This corner has suffered much and seen many unusual things at the hands of Fate, Mother Nature and outdoor partners but I can honestly say that today was certainly a new chapter in the book of odd outdoor happenings.

The whole affair started out innocuously enough with my friends Don and Ken accompanying the entire Out in the Open staff on a mushroom hunt. I thought a few hours spent rambling in the woods, searching for succulent dainties, would be just the ticket to relaxation during an otherwise hectic week.

The weather was finally perfect after two weeks of climate that had been specially imported from the Arctic Circle so, with light hearts and empty backpacks, we entered the woods in mid-afternoon. Our goal was ostensibly to retrieve Ken’s deer stand but we actually were on a sharp lookout for the fungus among us as we rambled through the green corridors.

At this point, before going any further, columnists are required to impart some useful bit of background information to the reader. In past years I have felt compelled to cover all the various types of morel mushrooms, their growth habits, mycelium counts, identification and other such academic folderol. I have finally realized that either you know what a “sponge” mushroom looks like or you don’t.

As far as finding sponges, my thirty-five years of on-again, off-again mushroom hunting has developed one hard and fast rule about locating them: they live in the woods, more or less. After picking a nice batch of giant yellow sponges from a flowerbed, I have realized that there is no rhyme, reason or basis for locating good mushrooms areas aside from using quantities of boot leather. Mushrooms are where you find them.

So it would be today as we spread out and began walking, poking, stopping and looking. We had been in the woods only 15 minutes before the curious episode occurred.

Don had wandered off on his own and was rummaging around under some leafy honeysuckle bushes near the base of a tree. Ken and I had stopped to discuss something when we suddenly heard a series of strange noises coming from our nearly invisible friend.

There is no way to quote what Don said and still pass muster with the newspaper, so I will simply disclose that he was shouting something that sounded as if he were having some type of unnatural relationship with an operating pasta machine.

Ken and I immediately exchanged glances and started for him, yelling and trying to find out what was wrong. We also both involuntarily grabbed for the pistols we were carrying in case the pasta machine had Don by the throat. Ken and I assumed attack formation and plunged through the underbrush. Our concern grew along with his increasing volume.

We both later agreed our first thought was that Don had found a decomposing body in the woods. Only such a discovery would rightfully account for the racket he was making.

After sprinting through a thicket laced with rusty barbed wire, briars and thorn trees, Ken and I arrived simultaneous, ready to do battle with the forces of evil.

“WHAT HAPPENED??” we both shouted while assuming defensive positions in a low combat crouch.

“Look at this!”  Don exclaimed, proudly holding up a trio of yellow morel mushrooms. I will admit they were beautiful.

“Huh?”  Ken said, not immediately grasping the situation as he rapidly scanned the woods for an approaching battalion of Hottentots or possibly a rabid tiger.

“He found a couple of mushrooms,” I said, plucking a strand of barbed wire from my earlobe.

“Hmmm” Ken said. After a moment he mentioned, “We could say he fell down a well. Nobody would question it,”

We soon learned that that Don is incapable of keeping his vocal cords restrained but that he is some kind of genius savant when it comes to finding fungus. During the remainder of the trip, it was not uncommon for him to point out mushrooms that Ken and I had knocked over while walking.

The rest of the day was spent as Ken and I strolled about, chatting and picking up the occasional mushroom while Don darted back and forth, making his special noise and plucking completely hidden sponges out of the leaves like some kind of bird dog. We now suspect that he is possibly an alien from the planet Fungoid.

Back at the car, we looked over our accumulated treasures. Ken put his small catch into my bag, bringing the total up to nearly two dozen. Meanwhile, Don poured his extra large mesh sack of sponges onto the ground for all to admire.

Looking over the sizeable, good-looking pile of mushrooms and our smiling buddy, I quietly turned to Ken.

“Do you really think there is an old well around here?”

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