The Miller family pulled up to the gate, their cars engine humming in the cool September air. Jack stood on the faded path between the flowerbeds, clutching his old knapsack with a small airplane stitched on the side. Yellow leaves rustled around him, settling in his boots and catching on his laces.
Grandpa Arthur stepped onto the porch, straightened his flat cap and smiled, the creases around his eyes deepening. Jack felt that something important was about to begin, a feeling different from the usual.
Helen kissed her son on the crown of his head and gave his shoulder a gentle pat.
Dont dawdle over there, alright? And listen to Granddad, she said.
Of course, Jack replied, glancing shyly at the windows where Grandma Agnes could already be seen.
When the parents drove off, the courtyard fell quiet. Grandpa invited his grandson over to the shed, and together they chose baskets for the walkone larger for the old man, a smaller one for Jack. Beside them lay a weatherworn canvas tent and a pair of rubber boots; Grandpa checked that nothing was leaking after the nights drizzle. He inspected Jacks jacket, zipped up all the flies and adjusted the hood.
September is the prime mushroom season! Grandpa declared confidently, as if unveiling a secret calendar of the woods. The birch mushrooms are hiding under the leaves now, and the chanterelles love the moss near the firs. Oyster mushrooms have started to appear too.
Jack listened intently; the sense of preparing for something real thrilled him. The baskets creaked as they were lifted; the boots were a little big, but Grandpa simply noddedwhat mattered was keeping the feet dry.
The yard smelled of damp earth and the lingering smoke of past campfires. Morning mist hovered over the puddles by the fence; when Jack stepped on wet leaves they stuck to his soles and left dark prints on the stone steps.
Grandpa recounted old forays: how once he and Grandma Agnes had found a whole patch of oyster mushrooms beneath an ancient birch, and how it was vital to look not just at your feet but all around, because the best finds often sit right beside the trail.
The road to the forest was a short country lane, cutting through a field of strawcoloured grass. Jack walked beside Grandpa, who moved at a leisurely, steady pace, his basket held snug at his hip.
In the woods the scent changed to fresh, sapladen timber and the sharp tang of moss among pine roots. The ground was a soft mix of grass and fallen leaves; somewhere off to the side the dew dripped from low branches onto the earth.
Look therethats a birch mushroom, Grandpa said, bending to point at a palecapped fungus. Notice the stem, all covered in dark scales
Jack crouched, brushed the cap with his fingerit was cool and smooth.
Why is it called that? he asked.
Because it loves to grow by birches, Grandpa replied with a grin. Remember the spot!
They twisted the mushroom free, sliced the stem to show its white, spotless interior.
Further on, a tiny yellow chanterelle peeped out of the grass.
Chanterelles always have a wavy edge on the cap, Grandpa explained. And they have a nutty smell
Jack inhaled gently; the scent was indeed faintly nutty.
What if it looks similar? he asked.
False ones are brighter or lack the smell altogether, Grandpa warned. We never pick those.
Soon the baskets filled: a sturdy birch mushroom here, a cluster of oyster caps on a fallen log there, their slender stems and sticky, palerimmed caps popping up among the pine moss.
Grandpa taught the difference between genuine oyster mushrooms and impostors:
The fakes are bright yellow or even orange underneath, he showed. The true ones are white or a soft cream on the underside
Jack loved finding the fungi himselfeach discovery meant a quick call to Grandpa for verification. When he made a mistake, Grandpa calmly explained the distinction again.
Bright red flyagarics dotted the trail, their caps speckled with white.
Theyre beautiful, Jack remarked. Why cant we collect them?
Theyre poisonous, Grandpa answered seriously. Just admire them.
He stepped around them carefully. Jack began to understand that not everything pretty belongs in a basket.
From time to time Grandpa would ask, Do you remember the differences now? If youre unsure, leave it.
Jack nodded, wanting to be attentive, feeling responsible for his own basket and for staying close to his grandfather.
Deeper in the woods the sun filtered through low branches, casting long strips of light on the damp ground. It was cooler there, and Jacks fingers sometimes went numb on the basket handles, but the excitement of the hunt kept him warm. A squirrel darted past, birds chattered in the canopy, and a snapped twig ahead hinted at a hare or another forager on his own path. The forest felt like a living maze of trunks, moss, rustling leaves and hushed sounds. Soft earth covered in last years leaf carpet made each step gentle, and dark wet patches showed between roots. Grandpa showed where to step to avoid soaking his feet. Jack tried to follow, scanning every side for new mushroom spots, hoping to impress Grandma later with his haul. He felt like a helper, almost an adult companion, though sometimes he still wanted to clutch Grandpas hand for reassurance when the wind rose or shadows deepened, as if the woods were sharing their secrets only with the two of them.
One afternoon, between two firs, Jack spotted a cluster of orange speckles among the moss. He trekked a little farther from the path, sat down to examine the find, and realized it was a whole group of chanterelles, just as Grandpa had praised earlier. Joy surged through him; he began gathering them one by one, placing them carefully into his basket, forgetting to look around. When he finally stood, his eyes met only the towering trunksno familiar silhouette, no voice, no steps, just the muted rustle of leaves and an occasional crack of a twig. Jack froze, his heart thudding faster than usual. For the first time he was alone in a vast autumn wood, even if only briefly. Fear rose instantly, but Grandpas words echoed in his mind: stay put if you lose me, call loudlyIll answer. He tried to shout, his voice barely louder than his breath.
Grandpa, where are you? Hey, Im here! he called.
A thin mist hung between the trees, making each trunk look alike, the sounds softer, muffled. From the left a familiar voice shouted back:
Oi! Im here, come towards my voicestay calm!
Jack breathed deeper, moved toward the call, shouted again, listening for a reply. His steps grew steadier, the ground underfoot softened again, and the fear gave way to relief as a figure emerged ahead. Grandpa stood a short way off, leaning against an old oak, smiling warmly, waiting as if nothing had happened. The forest noises returned, and Jacks pulse settled into a steady rhythm. He realized he could trust an adults words just as he trusted his own instincts.
Got you! Grandpa said, giving Jack a gentle pat on the shoulder, the gesture free of blame or worryonly quiet joy. Jack stared at the familiar, lined face; it felt as comforting as his own bedroom. His heart still beat quickly, but his breathing steadiednext to Grandpa he felt safe again.
Did it scare you? Grandpa asked softly, lifting the basket from the ground.
Jack nodded, briefly and honestly. Grandpa crouched to be eyelevel with him.
I once got lost in these woods when I was a bit older than you, he said. I thought Id wander for hours, but it was only ten minutes The key is not to run blindly. Stop, call out, listen. You did exactly right.
Jack looked down at his muddy, mossstained rubber boots. He felt a surge of pride; Grandpas eyes showed genuine pride too. The lingering nerves sank deep, turning into a memory rather than terror.
Shall we head back? Its getting dusk. We need to get out before dark, Grandpa said, straightening his cap and grabbing his basket handle. Jack stepped close behind him, feeling each crack of leaf underfoot like an old friend. Walking side by side, he liked being part of the shared task, even in such simple decisions.
When they emerged from the trees the evening air was crisp, the wind pushing dry leaves along the lane between the trees; ahead, the roof of the Miller cottage peeked through the thin birch branches. Dark streaks from wet grass clung to the basket handles, and Jacks palms were a little cold after the long walkbut the joy of returning warmed him more than any hot tea could.
The house welcomed them with soft window light and the smell of fresh baking. Grandma Agnes stood on the porch with a towel over her shoulder.
Oh my! Look at you two, what a haul! she exclaimed. Come, show us what youve found!
She helped Jack slip off his boots in the hallwayleaves stuck to the solesthen took the basket from Grandpa and set it beside her own bowl for cleaning the mushrooms.
Inside, the kitchen glowed with the stoves heat; the window glass fogged in thin streaks, hiding the street lamps and the silhouettes of hedges outside. Jack sat near the table as Grandma sorted the fungi by typebirch mushrooms here, chanterelles therewhile Grandpa produced his folding knife for the delicate work on the oyster caps.
Night fell quickly outside, but the house felt especially cozy. Jack listened to the adults recount the days adventure, and he told his own version of how he called out for Grandpa in the woods. They all paid close attention, and Jack felt he had truly become part of the family tradition. A kettle sang, steam carrying the scent of mushrooms and pastries. Outside darkness deepened, yet inside there was light, calm and comfortjust the kind that follows a small trial conquered together.
The forest had taught Jack that courage isnt the absence of fear, but the willingness to stay calm, listen, and rely on those who guide you.
