In the waning days of autumn, the Maine woods are fairly bursting with hunters. They come in all shapes and sizes. In addition to father and son teams, you’ll find moms, aunts, uncles, sisters and daughters. And it wouldn’t be hunting season without a good selection of colorful out-of-state state “sports.”

Yet, whatever differences there are, come sunrise they’re all headed in the same direction. If you want to pack in sufficient calories for a long day of hunting, you’d best stop at one of our famous all-you-can-eat “hunter’s breakfasts.”

The typically modest cover charge collected by the sharp-eyed doorkeeper (a volunteer, no doubt from some local service club like the Lions, Elks or Knights of Columbus) represents a first rate culinary bargain. Pull up a folding chair, chummy, and let’s hope you’re hungry.

The menu is short and to the point. If you’re looking for vegan entrees, you’ve definitely come to the wrong place. What you will find though is hearty home cooking: steaming platters of hot-off-the-griddle, gluten-rich flapjacks, crispy fried potatoes, eggs, bacon, ham, sausage (all swimming in grease) washed down by gallons of hot coffee. Thus fortified for the day’s labors, you’re ready to head out and search for your elusive prey.

Ah yes, about that “prey.” This is where things begin to get interesting. Most hunters will, of course, be spending the next few hours stalking the elusive white tail deer. A fortunate few, those who’ve managed to secure a highly coveted moose hunting permit in the state lottery, dream of bagging a considerably larger trophy.

But, if you know where to look and especially if you do that looking a little further Down East, in say Washington County, you’ll soon discover an entirely different sort of hunter. Though indistinguishable from the rest in matters of dress or demeanor, these hardcore stalkers have set out to capture a completely different sort of prize.

While hunters of deer and moose spend hours creeping along narrow forest trails, pushing through, climbing over and brushing aside springy fir boughs hoping for a clear shot at their four-legged quarry, this alternate group of hunters is aiming for what might be considered the “opposite target.”

They have no interest in either deer or moose. In fact, their aim is to harvest the very same balsam fir boughs that their fellow hunters have been brushing aside all day!

There’s a name for what they do. It’s called “tipping”: the annual harvest of the “tips,” just the last few inches on the ends of the branches of lush, green balsam fir trees. If you’ve ever wondered just where all those, fresh aromatic boughs on your Christmas wreath come from, well now you know.

There’s a darned good chance they were hand-harvested by a tipper in Down East, Maine, maybe someone like Huddie Peterson. Huddie introduced me to the Down East tradition of “tipping” over 20 years ago when, accompanied by my CBS “Sunday Morning” crew, I wandered into her barn just off the coastal route near the village of Harrington.

She knew we were coming, of course. My producer had called ahead. But that doesn’t mean she was sitting around eating bonbons waiting for us to arrive.

By the time we got there, sometime around 9 a.m. the place was already humming with activity. Two-dozen flannel clad women and handful of men were hard at work. Skilled hands practically flew across huge piles of glistening greenery, systematically cutting, sorting, twisting and weaving together thousands of freshly harvested balsam fir “tips.”

The long plywood table in the center of the barn formed a makeshift assembly line, transforming the mountain of evergreen tips piled on one end into the slightly smaller mountain of beautifully crafted, ribbon bedecked, ready-to-ship wreaths on the other end.

If you’re beginning to think that this “tipping” is simply an excuse for bit of lighthearted seasonal merriment, you’d better think again.

Oh sure, there’s generally plenty of laughter and good cheer along the assembly line. Hey, it helps the work go faster. But make no mistake, this is work and it’s darned hard work at that.

Still, you won’t hear much complaining. With another long Maine winter approaching, those extra dollars from seasonal wreath-making will come in mighty handy.

When I stop and think about it, the handmade Maine wreath on my front door is really a lot more than just bright seasonal decoration.

For some Maine family, it means a full tank of fuel on a cold winter’s night. Or it might mean a warm woolen coat and mittens or that extra gift under the tree on Christmas morning.

And if that isn’t the spirit of the season, I don’t know what is.