“The largest living organism ever found is a honey mushroom, Armillaria ostoyae. It covers 3.4 square miles of land in the Blue Mountains of eastern Oregon, and it’s still growing.” That fascinating tidbit was published by

   The Keystone Cap, the newsletter of the Eastern Penn Mushroomers, a mushroom club I joined.

   Almost my whole life had passed before I realized that there’s an entire field of mycology (the study of fungi), pursued by professional mycologists, and cheered on by national and local mycological associations. These folks are not all weirdos spaced out on the psychedelic, wild “shrooms.”

   The significance of fungi goes well beyond the wonder drug of the 20th century — penicillin — the mold that sometimes grows on cantaloupe and bread. Fungi’s value even goes well beyond the vital role many play as natural recyclers of dead organic material in our planet’s ecosystems. 

   Another task performed by mycorrhizal fungi is on behalf of living trees. Hyphae threads of the fungus mycelium surround roots of partner trees, providing tree roots with essential minerals and moisture from the soil in exchange for sugars they need to thrive (an example of symbiosis). Some trees that depend on these friendly fungi are the Douglas fir, aspen, birch and some oaks. Edible mushrooms are also rich in human nutrients, including potassium, selenium, copper and B-complex vitamins.

   Scientists estimate that there are millions of different fungi on earth, yet only 50,000 or so are well-identified. They have peacefully coexisted with Mother Nature for about 10,000 years — a tribute to their reciprocal, purposeful niche. 

   One thing I’ve always enjoyed about mushrooms is their surprise appearance. Experienced mycologists are less surprised by when and where they pop up, but I’m still a complete amateur. I marvel that our modest backyard hosts dozens of different varieties from spring through late November, more so since we cut down two trees, and added wood chip mulch to a flowerbed. Once, I swear I saw two prized morels. I made some desperate calls, but was never confident enough to try one. I hoped if I let them alone, they would seed, and return to provide the cash crop I would need to retire ... I’m still working.

   Another attraction is their diversity and, yes, their beauty. Granted, different folks perceive beauty in different ways, and I’m drawn to the exotic, unusual and asymmetrical. Dispel your image of button mushrooms and either take a hike (literally), or look online or in the library at some of the true gems of the kingdom — We’re talking awesome in a universal way.

   Two autumns ago, as I was driving through Abington Township, a flashy, bright orange spectacle under a huge oak tree caught my eye. So much so that on my return route, I parked my car to have a closer look. What looked like pumpkins surrounding the tree were actually a prolific pageant of “jack-o-lantern” mushrooms. Just a few days later, they had already lost the glory I’d witnessed. I haven’t seen them since.

   That ephemeral quality of mushrooms is special. Mushroom observing sweeps you up in the moment. It helps you appreciate all life’s wondrous relationships and how to live life’s every precious moment. 

   A formal foray with knowledgeable club members makes a great introduction to this new world. I’m itching to go again.  Meanwhile, I content myself wandering neighborhoods and parks rich in substrate. 

   Ann L. Rappoport, Ph.D. has been a freelance writer for 30 years and is an award-winning consultant. She can be reached at rapporules@gmail.com.