I can’t really call myself a mushroom hunter. I’ve only gone a handful of times. I still feel dependent on the expert eyes of a bona fide fungus identifier. But, living in the great northwest, I only have to glance around a room on any given chilly november day, and I will see the familiar signs on at least a few. The twinkling expectant eyes, the secretive in-the-know facial ticks, the spongy stain marks on their canvas bags, the damp rubber boots, the hushed voices, the moss in their hair, the fir needles stuck to their backsides. These are hunters. Their pray may be small and stationery but the rewards are numerous and delicious!