A fungi hike in the highland forests of San Cristóbal de las Casas

There’s a particular kind of quiet in San Cristóbal de las Casas in the early morning. The streets are damp, the hills hidden in mist, and the air has that mountain weight—cool and heavy, yet clean. Outside Co404, our coliving and coworking home, a few of us gathered around a van with warm mugs of coffee.

We were heading into the forest for a guided fungi hike, an outing organized by Pop-Up San Cris, a local collective that curates experiences. Our guide was Felipe, a mycologist who teaches at a university in Tuxtla Gutiérrez and spends many weekends in San Cristóbal sharing what he knows about the living systems that make up this unique landscape.

The drive out of the city was short—thirty minutes at most—but the shift felt deeper. The cobblestones gave way to winding dirt roads lined with pine and oak. Small wooden homes appeared at intervals, painted in bright colors that stood out against the gray-green of the forest. When the van stopped, the air was colder and the sounds sharper: birds calling, branches creaking, and the soft trickle of water somewhere nearby.

Walking into the forest

Felipe gathered us at the trailhead. He carried a small backpack, a folded field guide, and a magnifying lens that hung from a cord around his neck.

The path began with a slow incline, winding through tall pines and undergrowth heavy with ferns. Every step released the smell of wet soil and decaying leaves. Dew hung from branches like strings of glass. The walk was slow, deliberate, and curious.

Felipe spoke about how fungi connect everything in the forest—the trees, the plants, the microorganisms. They’re not just decomposers, he said, but communicators. Through networks of mycelium beneath the surface, nutrients, water, and even signals of stress travel between species.

“When you see a mushroom,” he said, “you’re only seeing the fruit. The real organism is hidden, connecting everything else.”

It was easy to feel that connection as we moved further in. The forest was dense but alive with small motion: insects crossing the path, leaves dripping water, and distant woodpeckers tapping at trunks.

The air carried the smell of pine and moisture, and with every minute, the city felt further away.

The world beneath our feet

Felipe stopped often. Once, he knelt beside a fallen log covered in a thread of mycelium, the fibrous web that links the living and the decayed.

For a moment, we all crouched around the log, watching condensation form on the soft surface of the wood, noticing how the threads of fungi gleamed faintly in the dim light.

He spoke of scale—how there are likely millions of fungal species on Earth, and how scientists have named only a small fraction. The rest live quietly, doing their work unseen.

Felipe encouraged us to notice patterns: where fungi appeared, what they grew on, how their shapes reflected the forest’s diversity.

As we continued, we began to see things we would’ve missed before: a half-hidden ring of mushrooms growing in a perfect circle, a slick patch of lichen on a rock, and the faint smell of something earthy and sweet rising from the soil.

Learning to look

By mid-morning, the light had shifted. Sun filtered through the canopy, creating moving shapes on the ground. We’d fallen into an easy rhythm—someone stopping, others gathering to look, and Felipe offering context without ever making it feel like a lecture.

He showed us how fungi thrive where there’s decay, breaking down what would otherwise remain still.

The forest floor was alive with color if you took the time to look: tiny orange caps along a branch, white domes emerging from soil, moss so green it seemed to hold its own light.

The path was narrow and uneven, sometimes slick with mud, sometimes carpeted in dry pine needles that softened each step. When we paused, the air felt dense with scent—earth, bark, something metallic like rain.

At one point, Felipe mentioned that many local communities use fungi for more than food. They serve as indicators of ecological health, markers of balance, even symbols in local folklore.

Felipe didn’t linger too much on the science. What stayed with us were the quiet gestures—the way he handled each specimen gently, or paused before speaking, giving the forest space to fill the silence.

The walk back was slower. The light had changed again, and the forest felt like a different place altogether. Shadows stretched across the path, and the sound of insects replaced the morning birdsong. Felipe pointed out how certain mushrooms close their caps in heat to retain moisture.

A meal in the clearing

By early afternoon, the trail opened into a small clearing surrounded by pines. The air was cooler there, and a few locals were setting up a simple lunch.

A portable stove hissed, and Felipe knelt beside it, slicing the mushrooms he had gathered earlier. He cooked them slowly with garlic and oil, stirring until the edges crisped and the scent filled the air.

There was guacamole, beans, handmade tortillas, and for those who preferred, eggs.

We ate a vegan version—sautéed mushrooms with salt and lime, cooked with spinach and tomato.

The taste was rich and earthy, the texture meaty but tender.

When the food was gone, Felipe grouped species of inedible mushrooms we collected, and talked about their relation to each other.

The return

By the time we needed to depart, our boots were covered in mud and our clothes smelled faintly of smoke and soil. The drive down was quiet. The mist had lifted, revealing the ridges of the highlands and the patchwork of farmland below.

Back in San Cristóbal, the streets felt brighter than they had that morning. The noise, the movement, the smell of street food—it all hit differently, sharper somehow, like returning from a place where time had stretched.

We became particularly attentive to mushrooms, seeing little buckets of them at the market.

This was an experience built on trust in local knowledge, in small details, and in shared curiosity. We left with muddy shoes and full stomachs.

For anyone in San Cristóbal looking to reconnect with what lies just outside the city’s edge, this hike offers something rare—a way to understand the highlands not by distance, but by depth. It’s a few hours of walking, learning, and eating together, but more than that, it’s a small lesson in how to be present in a world that’s always moving.

If you'd like to book the hike and aren't staying at Co404 (which typically organizes it), reach out directly to Pop-Up San Cris for more info.