Grasses of various colors covered the water slowly moving down the hill
to meet three creeks that became one, all under the watch of the great Douglas
Firs growing abundant and strong. Fallen
logs covered in waterlogged moss surrounded the marshy ravine fresh with the
aroma of rotting soil and sporting red and green small leaf plants. Ferns grow throughout the area; small deer
ferns and large sword ferns are green and vivacious as the bracken ferns are
yellow and flaccid. Oregon grape grows
along the hillsides, some still with dark purple-blue fruit, its’ pinnate
leaves glistening with moisture. Many
plants thrive here, but I am focusing on the rulers of this land, the fungi and
bacterium.
Atop and along the
dead and fallen logs fungi grow from small holes in the wood. A close look shows that three mushrooms are
all one organism, their thin mycelia threads connected below the surface. Fungi can grow to intense sizes, being some
of the largest organisms in the world.
The Honey Mushroom (Armillaria gallica)
is a single organism that covers 2,200 acres in Malheur National Forest in
Oregon. It is believed to be one of the
biggest known organisms in the world, but some argue that it may not be
considered a single organism because each mushroom that is visible does not
attribute to every other mushroom through its underground connection of mycelia
threads. Of course, it is easy to define
a single organism when we speak of a whale or elephant, but it gets difficult
when we study fungi, bacteria’s, or even large groves of trees.
I am unconcerned with this debate as I look at
the fungi around me. I am more amazed at
the variety of mushrooms, each having its own niche. Of course, the feelings aroused by such
subtle inhabitants of the wilderness are nothing new to me, but they are definitely
stronger than the last time I ventured into the woods with only a backpack and
my resourcefulness. It has been over a
year since I last went on a wilderness backpacking trip, a 27-mile hike through
the Bull of the Woods Wilderness with a backpacking class at Western Oregon
University. It was on that trip that I
started feeling a small pain in my testicle (the right to be exact).
The pain would turn
out to be testicular cancer, and I would be sidelined from many activities
throughout the next year from first the pain of the infected testicle, second
the pain of my orchiectomy (removal of infected testicle) and third, the nine weeks
and longer recovery of chemotherapy. It
would be this experience, and some of the knowledge I gained during the cancer
treatment that would give me an even more appreciative stance on not only the
plants, fungi, bacteria, and animals found in the wild, but also of the science
that finds cures for fatal diseases from these sources. Staring at the three mushrooms in the rotting
log I felt an appreciation for the little fungi’s.
Other mushrooms came
into site and I began to fall to the ground for close looks and close
pictures. As I examined this new
mushroom I mentally noted its red color, usually a sign of danger in the wild. Looking at it from the top it strongly
resembled an apple; dark red in the middle, rounded and varying in color to a
light red on its perimeter. It had two
cracks that exposed a soft white core, again resembling an apple, yet unlike
the apple this thing would probably kill if eaten, maybe seizing the kidneys of
stopping the heart. Mushrooms are
deadly, beautiful beings. On my close examination
of the mushroom (which I have yet to identify) I sniffed the ground. The mildew, dusty smell entered my nose and I
was reminded of the bacterium that are responsible for breaking down the plant
matter that then turns to the rich soil all the fungi grow from. It is also one of these hundreds of bacteria
that helped save my life.
Bleomycin, a
chemotherapy drug used for testicular, among other cancers, is produced from
the bacterium Streptomyces verticillus. I am not familiar with the exact scientific
procedures used to turn the bacteria to a chemo drug, and I don’t think I would
be too interested. What I do know is
that bleomycin is a frightening drug, capable of destroying ones body. When I was first given bleo (as it is called
by nurses, doctors, and the informed patient) I was given just a small amount
of the clear fluid intravenously and the nurse stayed with me for an hour just
to watch my reaction. They were watching
for any signs of an allergic reaction, such as maybe my throat closing up and
rendering me useless. Luckily, I had no
adverse reaction and was able to get the full treatment of the bleo. With this I would also feel the wide range of
side effects bleo caused, including rash and fever.
Another side effect,
caused by the combination of bleo and two other chemo drugs, etoposide and
cisplatin, I was feeling throughout the trip into Marion Lake. This side effect would be the incredible leg
cramps and pain.
As
I began my trip into the wilderness with a forty pound pack on my legs immediately
felt dead and slightly painful. I tried
to ignore the pain by focusing on the surroundings. Large Douglas Firs grew all around me,
shooting into the sky and protecting me from much of the rain that fell through
the sky. Ferns and shrubs, glistening in
the rain grew around large stones and through thick layers of duff. I was enjoying the sites and holding back the
anxious pain as I treaded up the soft incline until a thought crossed my
mind. Did Travis, who hike twenty feet
in front of me, grab the two cans of soup from the car that I had bought for
dinner?
“Travis, did you
grab our dinner?” I yelled.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
We dropped our bags
and quickly made our way back down the trail to the car and quickly came back
to the bags. Once again the pain came to
my legs as I started up the switchbacks. It is only a three mile hike, and the
temperature is perfect for backpacking.
Cool enough to not sweat out to much precious fluid, but not so cold as
to freeze, as long as one keeps on the move.
My legs, after only another quarter of a mile are burning like I have
just run a marathon. My back is aching,
a sharp pain in the swell of it, where my backpack rests. I breathe hard, my heart pounds, and I am
already sweating under my light raincoat and waterproof, black brimmed
hat.
The trail starts at
3,371 feet according to my GPS. The
camp we will eventually stay in is at 4,059 feet. Only a 700 foot elevation rise, yet it is killing
me. One year ago I did the
aforementioned twenty-seven mile
backpacking trip, with much more elevation gain and loss and did not feel
anything like I am now. As I hike up the
Marion Lake Trail I begin to get frustrated and angry.
Yet I still notice
the small red leaves growing through the duff, the sound of the creek flowing
harshly in the canyon to my left. No
matter how much it hurts or how angry I get, nature keeps going. I have to stop several times to let my leg
muscles get some rest. I am on the switchbacks now and forcing my way up the
trail. I am still angry and frustrated,
but then something clicks. I think back
to the day I was in the backyard, hairless from the chemotherapy and enjoying a
quick dose of sunlight (too much sunlight was not good for me, but at times I
had to feel it’s warm glare). As I
stood, my dog ran by with a toy and I gave chase. Two running steps later and I fell back,
landing hard on my ass, my vision blurring and my body an aching mess. As the dog ran around me I had to sit for ten
minutes just to get the energy to stand up and stagger inside to the
couch. My breath came in gasps through a
tight chest. I would sleep for hours
after the exertion of two steps.
The fatigue was horrible, taking everything from
me. I live in a townhouse, and at times
I would literally have to crawl up the small flight of stairs to make it to my
bedroom. Now, I was pushing up a series
of switchbacks with a forty pound pack.
Only five months ago I had been hospitalized because I was too weak from
my chemotherapy and now I was reaching the top the switchbacks. I felt like the further I pushed the more I
felt like saying “Screw you cancer, I beat you!” But to say that scares me, for the cancer can
strike again. So instead I pushed on,
letting my aching legs ache and enjoying the dull sense of accomplishment.
I spent two hours examining and taking pictures of the mushrooms. From small white fungi, to large fungi growing like tumors off the trees, I am content to walk back to camp. As I hit the trail I see a yellow mass, coral like and growing out of the earth. It is yet another fungi and I am amazed at how it looks. It appears, as I said, to look like soft coral, an ocean creature growing within the woods. I hit the ground and take a close up look, my body feeling nothing of the cancer effects as my mind is elsewhere, in the realm of the amazing.
I spent two hours examining and taking pictures of the mushrooms. From small white fungi, to large fungi growing like tumors off the trees, I am content to walk back to camp. As I hit the trail I see a yellow mass, coral like and growing out of the earth. It is yet another fungi and I am amazed at how it looks. It appears, as I said, to look like soft coral, an ocean creature growing within the woods. I hit the ground and take a close up look, my body feeling nothing of the cancer effects as my mind is elsewhere, in the realm of the amazing.
I go back to the
point that I now seem even more interested, and astonished, by the gifts of
nature. Not to say that I had not been
amazed and astonished before my cancer treatment. I have always seen nature as God, not nature
as God’s creation. Likewise, I see
nature as my church, my place of worship, a place for my own religious
experience, lacking the doctrines of the establishment that proposes humans as
special. We are not for we are just
nature.
Nature does not
judge, does not befriend, does not save you if you pray and does not promise
heaven. Nature does what it does, and
that is true Paradise. As Edward Abbey said in his landmark book Desert
Solitaire,
Now when I write of
paradise I mean Paradise, not the
banal Heaven of the saints. When I write
“paradise” I mean not only apple trees and golden women but also scorpions and
tarantulas and flies, rattlesnakes and Gila monsters, sandstorms, volcanoes and
earthquakes, bacteria and bear, cactus, yucca, bladderweed, ocotillo and
mesquite, flashfloods and quicksand, and yes-disease and death and the rotting
of flesh. (167)
I have learned what
Abbey speaks of, and continue to learn by my experience. From the examples of the mushrooms that grow
from death to the trees that die to give life, from the cancer that tries to
kill to the medicines derived from
bacteria and American Mayapple[i]
that try to heal, from the water that deforms the rocks to the grotesque shapes
we postcard every summer, nature has the first, and final say. We must learn to listen, as I have to the
fungi and bacteria around Marion Lake.
My first backpacking
trip since my fight with cancer, and trust me, the fight still rages in my mind
every day. I still envision the
mushrooms and smell the bacteria of today and feel the vomit and fever of
yesterday. With this I praise the earth
and take solace in the fact that as nature effectively killed me every three
weeks (my cancer doubled in size every three weeks) nature cured me. It was a fight for survival between the two
most powerful forces on earth-nature vs. nature. Darwin spoke of it in 1859 and we live it every
day. The struggle for existence is not
beyond us, and the struggle may be within the nature that we so willingly
oppress and lethargically enjoy. In time
we may learn, learn to love nature like it loves us, which is not love at
all. It is not hate, it is not envy. The trees do not hate us for cutting them
down the same as I don’t hate nature for giving me cancer. It just is what has happened. But, there is one difference. While we, like nature, destroy other nature
to survive, nature only takes what is needed.
The mushrooms only
take the small bit of land they need to survive and reproduce. They live symbiotically with the surrounding
trees and plants, not hurting and most of the time healing. They also kill humans if ingested, or make us
see God in a fit of hallucinating triumph; much like the peyote shows us
visions of nature. Bullshit all of it,
but so is much of life. The mushrooms
know this, but not like we know it. The
mushrooms are genetically wired to know that it does not matter if you die, or
what it is that kills you, what matters is only that you hold on as long as
possible, and multiply, and flourish, and try not to be eaten alive from the
outside in or the inside out. Surviving
is the ultimate goal.
Abbey, Edward.
Desert Solitaire. Simon &
Schuster, 1968. Page 167.
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