Artist's Conks are the grandfather polypores of the winter forest. Unlike other mushrooms whose "...whole career Is shorter than a snake's delay, And fleeter than a tare."* these can live for many years witnessing all seasons. They bear more resemblance to the rotting trees they cling to than to any clammy, temperamental relative. Adopting the ways of their host, their age can be told by their rings, they taste as dull as wood. They break off from old bark leaving the sawdust of a dying tree crumbled in your hands. What sets them apart is their smooth underbelly. This chalky gesso-like surface can be permanently tattooed – etched– signaling the wood burning tools and fire rings of summer camp. *"The Mushroom," by Emily Dickinson
I checked the hillside again today, the same one that I have scoured for the past two years. To my mind it has all the right conditions: it's a hundred yards off the trail on a southwestern slope with partial sun; there's a hearty colony of May apples which they are known to like; dead elms strewn about; evidence of burnt wood--all these conditions that should ("should") make it a rich and fruitful location. But like every day before it, I found nothing.