the oyster mushroom tree saga

an essay by Izzy McLeod

This submission is for the “Nature Loved & Lost” issue of Filter Feeder and will additionally be highlighted in a print zine (coming April 2025). If you’d like to share your work via Filter Feeder in the future, drop me a line!

Part 1: Discovery

It’s Christmas eve, 2022. I’ve recently discovered the wonders of fungi. I’ve been involved in a queer fungi project which has spurred me into foraging courses and book buying. I’m attempting to learn to slowly ID a few, and I’m obsessed with their queerness. How they break down borders and binaries, how they confused colonial scientists, connect life and death, live hidden from view until they fruit spectacularly. The more I learn about them, the more I accept about myself. It’s a kind of magic, this new connection.

It’s a rainy day, and I know that Christmas will be spent cooped up with family feeling slightly jittery, so I need to get out of the house today. My usual loop following the stream through my local parks will do. I put my headphones on and stomp out of the door.

I walk past a group of four big trees, a constant in my walks, and something strange catches in the corner of my eye. I turn around and squint. Something looks really different. Are those growths coming out of the side of one tree? They’re all the way up its trunk. Wait. Could it be? Are those fungi?!

It is an impressive sight. Something I’ve never encountered before. So far on my fungal adventures I’m lucky to find one or two mushrooms to peer at and attempt to ID, many of them soggy and well past it. But there’s got to be hundreds growing up this tree, from knee height to several meters above my head. They’re beside me, above me, I am drawn in completely by this spectacle. I can’t help but crane my neck up and stare, a grin plastered across my face. It’s beautiful. Astounding.

I’m not sure what mushrooms these are. I take pictures and videos. I am excitedly googling on my phone, looking on all the fungi websites to work out what this is.

I think it’s a grey oyster mushroom? Seems about right. They’re a winter mushroom. They like to come after a frost, and it’s been pretty cold recently. They’re apparently quite safe to ID for beginners. They have a lookalike, oysterlings which never grow more than 4cm across. But some of the fungi above my head have to be at least 10cm. Huge. Impressive. There’s layer upon layer of beautiful gills, scalloped edges.

Do I pick some?

But I am not 100% sure. I’m nervous. I’ve never picked a mushroom to eat before. I’ve heeded all the advice never to chance it. I can’t risk it. Need more research.

I practically skip home, excitement buzzing in my chest. How have I lived my life not knowing fungi like this? I mean, I’m sure I’ve seen pictures of mushrooms covering a log in a rainforest somewhere. But this? This is possibly the coolest thing I have ever seen. 5 minutes from my house?! Wow.

Christmas comes and goes, and it’s getting towards the end of the year. It’s just before new year when I go back to the oyster mushroom tree. It’s still gloriously in fruit. I marvel at the soft layers of scalloped fungi growing straight out of this standing tree, a tree looking still alive? It’s winter so it’s kind of hard to tell, but I do seem to remember this tree having leaves in the summer, alive but not long for this world maybe. What a wonder.

I get my brand-new mushroom knife out and take just one oyster from the tree. The biggest I can find, just to be sure it's not an oysterling, and plod through the damp December day to my partner’s house. Excitement and nerves once again buzzing in my chest.

I present them the fungi, she puts it in water and vinegar to soak and into the fridge. I’m still not big on eating something I’ve foraged. I’ve never done it before.

What if I poison both of us?

I sit on the sofa and dive back into every ID site I can find, looking up grey oyster mushrooms. Double-checking, triple-checking against my photos. Back to the first site I found, again and again. Unsurprisingly, all the sites still say the same thing. No poisonous look-alikes, safe for beginners to forage, make sure they’re above 4cm across.

My partner encourages me, says she’ll eat it, she trusts me. How? I don’t trust myself in this situation!

But with her support, we go ahead. She fries the fungi straight up … and it’s not that good. Definitely old, a bit rubbery. In some ways disappointing. But the thrill of having eaten something I have ID’d myself makes up for it.

I only have two slices, just in case. Better safe than sorry.

We’ve done it?! I’ve eaten a fungi I picked myself from a tree? In a local park? Wild.

Over the next few days, I am anxious. My stomach hurts, and I worry I have poisoned us both. I keep checking the same sites, saying the same things. I notice every small change in my body. Do I feel dizzy? Sick? Oh no, I think I’m unwell! But really, I’m so anxious about having made a mistake I’ve made myself feel sick with worry.

We survive, no illnesses. All is ok. Woah.

This tree has seared itself into my heart. I know that a lot of fungi tend to fruit on yearly cycles, so will I meet this tree flushed full of oysters again next year?

Part 2: Friendship?

It’s December 2023, almost a whole year since my last sighting of the oysters. I haven’t seen a single oyster anywhere since. Well unless you count supermarkets, green grocers, and those grow kits — but we all know that’s not what I mean.

I’ve become fungi-obsessed, looking for them everywhere I go. I have made lots of discoveries and continually become lost and found again in this kingdom. Sure, I’ve looked at a lot of species and gone, “who are you?” and even after looking through the books and the websites, I come up stumped. But I’ve learned so much in just a year!

I’ve traveled across the country and hunted fungi everywhere I go. I’ve been on my first trans fungi walk, discovered mushroom paradise while on the island of Cumbrae, went on a bioblitz on Flatholm, and wandered across Kew gardens finding fungi in every corner.

On a species-level I can now successfully ID mica ink caps, sulfur tufts, King Alfred cakes, oysterlings, scarlet elf cups, jelly ears, pestle puffballs, blushers, and beech jelly disks — to name a few. The number of selfies I now have with fungi? Probably hundreds.

Unsurprisingly, friends, mutuals, and even acquaintances have come to know me as “the fungi person.” I get random fungi photos sent to me for ID, and I’m not that much help, but I am getting better.

There’s a lot of excitement and joy — finding giant funnels, my first ever fly agaric! Squeezing the tannin out of a beefsteak fungi, seeing a fairy ring growing across a graveyard, discovering tiny fungi growing out of thick layers of moss, and seeing a bright red false truffle thought to have been brought over from New Zealand by blackbirds on a tiny island.

Yet nothing quite compares to the oyster mushroom tree. All of these wonderful moments, yet it’s that tree I keep talking about. The spectacle in my own neighborhood. This tree holds a very special place in my heart — maybe because it was my first fungal spectacle? The thing that got me truly hooked?

I walk past this tree regularly. I sometimes go and say hi but usually have to dodge dog poo in order to get close. So most days I walk past, I simply nod in its direction, acknowledge its existence and place in my life. I check in.

I stare up at its bright green canopy through spring and summer. And it’s one of the many trees I say goodnight to as the leaves fall through autumn.

And just like that, it’s the 17^th December. Almost a year has passed since that fateful day. I’m out for a walk again past the tree, and there it is again, in all its grey oyster glory.

What a treat! A Christmas miracle! Presents again? For me?! Thank you lovely oyster mushroom tree! It's a moment I'd been hoping for all year, yet it’s still such a pleasant surprise — and early too.

The fungi sprout right from its roots all the way up and up and up. Are there even more than last year? There’s fungi as big as 15cm across and as small as my thumbnail. A glorious sight that fills my heart with joy, adoration, a sense of community, connection, and awe.

A few have been taken — maybe some other locals have caught on and taken a snack. Other humans, or just the squirrels? I don’t know.

I take some selfies. It’s become tradition at this point, me and the fungi selfies. Then, of course, I have to take a video of the glorious flush. Stand back and admire, drink the moment in. I’ve misplaced my mushroom knife, so I carefully pull a few fungi into my foraging bag, smaller ones this time. I’ve learned my lesson! Then head on my way with a familiar lightness in my step.

I can’t remember how I prepared them or how I ate them. Maybe I didn’t? In which case, I’m sorry for wasting your gift, oyster mushroom tree. But eternally grateful for it.

Two years in a row? Wow, what an honor. I gladly accept another Christmas present from this now friend of mine.

I am already looking forward to next December.

Part 3: Grief

November 2024. A lot has happened for me. It has been a year filled with grief and transformation for many, many reasons. Breakups of relationships and friendships, an eviction from a house growing giant fungi from the walls (a story for another time). It feels like my life is being decomposed, but maybe it’s in preparation for new growth. Despite all the turmoil, or maybe because of it, my love of fungi does not waver — it only grows stronger.

In fact, I am fully immersed, taking courses, joining online communities, seeking mushrooms out wherever I go. I’m even running my own workshops and walks about the queer joy and wonder of the fungal kingdom.

I tell many people about the oyster mushroom tree, excited about my big fungi find but also my connection to this neighbor of mine. It is obvious the place it holds in my heart. The connection that has been built, even if it feels quite one sided, is incredibly special.

I visit the oyster mushroom tree less though, as the eviction means I have had to move back temporarily to the other side of the city. My friend the tree is no longer a 5-minute walk away.

It’s November 13^th, I’m walking through the parks with a friend, and I stop dead in my tracks. It can’t be, is that … ? I walk closer, not quite believing my eyes and feeling my heart sink in my chest.

That’s the oyster mushroom tree in pieces, laid to rest across the ground. Clear, straight cuts show a chainsaw was used to take it down..

It has been felled.

I do not know how long it’s even been like this. When was the last time I was here? I missed its final days standing. I didn’t get to say goodbye …

I want to curl up on its stump, still embedded in the soil, and weep. But I am with a friend in a park full of strangers. I hold myself back. I am numb, unsure how to process any of what I am feeling.

I walk the length of its felled trunk. It’s weird being able to touch its whole length. Even the parts that sat ten meters above my head now sit at hip height. I imagined one day it might come to this — only in years to come when this tree was truly dead, rot had taken it, and it slowly creaked back to earth. But here, like this? It’s so sudden. I don’t need to touch where its crown once sat. I want to admire those spindling branches above my head again.

Logically, I know that this tree was a health hazard in a busy park, slowly dying while being eaten away. One big storm or an unfortunate gust of wind could bring it down on a person or a dog. But that knowledge doesn’t stop the waves of grief, this great sense of loss which washes over me. I take some pictures with the stump, something to mark the occasion and sit with later. Then carry on my walk.

Later that day, I write. It’s the only way I know how to do anything with these feelings. What I said back then still stands:

I memorialize and thank this tree for all I have learned from it and its inhabitants. It has given me so much that I will remain forever grateful for. Who would have thought you could hold such a strong connection?

I’m also aware that the felling of this tree will not stop the fungi. I may get a flush next year. This might not be the end of the story.

But I am still worried, worried that the council still sees this tree as a hazard and drags the dead wood out of the park. I’ve seen it happen before. Worried that one day I’ll turn up to this park and find the only trace of my friend is its stump, and I’ll never get to say my final goodbye.

I’d like to let it rot slowly, making many friends for many years to come. A chance to admire all the fungi, bugs and other creatures that come to inhabit its wood. Giving a chance to the life that emerges from the death of one tree. But it could all be taken away by some paperwork, or disgruntled local residents who think rotting logs are dangerous or an eyesore. Collectively disconnected, scared of rot and mess.

In that moment, I feel quite alone in my mourning of this tree that hundreds walk past every day.

Part 4: Life from Death

20^th December 2024. I’m still living at my parents’ house on the other side of town from the oyster mushroom tree. I decide to go back to where I used to live to do my Christmas shopping.

I park far away from the shops so I can walk back through the parks, along the stream, under the trees that truly make this place feel like home. I’m also hoping to check in with my old friend.

It's a rainy and windy day. Barely anyone is about as I wander into the park where my friend lived and died.

I walk over, tentatively, scared of what I might find. He’s still there, lying where I last left him. And what’s that? It’s oyster mushrooms! They’re growing out of the trunk again. They’ve adapted to the trees' felling, sitting along the trunk, their gills still facing the earth. Even more spectacularly, they’re growing in the cracks and crevices made by the chainsaw that felled this tree. Resilient dudes.

I’m so happy to see this sight, yet the grief still sits with me. It’s not quite the same.

The fungi are now within arms reach of even toddlers, and most have been unceremoniously broken off the trunk and dropped onto the ground. Left to be stepped on, many lie trodden into the mud. I am sad that humans have felt the need to do this. I’ve seen many sights of fungi forced off trees, smashed, and left on the ground, and it always makes my heart twinge. This mindless and unnecessary destruction of a living thing.

Only a few full fruiting bodies remain of what could’ve been hundreds. I’ve missed it at its peak. But what’s left is still so beautiful, glistening from the rain. I chose only to take photos — it doesn’t feel right to take any of these home to eat, when so few remain. Maybe my gift this year is just to see them again.

As I’m walking around the trunk I spot something shining on the floor.

Is that money? It is, right next to the tree!

20p. nice…
Oh, there’s more?

£3.40 to be exact.

How random. Yet it feels so special, like this is my Christmas gift from the tree, or maybe the fae? The tylwyth teg?

Probably, it just fell out of some unfortunate persons’ pocket. I’m stood here with glee at a tree giving me money, but there’s someone at the corner shop wondering where their change has gone while they’re buying snacks. Still, it lifts my spirits. As if the tree said, sorry for the lack of mushrooms this year, here’s some cash instead. Maybe you can go buy some? That thought gives me a good giggle.

I carry onto the shops, feeling both lighter and heavier. Lighter from this gift, from this life still going even with the death of this tree, and glad to see my friends again. But still heavy from the change and the grief, still scared someone will take the tree away.

I’m not sure where that £3.40 went. I planned to spend it on something special, but it ended up in a coat pocket and then I lost track of it. Perhaps it was just there to bring me some joy on that gloomy December day, while I grappled with a mix of gratitude, awe, and grief.

Epilogue: the velvet shank tree

January 2024. I’m on a walk in a woodland near my parents’ house. I come here regularly now, and I am getting to know its residents as I did those in the parks near the oyster mushroom tree.

It’s very much the low season for fungi, so I don’t expect to find much. Until I venture up a hill I have never been up before, climbing over trees that have fallen in the recent storm and trying not to fall face first into the mud. I come across a small, ivy-covered tree in full bloom of fungi. Not oyster mushrooms this time, but velvet shanks.

They’re stunning. Orange caps, velvety wine-colored stems that fade as you go up, and wide-set, uneven white gills. They perch in clusters of small fungi, maybe 15-strong, from the base of the tree to just above my head. So different to oyster mushrooms, but no less glorious. No less exciting or awe-inspiring.

I realize that I feel instantly connected to this tree. It reminds me of the first time meeting the oyster mushroom tree. The awe I felt, the joy of finding this little piece of treasure! I take pictures, the obligatory selfies, observe every little flush (a batch or cluster of mushrooms), and marvel at this tree. Standing there covered in fungi.

I do not pick the velvet shanks — they have a very poisonous look-alike —a mistake here could be deadly. They are not beginner-friendly, and though I am no longer a beginner, I am not confident enough for this yet. I have learned a lot about mushrooms since first meeting the oyster mushroom tree, but these fungi are new friends to me, so I am careful. I have a wish to understand a new species before picking any for my frying pan. I’m sure next year, after some more encounters with this new friend, and discussions with my human friends, I will be ready.

I’m excited still, I have a velvet shank tree to go back for in January! And hey, maybe December 2025 will still see another flush of oyster mushrooms?

The world turns, the cycle of life continues. Nothing is fixed forever, especially with fungi around. But the joy and connection I felt from meeting the oyster mushroom tree does not just fade. It sits with me as I make new discoveries, find new communities, grow and expand into new places — inspired by my friends, the fungi.