The early Fall mushroom hunt

Like all bow hunters, I rounded up my collection of appropriate camo clothing, some having been used for chain sawing, all drenched in the fine, delicate smell of gas, and a touch of diesel from the carb cleaning. The camo worn to church, after using that Frenchie shaving lotion, along with the other tattered and fuming clothing had to be thoroughly washed in no-odor soap, some multiple times. While in the past I’ve used elk urine as a disguise, or even musty earth smell, this year the choice was to try to simply cover up the fact I was a human — not easy.

In any case, the pushups, arm work, maybe beer drinking made it possible to pull the older, recently purchased, weaker (some say geriatric) 45-pound bow and not mess with the 90-pound monster I used for Russian grizzlies and mammoths in the late Pleistocene. I had no intention of hunting from a tree stand for fear of falling again, and felt simple stealthy stalking was the best choice — which notably would also prevent my usual naps in a ground-bound stationary stand.

Fully rigged, I hit the backwoods on the Ogdensburg property feeling prepared, confident, and full of anticipation — and myself. On the first outing, a chicken-of-the-woods was spotted under a rotted maple or an oak, just resting there. At 50 yards, I made my move but on closer examination, it clearly showed itself as a juvenile and hardly worth harvesting at that time. So discouraged, I moved on hoping to see a hen-of-the-woods knowing they tended to live in this hardwood forest but also knew my scrounging, over-zealous brother was on the hunt for hens. It might be a hard struggle to get in range of these more elusive and cautious targets. Foiled again.

Eventually, after a slow walk, a new-born hen-of-the-woods presented itself resting under a deceased white oak. While I was able to get in range, I held back choosing to enjoy the delightful rainy day knowing these hens and chickens would be growing quickly. Returning at a later time would be best to make my real move. Yes, there was competition from other less skilled hunters, but my stealth and artfully crafted camouflage should prevent the prowling loser hunters from knowing I was about, possibly making them lackadaisical in their own pursuit.

I returned in a few days looking for the fowl of the forest, those white tasty hens and more colorful chickens, only to see they had flown. No chickens, no hens. Not good. Embarrassingly it would seem, I had been outplayed by my surprisingly cunning sibling. Seeing only the shriveled leavings of someone else’s harvest was heartbreaking.

While still alert and crouched (some would say poised, filled with wild anticipation), it was then I saw in the distance a flash of a white orb close to a basswood sapling. It paused in an opening. The sheer magnificence of the prey was heart stopping. The size! Oh, the color shimmered in the morning sun. Slipping behind a ratty white pine, and partially disguised by a godawful patch of blackberries, I drew back the arrow, shaking with excitement, intent on taking home this dandy. I know, I know, I hesitated, for there was a momentary recall of that 150-pound mountain lion recently picked up on the neighbor’s game cam. Knowing that feral cats frequently get picked off by allowing their concentration on prey to prevent the notice of the quiet-flying horned owl caused a brief shutter. Caution was a necessity. I didn’t want to be the prey. After a brief glance for an open-mounthed catamount, I released the perfect arrow and in an instant the prize was mine. What a fine day! Never have I ever been able to bow hunt and harvest a two and a half pound puffball mushroom on a first effort. After field dressing and the tell-all photo, it was off to the frying pan.

The mighty(!) hunter with his trophy.