Sometimes,
if you’re looking hard, you can see the mushrooms from the cockpit of a de
Havilland beaver. Flying low after a misty morning, the large
reddish-brown circles pop from the lush green tundra, your eye drawn to the
dramatic color change.
The morning's gray foggy drizzle gave way to warm sunshine in the late
afternoon, so Marco flew low along Pike’s Ridge on our journey home.
Watching him scour the landscape through the Plexiglas of the maroon de
Havilland Beaver, I joined the visual hunt. From under the deep green spruce
trees and chartreuse tundra bushes lacing the ridge, King Boletes lay
plentiful. Through headsets, we formulated a plan.
That evening, with the arctic sun still shining, we motored along four wheeler
paths towards the ridge. King Boletes may jump out of the tundra when you
are looking from above, but from ground, they cloak themselves in the thick flourishing
foliage of blueberries and junipers. Just like any other edible mushroom, they
merely peek out when you’re hunting and only after you’ve thoroughly
searched. (Almost like they wait
for you to put your time in.)
We crept along the dirt path scanning the green tundra with such intensity,
time stood still. Then spotting a touch of brown, I broke the silence, “Hey, there’s
one!” We soon ran knives through the fat stems of an endless patch. I
gazed up from treasure hunting to see Marco wearing a smug grin as he cut
another from the group, careful to leave some behind. I remember
wondering if his grin belonged to the moment or to the future. And weeks later, around a small table
in his cabin seated in front of an oversized plate holding delicate pieces of
homemade ravioli drizzled with wild mushroom creme sauce, I'll think I found
the answer.
As the arctic sun dipped slowly away, we rode home. Rounding a bend in
the road, a small creek meandered through the dwarf spruce and cut right
through the center of a thick low-growing blueberry patch. Streaks of
reddish sunlight broke through the dark greens, bathing the area with sparkling
gems of warm orange light. I stopped in my tracks. Glancing over, I caught Marco
already smiling and nodding. Sometimes, when I’m not looking, I stumble
across what can only be defined as wonder.
I miss my friend, Marco
Alletto, who disappeared while flying (along with three Katmai National Park employees) two years ago today.
Last year’s post, One Year Later, can be read HERE.
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| End of Day, Marco's de Havilland Beaver, 2008 photo by k8 |
