Nothing like summer rain and heat to bring on a bloom of mushrooms. They are everywhere along the margin of Trail 7, my favourite among all the trails, for the range of choice it offers.

It appeals to all my moods, entertains every whim in a single 20 km  circuit -  whether I want to ride into the forest, follow the river, get my heart racing with a long slow climb or a scary-fast descent down a slope ablaze in Tiger lilies and aromatic with juniper.

When I’m not up for a climb to start the ride, I follow the Athabasca River to Lake Edith, pick up 4e at Lake Annette, and intercept Trail 7 as it slips through the forest at the base of Signal Mountain.

The most easily identified edible mushrooms on the trail are aspen bolete, which my favorite guide, All That the Rain Promises, and More…, describes as “excellent” in flavour. This being a national park, they are off limits, so I admired their vivid orange caps and rode on.

Aspen boletes are by no means the most common fungus growing trailside. Slippery Jacks are numerous, but the most prolific of all is something that looks like the delicious Shrimp mushroom, but isn’t.

Red, slimy, and everywhere, they could be the Red Hot Milk Cap, or Yellow-Staining Milk Cap - neither recommended, and possibly poisonous to some, according to my guide and its author, David Arora. He has served me well, although I disagree with his advice to focus on identifying deadly fungi.

My strategy is to seek out the best and most distinctive of the known edibles: morel, chanterelle, bolete, and shaggy mane, and to avoid deadly look-alikes: autumn galerina masquerading as potent psyolcybe.

Mushroom outcomes can be unpredictable.  The intoxicating properties of  amanita muscaria have been known for centuries to many cultures. Several years ago there was a spectacular bloom of  the distinctive red and white spotted fungi along the shore of a small northern lake. All who ate them still talk about the experience - some not so fondly.

With berry bushes ripening at the trail edge, I was on the lookout for bears. I’ve heard, but never caught sight of the grizzly that hangs around Old Fort Point, huffing at riders as they make their way up the hill above the golf course, where horses’ hooves and erosion are pressing the trail ever deeper in the stony ground. 

Bear sign appeared as I started  on the rooted staircase that climbs up the Maligne drainage: a shattered log, a berry bush still rebounding from a meal. I topped a small rise just in time to see a fat, furry behind scoot up the trail 50 meters ahead, pursued by the clatter of the bell on my seat post. I thought of giving chase in the hope of getting a photo, but the insanity passed as quickly as the urge to sample a strange mushroom.