Mushroom Foraging your Guide in the Vail Valley

By Kimberly Nicoletti

HAWK’S WINGS Sarcodon imbricatus

TThe biggest “threat” of getting into mushroom foraging may not be poisonous species; the most common risk that seems to come with foraging involves its addictive nature.

Kristen and Trent Blizzard began foraging for mushrooms in the Vail Valley about 10 years ago, and these days, their “addiction” has taken them into the forests of Wisconsin and the Pacific Northwest. They even wrote a book, published in 2020, titled Wild Mushrooms: A Cookbook and Foraging Guide , which provides “everything you need to know to make mushrooming a lifestyle choice, from finding and storing to preserving and preparing common and unusual species,” according to the book description.

“This obsession has totally taken root, and it grows,” Kristen Blizzard believes. “It feels like, in a way, some sort of DNA switch flips on, igniting an ancestral hunter-gatherer gene. Part of it is about the hunt, and part of it is the thrill of being outside and seeing the connectedness in nature, and all of it turns into this passion. This long-lost genetic code is driving you to become a person who collects food and preserves it for the long winter, and at the same time, it’s a treasure hunt, like an Easter egg hunt for adults.”

The itch can begin with finding and identifying your first mushroom in the forest, or it can nip you when you find an amazing stash.

Kristen Blizzard was exposed to foraging through Walking Mountain Science Center, then met Trent, who had peripheral experience through friends. The couple attended the Telluride Mushroom Festival and began foraging together, and then “had one of those days where you hit the motherload, and it kinda creeps in and takes over and becomes an obsession,” Kristen Blizzard shares.

Of course, sometimes, learning from friends involves rites of passage. Trent Blizzard’s friend took him on a 10-mile hike in the Glenwood area, only to return to the car and say, “Let’s check here.”

Sure enough, they found a massive amount of mushrooms about 500 feet away. Trent called Kristen, and they continued to hunt for several hours.

“There’s a chemical dopamine response that triggers your brain, and you want to find it again and again,” says Trent Blizzard.

And oftentimes, mushrooms are like little tricksters in the forest. You may hunt all day for them only to find them close to where you started or simply at the end of the day.

Krista Schoenberg and her husband also got hooked their second year of foraging; her inspiration began working at Beano’s Cabin under a chef that foraged for all kinds of edibles in the forest. Then, she and her husband got hooked when they found a field of mushrooms so abundant that they filled their backpack, which was so heavy and full they had to take turns carrying it down the trail.

Schoenberg loves exploring the forest floor, slowly meandering, a method of “wandering and taking it all in,” she says.

DON’T LIKE MUSHROOMS?

According to Kristen and Trent Blizzard, that’s like saying you don’t like fish.

“There’s definitely as much diversity in mushrooms as there is in fish,” Trent Blizzard says. “They all taste so different, and they’re full of protein, vitamins and minerals. They’re a very healthy part of the diet.”

Chanterelles have a fruity taste, porcinis offer a very earthy taste, saffron milk caps have a mildly nutty, woodsy flavor, hawk’s wings are the most “mushroomy” of the bunch and puffballs, while mild and delicious, absorb the flavors around them like tofu does, Kristen Blizzard explains.

And, as the Blizzard’s point out in their book, “One of the best things about cooking wild mushrooms is that every time you open your dried caches, their unique aroma recalls your foraging experience, creating an immediate and visceral connection back to the forest. There is no finer way to appreciate food.”

“For anyone saying they don’t like mushrooms, they’re missing out on a whole world of foodie adventure,” Kristen Blizzard says.

“It takes time, but the more you go out and pay attention to the terrain and altitude and specific trees [the more you find],” she says. “Porcinis are my favorite; they’ve got such a fantastic flavor, and they’re so cute when you find them in the forest, because there’s usually a little moss around them. The minute you find one, it’s like this addiction to keep looking and see what you’re going to find.”

So, how do you find mushrooms?

In Eagle County, most grow above 10,500 feet in and around mixed conifer forest openings and edges, with the exception of blonde morels, which grow in springtime under cottonwood trees in riparian areas. However, Kristen Blizzard says morels are a bit elusive in Colorado. Although, they do grow prolifically in old wildfire scars one year after the wildfire, as long as the area receives average rainfall. For example, the 2021 Sylvan wildfire in Eagle produced hundreds of pounds of morels, she says.

As the season progresses, black morels grow alongside conifers and aspens at higher elevations.

From mid-July through September (and sometimes into early October), mushrooms like porcini, chanterelle, oyster, hawk’s wing, saffron milk cap, shrimp russula and puffballs emerge above 10,000 feet.

Of these eight edible mushrooms (including morels) that grow locally, porcini tends to be king.

“It’s one of the most widely loved mushrooms, with its pleasant, earthly flavor,” Trent Blizzard says, contrasting them with another popular mushroom, the morel, which offers a “totally different textural experience with beefy ridges and pits that hold a lot of sauces,” he adds.

About 40 species of chanterelles grow worldwide, but only one stands out in Colorado, perhaps due to our more arid climate; the mushrooms have a fruity, apricot taste, so the Blizzards make apricot jam with them and serve it with baked brie; it also pairs well with pork, they say.

Similarly, hawk’s wings are only considered edible in the Rocky Mountains. Everywhere else, they’re bitter.

“If I had to pick one to be the state mushroom, hawk’s wing would be it,” explains Trent Blizzard. “Think of it as a beginner mushroom (because it’s easy to identify). The top looks like a hawk’s wing, and the bottom, instead of pores like the porcini, or gills, has teeth; it looks like a shag carpet on the bottom.”

The saffron milk cap is unique in that it lactates a milky substance when it’s cut.

“You can go in three directions in the Vail Valley — north, south and east; it’s all full of mushrooms,” says Trent Blizzard.

Friends ask the Blizzards if they’re afraid of dying from poisonous mushrooms, and while they caution foragers to do their homework, they say once you learn a lot, identifying poisonous mushrooms is like distinguishing between a brown trout and a rainbow trout.

While mushrooms in other areas of the United States, such as the Pacific Northwest and Midwest, can kill you, “You’d be hard-pressed to die from a mushroom in the Vail Valley,” Trend Blizzard shares. “There are a lot more plants in the forest that can hurt you than mushrooms.”

“At the same time,” Kristen Blizzard says, “the disclaimer around mushroom hunting is: do not eat anything you can’t identify 100%.”

Foragers like the Blizzards spent years going out with knowledgeable friends, attending mushroom festivals, joining mycological societies (there’s one in Denver and an emerging one in Glenwood) and learning about various mushrooms.

“We started with two species, then five, then 12 mushrooms, and now, we know of maybe 50 edible mushrooms,” Kristen Blizzard says. “Start slowly, and make sure you put in the time to increase your learning curve.”

Shrimp russula actually smells a bit fishy, like shrimp, and it’s a little harder to identify for newbies, because look-alikes also grow in the forest.

Puff balls are common in Eagle County but not as desirable to eat as others, Trent Blizzard reveals.

Lobster mushrooms are another edible mushroom, with a dense texture and a nutty, sweet smell reminiscent of steamed lobster. However, they’re found mostly on the Front Range near ponderosa pines.

“It’s an onion with a lot of layers. The more you learn, the more you grow,” Trent Blizzard says, explaining how there are medicinal mushrooms, as well as the science of mycology and the symbiotic relationship of mushrooms and trees (for example, mushrooms extract moisture and nutrients out of the soil and give it back to the tree, while the tree provides sugars for the mushroom). “It’s a pretty big world once you start investigating it. Your curiosity has many avenues to go down, and it’s a diverse community.”

Indeed, foraging draws people from all kinds of backgrounds, and “We all get along,” Kristen Blizzard says.

“You find people who are scientists, citizen scientists, foodies or those interested in the medicinal and psychoactive (aspects),” she adds. “There are a lot of angles that bring people in, and then you kind of expand from there.” +

“Why do you think this class is called Journeys?” I posed this question to my juniors as we read two different pieces of literature — Into the Wild and The Great Gatsby. They were perplexed until they saw the ways that literary themes mirror our own lives. In Chris McCandless’ escape to Alaska and attempted transition toward a transcendental lifestyle, students could counterpose their outdoor experiences to those of McCandless and the other adventure seekers listed by Jon Krakauer. The journeys in Gatsby are abstract, but once students saw the chase of materialism, success, love and all that the past has locked away, they connected to Fitzgerald’s classic story.

Journeys define us; in literature and in nature we see a singular journey reflect the themes that guide our lives, one step or decision at a time. Last year, I was asked to give an alumni speech at my high school in Memphis, and I told the students my story since graduation — the multitude of twists and turns leading me to find a home in Eagle County. Each step of my journey led me to this community, where my days are occupied teaching students and my weekends are filled with long run (or ski) adventures.

On a July day last year, my friend Marisa and I set out to conquer the Halo Ridge Loop in Holy Cross Wilderness. When she first sent me the route on All Trails, I responded, “Let’s do it!” My

By Maddie Rhodes

zealousness to summit Holy Cross and Notch in one day overcame the concerns I should have had about the terrain and our preparedness.

Holy Cross was first photographed in 1873 by William Henry Jackson. The 14,005-foot mountain is known for its couloirs shaped like a cross, holding snow and ice into late summer. It has long been a site of mythology and pilgrimage. Since the early 20th century, hikers and outdoor enthusiasts have ventured to Holy Cross Wilderness to submit themselves, body and soul, to nature and divinity in the hopes of curing rare illnesses and absolving sins. Many of us view it from a distance in Vail during summer hikes, rides and runs. In his 1869 book, The Switzerland of America, Sam Bowles wrote of the cross, “One of the largest and finest, the snow fields lay in the form of an immense cross, and by this it is known in all the territory. It is as if God has set his sign, his seal, his promise there — a beacon upon the very center of the continent to all its people and all its generations…”

Marisa and I camped at the Halfmoon campground the night before we set out on our adventure. We scoped the signage at the trailhead, reading quotes by Henry David Thoreau and Arne Ness, absorbing the silence and scents of pine and dust that Holy Cross Wilderness offered. In the final moments of light, we laid out our clothes and packs of water and snacks. We were prepared. Outside the tent, we sat in camping chairs and talked about life. At 9:30 p.m. we went to sleep, alarms set for 3:30 a.m.

Raindrops hit the cover of the tent like marbles that night. We woke up in a daze of excitement, exhaustion and predawn darkness. With our GPS watches set, we took off, headlamps lighting the way.

Climbing Holy Cross, one of Colorado’s 58 14ers, requires preparation. Though touted as a holy place, The Colorado Springs Gazette titled a 2012 article, “Mount of the Holy Cross: Colorado’s Bermuda Triangle” due to the number of mysterious hiker deaths and disappearances. We had done research on the route through word of mouth and reading online reviews. One stated, “If you’ve got a few other 14ers under your belt, this loop won’t be too much to handle. Halo ridge is arduous, but I wouldn’t call it dangerous. Lots of false summits.” The route on the app said it would take about 10 hours to complete. We were both well-worn hikers and trail runners training for fall races. We planned to hike up Holy Cross, run across the ridge and down the other side. I thought there was no way it could take 10 hours.

As we summited the first climb, we watched the super moon shine next to the peak of Holy Cross and the sun rise behind our backs. The silence of the wilderness as day broke reminded us why this place amassed its fame. We continued as the trail got steeper, rockier, and we emerged out of tree line again. This time, where the trees ended, the talus began. But in between the rocks grew wildflowers galore — purples, pinks, blues and greens poked through the cracks. We followed the trail by cairns, lunging from one rock to another, from marker to marker. After just over four hours, we summited Holy Cross.

We sat at the summit, eating granola bars, sipping water and talking to other summiters. One man dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, sweatshirt and shoes that looked like Vans approached the top from the ridge we planned to climb down. He started the loop counter-clockwise. He told us he was coming from Notch, and he guided us in the right direction, assuring us we would make it. He didn’t look prepared for a 10-hour trek. Marisa and I, questioning if we should continue, felt more confident after talking to him, and set off down the ridge.

We continued climbing over talus toward the next peak, sure the terrain would flatten soon. When we reached the top, we took a self-timed picture on my phone — the bowl of tears just out of frame to the left and two unnamed high alpine lakes in the background on the right. We were having fun.

Ridge after ridge, we descended and ascended, each revealing a string of several peaks and valleys before us, all covered in enormous rocks. The terrain we expected to run, we realized, we would crawl over, one boulder at a time. As we progressed, I noticed a dark cloud developing to the south. We were running out of time. We skipped our planned breaks to get back below tree line before the storm developed. It was only 11 a.m.

As we neared the hut on the top of Notch Mountain, after about six hours of crawling across a ridge of scree, Marisa pointed out Gilman in the distance. We could just see the mine shaft building and abandoned houses below perched on the cliff of Battle Mountain, the Eagle River flowing beneath. I wanted to stop and watch the town, but we didn’t have time. We needed to keep moving to avoid bad weather.

We reached the hut at the top of Notch Mountain and wondered aloud how it got there. Since childhood, I roughly knew the story of Gilman and the early residents of this valley, but it wasn't until I moved here as an adult that I researched the town’s real history and relation to the land. I wanted to know how it felt to live in a town perched on the side of a mountain, surrounded only by wilderness largely untouched.

Ute Indians first called this wilderness home. They roamed and hunted animals like buffalo, elk and deer. Colorado and Utah were their land until prospectors began to lay their own claims to the area and the precious metals beneath the mountains. With miners came railroads, new settlements and no space for the Ute. Nathan C. Meeker was appointed the Indian agent for the area around Red Cliff and Gilman. In 1878, he was killed for demanding the Ute abandon their nomadic tradition for agriculture. Following the Meeker Massacre, the Ute were moved to reservations.

Residents of Gilman 100 years ago recall hiking, camping, riding horses, exploring the wilderness, fishing, skiing and sledding — living every moment outside. Vesta Coursen writes about her family’s arrival from New York, “Never shall I forget the feeling of insignificance that day. We three tiny creatures on a little dirt road dug out of the side of that massive, towering, sheer brown moun- tain! We were many days in adjusting to this sensation so that we again felt normal in size. But small as we were, we walked without fear, wondering if every shiny pebble could be gold.”

Marisa and I retraced the steps of Gilman residents and felt their presence in the Notch cabin, which was built in 1934 for day hikers like us. It’s hard to fathom trekking thousands of vertical feet with supplies to build a cabin, but they did it to admire Holy Cross, to shelter those enjoying the wilderness from danger, to lay their mark on the land and allow future generations to absorb the powers of Holy Cross Wilderness, if they survived its challenges.

We didn’t stay in the cabin for more than a couple minutes. We resumed jogging the trail heading down the side of Notch Mountain. Our legs were tired and heavy, but the storm cloud was growing larger, darker, closer. After we made it down the first few switchbacks, a thunderclap hurried our pace. We were still at least a mile above tree line. We ran down the trail into the safety of the spruce and aspen forest, several miles ahead of us. Despite our panic and fear of the sky, it never rained. We didn’t hear another thunderclap or see a lightning strike, but we knew not to slow down. We had been warned.

After a successful descent, nachos in Minturn and a long conversation about never trying that again, Marisa and I parted ways. That night, I researched old newspaper articles about deaths and disappearances in Holy Cross Wilderness. The lesson I gathered was the importance of preparedness and understanding nature’s cues. Marisa and I didn’t communicate about the storm except once or twice, but we didn’t need to. We’ve been hiking in Colorado for most of our lives, and we know how quickly a storm can turn. We both saw the cloud forming above our heads, and we knew we needed to get off the mountain before it hit.

In the days that followed, our friends asked us how it went, and our response never varied. We were glad we did it, but we discourage others from attempting the same route. The more we pondered those ridges, the hours spent above 13,000 feet, the more we realized how much danger we had been in that day. We were grateful Holy Cross looked favorably upon us. +