On a balmy spring day, just beyond the pass on the eastern flank of the Cascade Mountains, Alissa Allen kneels in the damp soil. With a small, curved blade, she cuts something from the earth that looks like a piece of bleached coral, or a forgotten head of cauliflower.

She places it in her basket beside some deeply gilled mushrooms the color of burnt honey, and a frilly, neon-green lichen. After foraging within less than a square mile, her basket is filled with specimens she knows by their scientific names: Cortinarius thiersii, Ramaria rasilospora, Letharia vulpina. But when Allen looks at them, she imagines the dyes they will produce, the unexpected colors they will become.

Allen is a Washington-based naturalist and textile artist who has been offering workshops in “mycopigments”—a term she coined to describe natural dyes derived from mushrooms and lichens—since 2012. She also founded and administers Mushroom and Lichen Dyers United, an international online community of 46,000 members.

“When I started,” she says, “it was a very rare interest. And now it’s exploded!”

Allen models ethical foraging practices that ensure ongoing growth for future seasons. She avoids overharvesting, obtains permits when needed, collects in baskets that allow spores to spread, and cuts, rather than plucks, to preserve mycelial integrity. Allen strives to impart her sense of stewardship to her students: “This offers a communion between a human and the land on which they live. It’s an exchange. The big beauty of this practice is forming a new kind of respect with your region. Then you’re almost guaranteed to care about protecting it.”

 One of the things I love is discovering the ‘palette of the day’… collections of yarn that are all dyed from one day’s outing.”

Mycopigments are the colorful thumbprint of a particular region, revealing the colorway of a neighborhood park, a backyard, a patch of wilderness. “Anyone can plant a dye garden with plants from around the world, but to see what your place is naturally offering, there’s nothing quite like that,” Allen reflects.

Though mushrooms emerge in seasonal cycles, numerous factors—and a bit of luck—shape what Allen finds on her forays. “One of the things I love is discovering the ‘palette of the day,’” says Allen. “I have collections of yarn that are all dyed from one day’s outing—it’s the most mind-blowing thing to people.” The pigments she creates are distillations of color and condition, capturing the signature of a patch of soil’s mycelial makeup, the rainfall that month, the temperature that week.

Today, Allen’s basket is full of pale coral mushroom, amber Cortinarius, and the electric green of wolf lichen—which will yield yarns that are smoky violet, pale apricot, and chartreuse-leaning yellow, respectively. Whether the fibers become a sweater, hat, or scarf, they will do more than keep Allen warm in the cool, Pacific Northwest drizzle. They will forever connect her with the landscape that colored them, preserving an ephemeral moment in vibrant hues.

“I would never have chosen these colors,” Allen laughs. “But now I see how beautiful they will be together.”