A few weeks ago, I promised my two youngest daughters that I would take them hiking. The older children were all back-packing (a last sibling's trip before my oldest marries), and the rest of us needed something fun to look forward to. I had chosen a short hike on the Applachian Trial near our home that leads to a large rock outcrop with a view over a lake with mountains as far as the eye can see. Though our area seems to be overtaken with development, there are still spots where you can see wide views with no sign of human habitation.
But Sunday afternoon was hot, and we were all feeling listless and unmotivated to look for adventure and scenic overlooks. I almost didn't go. I was afraid I'd have to conjole and drag my reluctant companions up the mountain. I had to battle my own desire to stay on the couch in the AC.
I waited until late afternoon, hoping that it would cool off, but finally started out in the Pennsylvania August humidity. Though we had hiked it several times with Ed years ago, and I thought I knew how to find the trailhead, I turned down a wrong road and had to turn around, listening to more complaints.
Finally we headed off with our backpack loaded with water and snacks. The last time we had hiked this trail, the girls had to be carried part way, but now they could usually outwalk me, so I wasn't worried about making it to the overlook. But the trail is steep, with constant rocks underfoot to naviagate, and soon I was hearing, "How long till the top?"
The trail was feeling longer than I remembered, but I didn't want to admit that to them. I was beginning to wonder if I had missed the sidetrail to the overlook, when my youngest spotted a tiny red mushroom on the trail. It was no bigger than a fingernail, and sported the classic spots that I've seen on countless mushroom pictures, but never seen in real life. I didn't actually know if such mushrooms truly exists in the wild or were conjured up by artists.
I had vaguely noticed that there were numerous mushrooms along the trail - just the plain boring white or tan mushrooms, but my daughter's discovery made me start noticing mushrooms.
We found a big red mushroom lined with gold. Then a pair of tall skinny mushrooms the exact color of the leaves they emerged from. Next a big yellow puffball. Then two mushrooms, bigger than my hand, which were emerging from under a rock, together picking up the rock. What?! At every turn there was a new discovery.
I had never seen anything like it. Mushrooms were everywhere. Was in the time of year? The unusally rainy weather? The August humidity? The soil on that side of the mountain? The type of trees growing?
We arrived at the overlook, ate our snack, and oohed at the view, with my heart jumping every time the girls leaned toward the edge. Mushrooms felt safer, and daylight was leaving, so I urged my girls back down the trail.
Our eyes were now opened. What a difference. We were traveling down the same path we came up, but now at every step we spotted mushrooms that we had walked by an hour before. Mushrooms emerged from logs, banks, and on moss-covered rocks. They were bright red, copper, yellow, orange, gold, and purple. They were tiny - smaller than a penny - and larger than a dinner plate. They were all shapes and textures - rough and smooth, skinny and fat. They were standing alone, tucked in beside a larger one like a baby and mama, and stacked in clusters.
At times we stopped at random places on the trail and said, "How many mushrooms can we see from this spot?" A glance may decieve us into thinking there were none, but wait, let our eyes adjust, and mushrooms began to pop out of the landscape. We took dozens of pictures. We wondered how so many different kinds could be in such a small area. Were the mushrooms mutating into other varieties, or was this normal? I realized I knew nothing about mushrooms.
We met only two other hikers and stopped to exclaim about the incredible mushrooms. We felt rich, like we were privy to an experience that no one else in the world had ever experienced. Of course, many others may have had a similiar experience, but it was fresh and new to me. I told my girls that they were seeing something at ages ten and twelve that I had never seen until I was fifty and that most people never see.
We made it back to our car and pulled away, wondering what other wonderous places the woods contained. Did every square foot of this mountainside hold the magical mushrooms that we had just seen? Did God place them in our path on a random Sunday to bless a tired cranky mom and her two daughters?
Does He often place abundant beauty on my path hoping that I'll notice?