The Scent of Dying Roots

### The Scent of Dying Roots

**November 14, 2025 — 5:30 AM**

The mist is still clinging to the hazelnut trees, thick and cold, smelling of damp bark and woodsmoke. We have been walking since four.

Brio’s snout is covered in dirt, his tail wagging in that slow, methodical rhythm that tells me he is working, not just playing. He is a good dog, a true Lagotto Romagnolo, but he is getting old. His hips stiffen in the morning chill, and I find myself walking slower not just for my own knees, but for his.

Today we found only two. Small ones, the size of walnuts.

Fifty years ago, when I walked these same woods in Piedmont with my grandfather, the earth yielded the *Tartufo Bianco* effortlessly. You could smell them in the air before the dog even began to dig—that sharp, intoxicating scent of garlic, honey, and old earth. My grandfather carried a map of this forest in his blood. He knew which oak tree would shelter the largest prize, which slope the moonlight touched just right.

I inherited his map, but the forest has changed the locks.

The soil is too dry now. The winter rains come late, or not at all, and the summer heat bakes the ground so hard that the delicate mycelium network simply shrivels and dies. The earth is closing up. Yesterday, in the piazza in Alba, I watched the brokers arguing over prices. They are astronomical this year, fueled by the scarcity. The tourists in the restaurants will pay three hundred euros for a few shavings over their pasta, oblivious to the fact that they are eating the ghosts of a dying ecosystem.

There is a younger generation of *trifulau* in the woods now. They don't walk in the dark to keep their secret spots hidden; they use GPS coordinates on their phones and share locations on encrypted apps. They buy dogs pre-trained from commercial breeders instead of raising the pups by hand, sleeping next to them in the barn so the dog learns the rhythm of their owner's breathing. They treat the forest like a mine to be stripped, not a living thing to be conversed with.

I am not afraid of losing money. I own my small stone house, and my needs are few—a good fire, a glass of Nebbiolo, some bread and cheese.

What terrifies me is the silence.

When Brio stops sniffing and simply looks up at me with those milky brown eyes, I realize that the conversation between my family and this forest is coming to an end. For three generations, we have spoken the language of the soil. Now, the soil is forgetting how to speak. I brushed the dirt off the two small truffles with my thumb, feeling their rough, fragile surface, and put them carefully into my pocket. I did not feel the thrill of the hunt today. I only felt like a thief stealing the last few coins from a dying friend.

Come, Brio. Let’s go home and light the fire. The woods are too cold today.