ID | #1644327963 |
Added | Tue, 08/02/2022 |
Author | July N. |
Sources | |
Phenomena | |
Status | Fact
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Initial data
On August 23, 1999, I went to the forest for mushrooms on my usual route. The day turned out to be sunny and warm, promising a good harvest of mushrooms. After walking about six kilometers away, opposite the marker, I turned off my usual path to the left, where I usually collected porcini mushrooms. Having found a few boletus trees near the road itself, I went deep into the forest familiar to me from childhood. After about two hundred meters, I had to go out on a path known to me, and, passing parallel to it, gather up young whites. But after walking two hundred meters, to my surprise, I did not find a path.
It can't be that I, a mushroom picker with experience, got lost in the "three pines". Going back to the road, I made sure that the place was really that. Deciding to forget about what had happened, I went back into the forest and, after walking a hundred meters, came out on a small swamp. By the way, I knew the forest in this place practically by heart and remembered that there were no swamps here. Lost in thought, I reached the middle of the swamp and sat down on a pile of dead wood, near which grew hefty, the size of a saucer, gray.
A deafening crash made me jump up. It feels like I'm in the middle of a busy highway in an American metropolis, where a car accident has just occurred. I heard terrifying screeching brakes, beeping, the rumble of colliding cars, police whistling, people screaming. But with all this, he continued to contemplate the serene, flooded with the morning sun, swamp. Ten seconds – and the acoustic nightmare stopped. Hastily collecting the brimstone in a basket, I went out onto the road and, sticking a knife into a tree (to prove that I had not mistaken), I rushed to run.
Having gathered people, in the afternoon I took them to the same place. When we arrived, the knife was still stuck in the tree. But, having passed those hundred meters to the left, we did not find any swamp. In its place, the branches of the forest I had long known, in which porcini mushrooms grew, rustled with branches. My Klondike was open. People came back to the village happy, with porcini mushrooms.
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