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Image by Jesse Bauer

Fall Fungus

A fall hike through Ogemaw Hills reveals a hidden world of mushrooms and fungi quietly recycling, nourishing and connecting Michigan’s forests.

There’s something about walking through the woods in fall that makes you notice mushrooms. Maybe it’s the way the fading green of the forest is giving way to the warm russets and golds of autumn, making those little fungi stand out against the forest floor. Or maybe it’s the dampness that settles into the woods and whispers 'fall' after an autumn rain. Suddenly, mushrooms seem to be everywhere. They push up through the leaf litter, cluster around the bases of trees, appear on old stumps and fallen logs, and decorate the forest floor with tiny umbrellas, shelves, cups and mushroom-shapes with hints of subtle color.


I notice this especially on fall hikes through the Ogemaw Hills north of West Branch, MI. The rolling hills and hardwood forests make it one of my favorite places to wander in  in the fall.  The trails are carpeted in color, the air smells of damp leaves and earth, and the forest feels both familiar and completely new. And after a good autumn rain, the mushrooms seem to have taken over.

For years, I’ve wondered exactly what all those mushrooms were doing out there. So, naturally, I went down a little rabbit hole. The first thing I learned is that mushrooms are fungi, and fungi have their very own kingdom. They aren’t plants or animals. They are fungi, doing their own important work in the forest.

And the mushroom itself isn’t really the whole organism. It’s just the fruiting body, the part of the fungus that emerges when conditions are right. Think of an apple on an apple tree. The apple is visible, but it certainly isn’t the entire tree. A mushroom is much the same.

Most of a fungus is hidden from view in a network called mycelium. Made up of tiny threadlike structures called hyphae, mycelium can spread through soil, beneath leaf litter or right through the wood of a fallen tree. Some networks are microscopic. Others are astonishingly large. The famous “Humongous Fungus” in Oregon’s Malheur National Forest covers about 3.5 square miles and is considered the largest known living organism on Earth.

Here in Michigan, our forests have their own vast, mostly invisible fungal networks quietly at work beneath our feet. And they are doing some very important housekeeping. Fungi are nature’s recyclers. Without them, the forests of Ogemaw County (and the world) would look very different. Fallen branches, dead trees and layers of autumn leaves would accumulate, while the nutrients locked inside them would remain trapped instead of returning to the soil.

 

Some fungi are saprotrophic, meaning they feed on dead organic material. They release enzymes that break down tough materials such as lignin, the substance that gives wood much of its strength. As that material decomposes, nutrients such as carbon and nitrogen are released and returned to the forest floor.

Other fungi form relationships with living trees. These are mycorrhizal fungi. Their tiny hyphae connect with tree roots and reach farther into the soil than the roots can manage on their own, helping the trees access water and minerals. In return, the trees share some of the sugars they produce through photosynthesis. It’s a remarkable little exchange happening beneath every hike.

So the next time I’m walking through the Ogemaw Hills on a crisp fall morning and spot a mushroom tucked beneath a carpet of golden leaves or growing from a fallen log, I’ll try to remember that I’m probably seeing only the smallest, most visible piece of the story.

There is an entire hidden world underneath it.

And perhaps that’s one of the things I love most about walking in the woods in fall. The forest is putting on its most obvious show aboveground, while underneath, an entire unseen world is still quietly at work. You just have to slow down long enough to notice.

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