The guy who wrote the book on New England mushrooms is leading a foraging walk Saturday and mine's been dog-eared since undergrad. Can't sit still. Would you spend a Saturday in the dirt with me?
The guy who wrote the book on New England mushrooms is leading a foraging walk Saturday and mine's been dog-eared since undergrad. Can't sit still. Would you spend a Saturday in the dirt with me?
Found a foraging walk this weekend and northern Maine is hitting peak — testing my headlamp already and it's only Tuesday. Come north with me?
First foliage report says isolated change statewide but I can see three maples turning from my couch and my well data called it in July. Autumn's asleep on my leg and I can't close the laptop. Come sit with us?
The first trees on my street just tipped yellow and I'm making ramen with the window open and nothing else on. Come over?
Up before the sun because apparently Saturdays don't mean anything to my internal clock. Iced coffee's ready and this shirt is all I'm committing to right now. Tell me you're still in bed?
The task force update just landed and severe drought spread to three more counties — my wells called it weeks ago. Can't sleep, can't think, gave up on everything else an hour ago. Would you tell me to stop?
Rain stopped and the chanterelles came up like someone flipped a switch. Nothing between me and this moss and I don't want to put anything back on. Come find me?
The first foliage report drops Wednesday and I've already got every weekend through October mapped out on my bed. This flannel was fully buttoned when I started. Want to help me pick a trail?
Found a lake with nobody on it and the water's still warm enough to pretend summer isn't over. My clothes are on that rock back there and I'm not in a hurry to go get them. Come swim with me?
First morning that actually feels like September — trail's empty and my basket's filling up fast. The flannel was buttoned when I left the car. You should see what this light is doing right now.