One day, my ride out was provided by a couple of young tourists who were interested in learning the art of picking. As was done with me, I was willing to share my knowledge. We drove out to my picking location. Even though it offered a spot to wander around unobserved, these guys did not like leaving their car where they could not see it. Consequently, we drove further out to find a location where we could pick and they could keep an eye on their vehicle. We found such a spot. We parked their car, climbed a fence and roamed around a pasture. After teaching them identification and gathering a few we were interrupted by a rancher in his pickup. He had come through the gate and tracked us down. He did not want us trespassing on his field. He pointed back to the road at a Marion County Sheriff’s car and said the driver would like to talk to us. We accepted his offer of a ride back to the gate. Along the way we decided to get rid of the mushrooms we had picked and ingested them, probably three or four apiece.
Upon arriving at the gate, the Sheriff’s Deputy was genial. He stated, “ If you want to eat something that grows in cow shit, that's your business. But I do not want you trespassing in my county.” He was sufficient with issuing a warning, provided we promised to not come back and trespass in his county. Seeing that my other location was Alachua County, I agreed to his request. My companions also readily agreed. We were let go and escaped back toward Gainesville. On the way, I decided to get off at my regular picking location. I had no mushrooms to bring back to town. They dropped me off and we separated to enjoy our respective “Good Ones.” After getting out in the middle of my familiar area, I remembered I had eaten a few mushrooms. I was used to eating one or two, never four. I spent the day, in deep spiritual union with my surroundings. My nightfall, I choose to stay there.
There were wooden platforms placed in the pasture. These were about a foot high and used to hold hay off the ground to keep it dry. They seemed like a good place to recline. Cows did not eat at night, there was soft bedding material and I did not have to worry about having my rest interrupted my armadillos or other ground creatures. Sometime in the middle of the night I was wakened by the sound of creatures of the walking erect two legged variety. Voices carried to me. By the sound of it, a couple of guys, obviously drunk, were seeking mushrooms. One phrase stood out, “I heard they glow in the dark. How come, we aren’t seeing any?” Out of the dark, I responded, “You guys looking for mushrooms?” Obviously taken aback, they jumped up with, “Who are you, what are you doing here?” I quickly assured them, I was only a mushroom picker, who was spending the night out in the field. I also informed them, I had never witnessed mushrooms glowing in the dark. and warned them alcohol and mushrooms would make an unwelcome mix. I offered them each a couple of mushrooms under the provision they would eat them after the effects of alcohol wore off. They accepted my story and offered me a ride back to town. I accepted. No sooner had they let me off and I walked under the carport roof at my sister Karen’s house than I large clap of thunder ushered in an immense rainstorm that lasted the rest of the night. I did not get hit by a drop. Some sort of magic had rescued me from having to stay several miles away from any decent shelter from this deluge.”