as a very mediocre landowner. The moral of the story is that there’s no such thing as a small hobby. It will either lead you to expensive equipment or unwanted property. My new motto is, “It’s not a failure, it’s a new business venture.”