Before leaving the Cleft In the Rock, I went for a walk in the wood. I had seen the lowbush cranberries all around our cabin. When the berries turn bright red after the first frost, they will be ready for picking. Raw ingredient for wonderful jams and syrup.
It was a damp morning, overcast; it had rained the day before. Every step fell silent under the spruce, muted by dense green moss. Every footfall sank inches into its pillowed softness. And it seemed with ever step, some new fungal growth revealed itself: