Truffles: Nature’s Way of Saying She Still Loves Us

Clouds of breath hazy in the light of the piazza, I pulled my jacket tight against the damp cold of 4am. The silent heavens were mine alone, stars twinkling their Morse code of peace, a crescent moon setting behind the hills. Grinding gears of a minuscule Fiat Panda announced Dani’s arrival, the final reverberations of church bells mocking the ungodly hour. Lela, his German Pointer, was tucked into the tiny hatch, tail banging excitedly against the glass.

Careening switchback roads, distant hill towns floated above darkened valleys like medieval chalk outlines. Foxes blinked in our headlights, and owls swooped at the windshield, a bad sign in superstitious Italy. We patched together words in a hash of Italian, English, French and Spanish to get acquainted, finally settling into a quiet I recognized from those satisfied with being alone in Nature.

Driving the backside of a steep Nebbiolo vineyard, its chalky-clay soils an apparition in the blackness, the car settled next to a densely wooded, ebon forest. Lela bounded ahead, unfazed by the cacophonous crunch and crackle from unseen cinghale, deer and wolves.

A tiny flashlight illuminated wildly uneven terrain. Warning of a tough slog, Dani offered his walking stick. Embarrassed and proud, I declined, instead tripping down perpendicular embankments thick with trees, attempting to keep pace…