I am thankful to have finally found three different Xylaria species which are found on common fruits, seed pods, and hulls. Pictured below are:
1) Xylaria oxyacanthae, which is found on Carya sp. (Hickory, Walnut, Pecan) hulls.
2) Xylaria liquidambar, which is found on Sweetgum (Liquidambar styraciflua) fruit, aka “gumballs”.
3) Xylaria magnoliae, which is found on the seed pods of Magnolia sp.
If you want to read more about these three fascinating fungi, check out my writeup in the Alabama Mushroom Society’s June 2023 Newsletter!
Thoughts on National Audubon's Society's - Mushrooms of North America -
In April, my social media feeds went into a frenzy, mushroom enthusiasts striking silly poses with their shining copies of the new Audubon mushroom field guide. In the depths of my imagination, I envisioned a substantial-yet-organized text, suitable for the coffee table but likely to get dog-eared and stained by my afternoon tea and snacks. I wondered if some of my favorite fungi were included--and if they were, what sort of unsurveyed information might be included on those pages. Would there be species that I had never come across, and would the photos provided be comprehensive enough for me to easily ID them in the field? All of these questions would have to wait as my bank account was not prepared to drop the $30 to purchase the guide.
About a week after the initial hubbub, I noticed an increasingly popular post on the iNaturalist forums called “Surprised to find photos I placed on iNat in the new Audubon mushroom guide”. After scrolling through several pages of text, it became apparent that many of my fellow nature lovers were concerned and upset that their photographs had been utilized (for commercial use) without their permission. I thought that surely some sort of mistake had been made. However, as case after case was presented, it began to look damning. When someone finally posted a screenshot of the book’s list of contributing photographers, I curiously browsed to see if I saw any of my own friends. Three pages in, my mouth dropped open. I saw my own birth name printed alongside my old Mushroom Observer username. How could this be? I had protected all of my images on iNaturalist; I had surely done the same on Mushroom Observer. And why had Audubon not contacted me directly for permission like other publishers and authors I have previously dealt with? I felt honored that my photos had been used in such a publication, but at the same time I felt exploited. (Below are just a handful of my photos which were used).
Ultimately, I decided it was best to send an email to the publisher in order to clear things up. In this email, I expressed my concern for not being contacted— and also requested that, had my photos been used improperly, I be compensated with a complimentary copy of the book. I got a fairly prompt response from Penguin Random House, and it turned out that the photos which they had utilized were, unbeknownst to me, listed under commercial license on Mushroom Observer. The representative who spoke with me, despite this misunderstanding, offered to not only send me a free copy of the book—but also change my attribution to my preferred name in future printings. My interaction could not have gone much more smoothly, but I was still left with a lingering discomfort on how things had been initially handled. I really hope that others who have been affected by this slight scandal had a similar outcome, and I do hope that the National Audubon Society goes about their business in a more respectful manner when acquiring photographs for their publications in the future.
Soon after this email exchange, I grew eager to receive my copy of National Audubon Society Mushrooms of North America, curious to see how much more improved the re-release of a book printed over 40 years ago would be. Only a few days went by before it arrived, and I of course almost immediately dove in to the material.
Here are my impressions:
There are a plethora of well-written, expert descriptions within this hefty book—and it is obvious that a lot of work went into that aspect of the publication. Despite this, the text is not the most approachable or inviting—particularly for those who are beginners or casual hobbyists. For those who are looking for edibility or toxicity information (which was a big part of the 1981 version), this is not included within this new book. It should also be mentioned that this isn’t really so much a functional field guide as it is a desk guide—unless you don’t mind carrying an unwieldy and awkward book along for your hikes.
In terms of the visual layout of this book, I think it is quite chaotic and careless.
1) While some pages are efficiently organized, many others have been halfheartedly cobbled together. (And not to be pedantic, but there is a spelling error on the front cover).
2) Photographs range in quality from exceptional to downright terrible.
3) An overabundance of photos for individual species is crammed onto one page, rendering the book into an amalgam of inappropriately cropped, uncomfortably resized, and even scarcely discernible, blurred images.
4) The repetitive use of the same restricted views of fungi is distracting. There are several species pages that have multiple photos of just one angle which lack important identifying features (e.g. gill shots, stem shots, staining or bruising, cross-sections, or even other growth stages).
Below, I have selected four pages with examples of this:
1) Multiple photographs from same angle. Also a missed opportunity to show off the dramatic staining of Hygrocybe conica group. 2) I think one decent photo of Multiclavula mucida would have sufficed here. Filling the page with multiple photos of the same structures/angles/information does not provide any added value or use. 3) Multiple photographs of Conocybe apala from the same angle. Where are the gill shots? 4) Limited views of anatomy and no examples of the beautiful staining seen with Butyriboletus frostii.
Despite my problems with this book, I do think that (with a little bit of extra work and creativity) it could be salvaged. A huge difference could be made just by making some layout adjustments and seeking out some slightly more varied photographs. Furthermore, I do think that National Audubon Society and its partners need to show MUCH MORE respect for the photographers off of whom they are profiteering. This includes requesting permission for photo usage (despite attribution type) and leaving proper credit (not just a username or web address) within the book itself.
In its current state, I don’t know that I would recommend anyone purchase this book (unless they just happen to have an extra $30 that they are really itching to spend). My hope is that Audubon will listen to public criticisms like mine and strive to improve upon a book that so many of us have been looking forward to (but have been disappointed by).
Born of Rain, Dressed in Flame
During late August 2022, only a few weeks after we had moved back to Alabama following a year-long journey to New England and back down through the mid-Atlantic, the entire family fell ill with the Omicron variant. I’m not exactly sure why, but I was the last to start exhibiting symptoms or test positive for the infection. It was pretty much impossible to isolate myself from my infected partner inside a 36’ RV, but I tried my best to spend as much time as I could sitting outside when I wasn’t providing him with fever reducers, water, and moral support.
Fortunately for me, the unusually balmy and mild summer (for Northeast Alabama standards) made it a lot easier for me sit outside for most of the day without overheating . The torrential rains that have become the norm these days in the Southeast served as a regular reminder that many fungi were flourishing out in the forest at that time—and that there was not much I could do to break myself away from my caretaker role to take advantage of that. What I didn’t realize at the time was that there were some very interesting fungi within just a few footsteps of where I had been sitting.
A few days passed, and my partner began to stir from his fevered state—while I had begun to feel more foggy and flushed (and panicked that I wasn’t actually going to escape this virus). My energy levels had dropped to well below my usual by that point—which is A LOT. Despite this, I was still trying to convince myself that I was going to magically evade getting “the full-on ickies”. I willed my wobbly body to amble around the RV in search of interesting things—anything—to distract me from what was on the way. In my restrained meanderings, I noticed long, rain-soaked grooves had formed in the iron-rich soil below the pole barn (due to the heavy rains and the gutter positioning). My eyes reflexively searched the still-damp soil for signs of fungal life.
And there they were—unapologetically announcing their existence—born by rain, dressed in flame. I dizzily stooped to admire them, photograph them, and probably even said a “hello” and a “thank you” before my analytical brain began to take the reigns.
Surely this was something in the Pezizales order. The only thing that came to my mind at the time was Aleuria aurantia, the Orange Peel Fungus. The habit was right, but these were much more tiny than any of those that I had encountered. I definitely need the help from the mushroom community to figure these out!
I vaguely remember posting my photos on iNaturalist, tentatively labeling them as “Family Pyronemataceae”, before finally succumbing to “the full-on ickies” for several days. Even in my delirious state, my brain continued to try to piece it all together, but true progress would just have to wait for another day.
Once I began to recover, I posted my photographs to several mushroom identification groups and even my own personal Facebook page, stating that I thought these were possibly some “weird Aleuria”. Fellow enthusiasts were pretty quick to correct this thought or suggest other genera. Being an RSDer, I felt pretty embarrassed by my mistake—and quickly thanked everyone for their suggestions. They had to be right. How could I possibly be right? My experience surely pales in comparison to theirs.
Whilst having these online interactions, I was contacted by Rosanne Healy from the University of Florida, who researches fungi from the Pezizales order—and it turned out that she wanted to take a closer look at them (via DNA sequencing and microscopy). Once I had achieved a negative rapid test result, I collected some fungi samples from the original location, packaged them carefully, and shipped them off to her address in Florida. In the meantime, I decided to leave my ID at “Family Pyronemataceae” due to a split in community suggestions. The following are from my followup conversations with Rosanne:
9/13/22: Microscopically, it looks like Melastiza. Beautiful spores. I'll keep you posted when I get sequences.
11/15/22: I am sorry for not getting back to you - because your fungus is rather unique for GenBank submissions! The ITS was only 94% similar to Aleuria cestrica, and the LSU was 98% similar to Aleuria bicucullata. In the Pezizales, the ITS sequence should be at least 97% similar to be regarded as conspecific, so yours is pretty different! LSU is a more conserved region, so sequences should be at least 99% similar to be conspecific. Sooooooo, we need to do more work on yours to compare to species in the Aleuria and Melastiza genera to see if it morphologically matches one of those.
04/07/23: Hi Flown, I finally figured this one out! It is Aleuria cestrica! Pretty rarely found, but described from Pennsylvania. Such a great find!
Upon hearing the final verdict this past month, I was excited—but honestly a bit shocked to hear that my first reflexive ID was the best guess out of any. A wave of emotions passed over me—the most noteworthy of them being something akin to self-abandonment.
What makes me so quick to deny my own instincts? Why do I hold so strongly to the false belief that other people are less capable of making mistakes—and why am I so quick to fawn to anyone and everyone who challenges my thoughts or perceptions? Isn’t being wrong a part of being human? Isn’t it also an integral part of learning and discovery and science in general? Why do I always feel like an impostor? Would it be so bad if I were to place some faith in myself at the risk of being wrong?
Like most strong emotions, it’s been really hard to get these dislodged from my brain. I know that many scientists cringe at the anthropomorphization of nature, but I find a lot of comfort and connection in this practice. I could not help but imagine what Aleuria cestrica would say to me if it had a voice:
I will not extinguish my flame for anyone. I do not require discovery to affirm my existence, and I am extraordinary even when I am overlooked.