When I close my eyes, all I see are roots. I've been staring at them so much, sampling them in the field, taking them back to the lab, peering at them for hours under microscopes, that they've implanted themselves in my brain.

And even though I'm interested in these roots' fungi, I promise this isn't a "Last of Us" situation: mushroom zombies bringing the apocalypse.

The roots I find are tangled, hairy, imperfect. Everything a flower is not. There's little symmetry, all chaotic twists and turns directed by opportunistic whims. They grow in response to their micro-environment. Curling around now-brittle twigs, stretching webs across skeletons of dead leaves.

Form here is not determined by the goal of baiting butterflies and bees to touch down their pollen-coated legs. Instead, each root's path is built from thirst and hunger. The root system seeks out its own bit of fertile land, and moves on when the wells have gone dry. Its drive unending, serving as the basis of plant production. The blue-collar workers of our ecosystems.

It's been three weeks of staring at roots for 15 hours a day.

I'm trying to understand what a warmer Arctic with less permafrost means for roots. And in turn, what their changes mean for the tundra carbon stored belowground. This carbon's loss would be a globally significant tipping point, a climate crisis.

Tundra soils are messy. Each half-handful of sample uncovers something different. There are whole pieces of dead moss, still-identifiable chunks of Labrador tea and lingonberry, exoskeletons of small insects. Roots are hoarders, clinging on to it all. I pry apart a piece of furled bark to find spaghetti strands of roots, neatly packed inside. And they're not alone.

There's a smooth, almost shimmering, lavender cap on the tip of each root. Fungus found.

Mycorrhiza is the scientific name; it's Greek for fungus-root. Gardeners today sprinkle their plant's soil with powdered mycorrhizal fungi in hopes they'll form a partnership and grow bigger crops.

The fungi I find here are a different type than what's in gardens. But it's really the same idea.

Fungus meets root and sends the right mix of chemicals to convince the plant to let it move in. The fungi will then grow special structures inside the root to maximize the potential to share: nutrients, water, sugars.

The opportunity for metaphor abounds. I try to restrain myself from diving in. An apocalyptic climate future needs solutions, not indulgence, even if it is just in the form of language.

But here is where I find comfort in our world. The grounding scent of peat mixed with hints of iron and other metals. The pops of fungal color, displayed with no viewer in mind. The goodness of a partnership that evolved hundreds of millions of years ago.

If I use a delicate enough touch, I can eventually pull apart this entanglement, even if only in my mind's eye. The gentle unraveling is as satisfying as piecing together a puzzle.

Don't ask me what results I've found or what it means for climate change — it will take a lifetime of inquiry for those answers to bloom. For now, can't it just be as simple as: grow towards what's nurturing, give back to your connections, and dive deeper when you can.

 

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