Pot of Gold

The mushrooms at the end of a Montana rainbow.

Have you ever gone searching for the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow? The fairy tales make it look easy, but I can assure you it’s not. My brother and I went looking last fall—and found one. Yes, I intend to tell you our own fairy tale of that day. Like most, it’s set in a false location—let’s call it the Madison Range—but unlike most, in this story the gold is edible, smelling of mountains and soft to the touch. In this story, the gold regrows year after year in tangled, yellow trumpets, and boils down with butter into a succulent, savory meal. Nestle in, for in this fairy tale, we find an elusive patch of golden chanterelles at the end of a rainbow.

How we arrived at the pot was a bit serendipitous. It was opening weekend of archery season, and we’d already spent two days plying the high country in search of alpine bucks. We’d found a handful of dream-worthy creatures—but all were bounding away, just outside of bow range. 60 yards, maybe 70. An experienced stalker and archer, like the hunter-goddess Artemis, could have shot one with ease. But we were neither. Mere mortals up against wise, god-worthy deer that had already survived numerous hunting seasons.

We struck out off-trail down a finger ridge from our alpine campsite, but didn’t make it far before the storm hit in force.

After two days of sneaking around, we were bored and tired of moving slowly. A brewing afternoon thunderstorm gave us an easy “excuse” to bail, and we shoved camp in our packs as the first raindrops started to fall. We struck out off-trail down a finger ridge from our alpine campsite, but didn’t make it far before the storm hit in force. We hunkered under a scraggly whitebark pine as the rain turned to hail, hammering sideways and covering the ground in a thin, magical crust.

As quickly as it blew in, the storm cleared, leaving only a scattering of clouds and a wispy rainbow visible for only a few seconds, the northernmost end terminating in a thick mess of forest below. “There’s a bull at the end of a rainbow, right?” my brother joked.

“I think a buck, actually,” I retorted. Buck or bull regardless, it was worth checking out. Into the enchanted forest we went, charging through raging rivers, across waterfalls, into dark timber full of demons, over thick deadfall, and around swamps the size of lakes.

I couldn’t see my brother through the tangle of live and dead trees, but I could hear him stomping and snapping branches in frustration, battling imaginary beasts.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, the map showed a series of small meadows—seemingly an eternity away. It was humid and sticky, and the bugs were out. I couldn’t see my brother through the tangle of live and dead trees, but I could hear him stomping and snapping branches in frustration, battling imaginary beasts: “Arghhh!” Our only hopes were that we’d stumble on a blind and deaf bull, laying on wildflower cushion with a harp-and-fiddle player serenading him to sleep.

Then I stumbled upon something even better: a chanterelle, enveloped in a halo of sunshine, poking its yellow head through the pine duff. “Hey, check this out!” I called to my brother. He stumbled over and we examined it together, finding the telltale fake gills and confirming our ID. I clipped it with a pocketknife, then we dumped our packs and started crawling on all fours, snorting and grunting like fairy tale truffle pigs. Once our noses adjusted, we were honed in, sniffing out more and more of the golden delicacies.

We quickly filled our shirts, then went back to our gear to find more receptacles. Nestling our fleece layers into soft bowls, we crawled circles across the area, giddy with excitement, and within an hour had filled every speck of spare space in our packs.

Content with the day, and mouths watering, we called it quits and picked the shortest route back to the truck to cook a delicious dinner. About halfway back, we stumbled into a meadow with the most well-used, nasty wallow either of us had ever seen. It reeked of elk, and there were fresh tracks covering every inch of mud. In our haste, we must’ve bumped out an entire herd of elk. This was where the rainbow ended, we agreed.

But once we were shoveling chanterelle risotto into our mouths, none of that mattered. We’d found our own pot of gold, and the next year we’d head back for the elk.