First Impressions

I consider myself a serious deer hunter I guess, but I don't drive myself crazy much anymore. I don't waste much time or money on the clothes, the gadgets, or the theories--I waste my time and money where it counts: on my rifles.

Do I spend a fortune on them? No, that's not what I meant. I mean, I get what catches my eye, then work hard to squeeze every ounce of utility from them. I work up my own handloads for each that'll shoot the most accurate and buy it the best optics I can afford (or embezzle). And then I shoot it and then shoot it some more as far as I can to get to know what it can and cannot do. I also figure out along the way what I can and cannot do with the rifle.

If I had an AR-15 I'd hunt with it.

Here's a list of what I've used on game, and my impression--my impression of course.

223 Remington: Remington Model 700 ADL.

I broke my neck, and would have never used this cartridge to hunt deer, but I was wary of recoil to my healing vertebrae. I also happen to shoot this rifle alot, so I have the utmost confidence in it. So when I was hunkered down in my burlap poncho on the hay field, I had no compunction using this diminutive cartridge on a medium sized doe.

I thumped her in the head while shooting off sticks. Strangely, my hunting buddy had radioed me if  I "had seen anything" and I whispered, "Hang on," into my radio while squeezing off the shot. He got to hear the report through his radio and then a moment later through the air. That was kinda neat.

So if you wanted to use an old bolt gun with the old, slow and familiar twist rate, I'd stick to head shots inside 100 yards. With a new AR with a fast-twist barrel and 60 gr Noslers or something, I'd go on and take a classic broadside body shot out to 150 yards. Bullet placement is super critical if you want to find the deer you shot and killed.

The .223 Remington. The Chap Stick is for scale.

 243 Winchester: Remington Model 700 ADL/Remington Model 788 Carbine.

This rifle and cartridge are insanely versatile. I can load 55 grain varmint bullets to 4000 feet per second (fps) and I can load 100 grain bullets for deer to damn near 3100 fps safely and many different bullet weights in between!

The mild recoil make it a good gun for folks who don't like getting the crap kicked out of them at the range or while hunting. Though, you rarely notice recoil when you're hunting. Lots of people hand these to kids as their first deer rifle, but the recoil can still be a little stout for a little practicing off the bench. It was for my kids I felt like. I did hunt with it the minute I got my cervical collar off for the rest of the '07-08 season.

The handful of deer I have shot with them died and were found. They all ran, dead on their feet, for a pretty good distance, but that was with classic broadside shots through the chest cavities. I imagine I could neck shoot deer with this rifle and collect them where they stood.

It's a good cartridge, but bullet placement is pretty critical. 100 grains is pretty dang small. My 700 shoots so well that I don't think I'll ever give it up unless the IRS forces me to, but past 150 yards, you better be dead on.

The 100 grain for deer on the left, and the 55 grain.

6.5X55MM (Swedish Mauser): Mod 98 Santa Barbara/Mod 70 Winchester/Mod 700 Rem.

Three rifles chambered in this cartridge? Yes. That's how much I think of it. With 140 grain bullets, this dog hunts. I found out one day quite by accident, that this 140 grain bullet at a steady 2700 fps had the same "trajectory" as a 150 grain bullet from my .308 going 2900 fps with less "KAPOW" and less recoil. An inch and half high at a hundred yards and two inches low at 200 is in my tiny mind, just about perfect for any rifle. It's long and skinny and slips through the air quite easily.

I've never lost a deer with this cartridge. The recoil is on par with a .243, but the payload is much heavier and steadier. I even killed a coyote with it but instantly felt guilty about that.

I couldn't recommend this cartridge as there aren't any new rifles being made for it meaning you'd have to get someone to build one for you. The cartridge is an intermediate between "Short Action" and "Long Action" so you might have feed problems in your long action rifle you have built for it. If you buy an old Mauser, you'll have to shoot wimpy factory loads which build pressures with the ancient age of old Mausers in mind. Of course, as a handloader, none of that bothers me, so I love these rifles and what they can do.

140 Grain sweetness. 

260 Remington: Remington Model Seven.

This, like the above Swede, is a .264 caliber cartridge. I love it too. In short, I would say, they made a cartridge to shoot like a swede, but to dimensions that allow it to be packaged into short action rifles. And there ain't no rifle action shorter and handier than is used in a Remington Model Seven. The rifle is a delight to use. Mine was snapped up when it was a youth model, but I added a recoil pad to make it adult sized.

Everything I said about the Swede is of course true for the .260. I loaded it with 100 grain bullets for my son when he was ready to move up from his first deer rifle. And for the last two years, he's been using this Seven to do all his hunting, but loaded with the lethal 140 grain projectiles. He doesn't know this of course. I have him practice with the 100 grainers at the bench so he doesn't beat himself to death and develop a flinch, and then switch him out to the 140 grainers when he hunts. They miraculously share the same "zero" in that little Seven, and that's a real plus.

The only drawback to my set up is barrel length, but I'm going to fix that shortly when I build one on a Model 70 Winchester action with a 22 inch barrel from Douglas. That's what hunters should do on the off season; buy and shoot new rifles!

The 140 grain on the left, 100 grain on the right.

6.8 Remington SPC (Special Purpose Cartridge): Remington Model 700 Light Varminter.

If you think about it, killing really ain't all that special a purpose for a rifle cartridge! I actually stuck this .270 caliber rifle action into a youth model stock and took my kids hunting with it. My son got his first deer with it--and what a deer it was! The recoil is very mild, but with a 110 grain bullet, it felt to me that it would have a more lethal effect than say a .223. And it wouldn't beat the kids silly like a .243 Win would at the bench.

I crawled up on a little buck and dropped him where he stood with a lucky shoulder shot once. And that just goes to show, that shot placement is critical when shooting animals with this rifle. Also, it it's probably a little to wimpy to stretch out past 100 yards or so for deer.

It's a 110 Grain .270 caliber.

270 Winchester: Remington Model 700 Moutain Rifle.

Obviously, the .270 is the heat. Its reputation was made on the 130 grain bullet and that's all I ever used. I had some 150's for it, but I never got around to using them. I've since sold the rifle I had, but this is the cartridge I recommend to anyone wanting to get started deer hunting. I mean, the cartridges and rifles are available anywhere in these United States at anytime you want them.

The only downside in my mind (only, probably) is that these rifles are long action rifles which for a little feller like me makes stock crawling and scope mounting somewhat problematic...sometimes. You'll never have any trouble out of it and if you shoot it alot, you'll get really good with it.

A factory 130 grain topped cartridge.

7MM-08 Remington: Remington Model Seven/Remington Model 700.

This is a huge step up from the 243 Win. even though it too is a short-action cartridge. In the Model Seven, it's a joy to carry though recoil can get a bit stout--but you never notice that from the tree you're in. This is a cartridge that can be used for all manner of game depending on which load you roll yourself, or buy in a box at Gander Mtn.

The two I have have served me well. The Seven is the veritable tack driver which only boosts confidence. The last deer I shot in the 2011-12 season was a 96 yard head shot with this rifle. Having helped hunting buddy's look for four wounded deer that year, I decided I would start dropping deer in their tracks. The 700 I own, however, is going to get reamed out to 284 Winchester, but that is another story...

I would recommend this cartridge to anyone, but ammo can be hard to come by out in the sticks. It's plenty of gun for deer and frankly, everything else in NC that "they'll" let us shoot.

150 Grain bullet.

280 Ackley Improved: Remington Model 700.

Yeah. I know. This is a 7MM cartridge and this was my first "custom" rifle. The .280 Ackley is based of course on the 280 Remington but with the case "blown out" and the shoulder angle sharpened more than the parent case. Why? So we handloaders can stuff more propellant into the case and force the bullet down range faster.

Yeah. Why? Well, I can just match the "ballistics" of the 7MM Remington Magnum cartridge with this cartridge but with a 24 inch barrel, two more cartridges in my magazine, and with less powder which means cheaper as well. The recoil is a little less too because of less propellant, but only slightly. This rifle isn't much fun to shoot off the bench, but it's not as fierce as a 7MM Mag.

In fact, every three or four years or so I forget and buy a 7MM Mag, take it to the range, and quickly remind myself why I don't own one! I'm a little feller.

The cartridge is fine. It will do anything the .270 Winchester will do without a whole lot of difference. It is a "long range" number and being thus, it was the first cartridge I ever shot and was able to recover the bullet from the corpse.

An improved cartridge is something handloaders do because the plain Jane version of the cartridge isn't sexy enough. On the bright side, regular factory ammo will do in a pinch if need be with only the loss of velocity and a changed zero.

150 grain bullet.

30 Winchester Center Fire (30-30 Winchester): Marlin 336CS/Western Field M740

I can't say anything bad about this cartridge and the Marlins I have toted. Well, I won't. It's true, people will sniff when they see you carrying it afield now and that's a shame really. The 30-30 belies the importance of paper "ballistics" when it thumps deer dead. Flat metplats and modest velocities have always been lethal at moderate ranges.

But you know what? Hornady's LeveRevolution ammunition has changed the game forever. I don't bother to reload 30-30 ammo but will start now as the components for Hornady's awesome, spitzer pointed lever gun ammo has become available to us reloaders. The pointy bullets with the rubber tips are exactly what tubular magazined rifles need! These have turned 30-30's into semi-long ranged rifles.

Of course, the cartridge is fine up close and personal in the hardwoods. The first high powered rifle I ever bought was a Marlin in 30-30 Winchester in 1984, and I still got it though I yanked out the weird little "cross-bolt safety" and old hardwood stock I cracked playing Rooster Cogburn--spinning a 336 is harder than it looks...so was that concrete floor.

Hornady LeveRevolution, an old Winchester, and an ancient saboted .22.

7.5X54MM MAS: MAS Model 1936.

The cartridge is fine. It's .308 caliber, a 150 grain bullet cooking out of the muzzle at about 2750 fps, so it's plenty deadly. The problem is the rifle. It's an old French number from before WWII. It has a good sight system for shooting in broad daylight but deer (and the Viet Minh) only come out in the wee hours of the morning and the fading light of dusk...but I harvested a deer with it.

The 7.5 is in the same class as the good ol' .300 Savage. It is plenty lethal and has plenty of punch, but obviously no one who isn't on a mission is going to hunt deer with it. I've been on a mission to kill something with every rifle in my safe for a while, and the MAS 36 was in there so it got its chance to shine.

I don't recommend it.

Medium length, giant case head.

308 Winchester: Remington M 700/Rem M 788/Browning BBR/Marlin XS7

If I had to give up all of my rifles and settle for one, it'd be in 308 Winchester and it'd be a toss up between that Model 700 and the Marlin XS7. Saying the 308 is versatile is an understatement. Think of it as a 30-06 short! Handloading just carries that versatility to the Nth degree as one gets into countless combinations of bullet weight and applications.

Having practiced with rifles in this cartridge so much, I have a confidence level with my .308's that borders on cocky. And that of course means good, clean shots afield. The other good thing about this cartridge is that it too fits into the light, short-action rifles which I prefer. In fact, I'll have you know, that this cartridge, having started life as a military chambering, has been necked up and down and is the granddaddy of my 243 Win, 260 Rem, and 7mm-08 Rem and big poppi to the 338 Federal and 358 Winchester which I don't own...yet. All of those cartridges are based on the 308 Winchester case and all fit into short, easily-toted rifles.

Of course it's a good deer round. That's needless to say, and I would recommend it to anyone who wants to start hunting or just start shooting. Ammunition is everywhere and pretty easy to find, and there's tons of different configurations to choose from. Have at it.

The 308 Win might be all you need.

30-06 Springfield: Rem 700 BDL/Mauser 98/1903 Springfield/Rem Model 30 Express.

This is America's 30 caliber cartridge. It's the father of so many cartridges that I won't list them all as it would make me crazy. In the list I'm making here, it's the father of the 280 and 270. It's a long action, good for any game in North America and by default, the great state of NC too.

It's not my go to gun for one reason. It's just too dull. It's just too ho hum because everyone has one. And, it kicks like a damn mule! The last deer I shot with one was from a vintage 1926 Model 30 Express Remington with open sights in the 2010-11 season. Because so many rifles have been chambered in 30-06, when a weird, old rifle no one wants catches my eye, I'll buy it even if it's chambered thus.

That old 98 Mauser has the faint Nazi Eagle on it though it was polished off mostly. My '03 Springfield, the rifle that was designed around the cartridge more or less when *it* was the premier assault rifle, would probably curl my hair if it could speak of what it had been through.

Anyway, it's always going to be a good choice for hunting even if it won't wow your guntard friends. Ammunition is everywhere--even rustic gas stations in the middle of nowhere right next to the RC colas and corn nuts.

Rifle Cartridge, Calibre .30, Model of 1906.

35 Remington: Marlin 336CS/Remington 760 Game Master

This is one of those cartridges that I love and use late in the season when I've shot a few deer, but want to limit my shots for the rest of the season so I don't look like a blood-thirsty maniac. It's made it's reputation in the Marlin lever action rifle, but was invented for a semi-automatic rifle.

In the Marlin, flat nosed bullets are the order of the day because of the tubular magazine--or are they? Again, Hornady's LeveRevolution Ammunition has changed the game somewhat. It's still an inside a hundred yard cartridge--mine shoots eight inches low at 200 yards--but the pointy, rubber-tipped spitzers are way more accurate.

It just packs more punch than the 30-30 yet has the same range from the same type of Marlin, so what's not to love? The Remington 760 is just a fun, vintage rifle that doesn't care if the ammo is pointed or not. It's a pump-action rifle, a "yankee lever gun", that I fell in love with and waited six years for the pawn shop to come down off their price!

Factory ammunition is good, and Hornady's is great. Limit your shots to inside 100 yards and you're hunting with a big bore.

Old flat-nose on left, and Hornady's LeveRevolution.

350 Remington Magnum: Remington Model 700 Classic.

This stomper was made for killing giant, scary animals, and I respect that, but we're short on those in my neck of the woods. All we got is deer. The recoil is so brutal that I've only the guts to put a fixed four power Leupold on top of this thing because it has such generous eye relief.

I've worked up a pet load that shucks a 200 grain spitzer out at 2800 fps and have never bothered to experiment further with it. Why? This is all you need. Well, and you'll need some dies for reloading because as I write this, no one is making ammunition for this bad boy which means you'll have to roll your own.

So why own such a hot house flower? Because the rifle is gorgeous, a short action, and light as a feather. No one's got one, and that makes it a guntard's dream.

And the cartridge isn't as hard on deer as you'd think it would be. I've actually seen a doe shot with the 350 strung up right beside one shot with a 270 at the processor's, and was surprised at the difference between the injuries. Each were easy to see without the skin. Both were shot near 100 yards, but the 270 shot doe was mangled to point of losing the off side front leg while my doe wasn't nearly as battered.

It's a good cartridge, and if the Greensboro Bear ever shows his grimy face during bear season...I'll be ready...or her face.

The original "Short Magnum" from 1965!

375 Winchester: Marlin 375.

An even bigger bore than the 350 Rem mag, this cartridge is actually a pussy cat. It's chambered in lever guns, so it has to be loaded with flat-nosed bullets, but since it's 375 caliber, it already contains more punch than the either the 30-30 or 35 Remington. Well it too loves a 200 grain bullet, cut its teeth on a 200 grain bullet, and that's all I have ever loaded in it.

The one doe I have harvested with this rifle and cartridge dropped in her tracks at 107 yards. Lucky hit? That of course is possible, but it permanently fixed in my mind the thought that I said earlier: Flat noses and moderate velocities hit really hard, harder even than paper "ballistics" would lead you to believe.

But, it's an odd duck and you might have to search long and hard for ammo, and pay a pretty penny for a rifle--especially an original Winchester Big Bore in which the cartridge was first introduced. You might think it worth it if you handloaded I suppose. I did.

A "new" cartridge that owes it's life to the old 38-55 Winchester.

444 Marlin: Marlin 444S.

If the 350 Rem Mag is a stomper, then the 444 Marlin is a double-stomper! You can find factory ammunition for it, and maybe you should since it comes with a 240 grain, flat-nosed bullet. I read the manuals, and they all lauded the 265 grain Hornady flat-nosed bullet as far superior--and maybe it is. But from a Marlin 336 action (called 444s) the recoil is brutal.

I have said above, when you're hunting, you don't notice recoil, but when you're hunting with this cartridge, you better beware. I scoped mine with a low power variable for the extra eye-relief but still hesitate before I squeeze the trigger to take stock of where my face is, where my eyebrow is. At the bench I take the rear Butler Creek flip-up scope cover all the way off as it's that close during recoil.

Is it too much for white-tail? Yes, I would say so. But for up close, inside one hundred yards, slow and fat will get the job done. A poorly hit deer will probably succumb very quickly and be found rather than disappear into the brush to die slowly or at the mouths of predators. I wouldn't recommend it for beginner shooters though.

When your 44 Rem Mag is too weak!

The Rest

The only cartridges and rifles left that I own and would consider shooting deer with are:

45-70 Government: Marlin 1895

This bruiser was a military cartridge until the 1890's or so. Made for killing American Indians back when that was cool. It's rough enough to kill anything in North America and might be a tad harsh on deer, but it would do that pretty well.

The recoil is so harsh with a jacketed, 300 grain flat-nosed bullet that I won't even put a scope on it. Right now I have a rear Weaver "peep" sight on it and might stick with that. This is the only rifle I have ever shot and worried about my retina detaching. I'm almost not kidding.

44 Remington Magnum: Marlin 1894

This is a pistol cartridge that has made it's way into small, lever-action carbines as well. I would love to thump a deer with this--think of it as a 444 Marlin Short--since it has plenty of gas to get the job done as long as the range is reasonable, say, inside of 100 yards.

The little rifle would look ridiculous with a scope, so it too is an iron sighted proposition. That means it'll have to be broad daylight and classic broadside before I'll attempt a shot. But it would do well I imagine.

357 Magnum: Marlin 1894CS

This may be the weakest cartridge anyone should shoot at deer. And I'll only do it opened sighted, broadly lit, and inside 75 yards. This is the cartridge for guys who can get deer almost to bow-hunting range. This for the doe that wanders right up to the blind and then won't go away unless you throw your cushion at her, or kill her.

The 45-70, 44 Mag, and the 357 Mag.

So, that's it. My impressions aren't ironclad, and might even be wrong. I know a guy who only hunts with two rifles, two Weatherby's, and they're both chambered in 270 Winchester, and he thinks he's got all his bases covered. And he does I suppose, but that's not a fun way to live if you ask me.

I've gathered a few rifles in several different chamberings and a few different models, and I've enjoyed taking them out and seeing what we can do together. The only caveat I would give to anyone wanting to hunt is something my hero once said, and even titled a book the same, and that's, "Use enough gun!"



-rbm

Turkey Hunting is at Least a Two-Man Job!

Beretta ES-100

Everybody, I mean everybody, was walking down along the old logging road to the edge of the corn field whispering, carry decoys and shot guns, all heading to what looked like to me the same spot. I was in the back of the line excited to be there, but wary of this gaggle of turkey hunters trying to be sneaky. Ahead, I could see our gang leader pointing out over the fields where he thought others ought to go...and all around, we began to hear gobbles. Bona-fide evidence that we were on the right track.


When it's still dark in the morning, and you hear that Turkey announce to the world that he's up and ready for love, it completely shakes the drowsy stare-at-your-feet feeling you've had since you hit the snooze button an hour ago. Suddenly, you're on the hunt!


I was following the double column, second to last and beside (not my) Cousin Bill. The whole march, I was dreading trying to blend in among four other hunters when just then, over my right shoulder, I heard a gobble further away near where the flood plain of the Dan River stops, and the hardwoods begin.


Cousin Bill heard it too and we both paused. I looked forward at the group and shook my head. "I'm going that way," I whispered.


"You know what you're doing?" Cousin Bill asked.


That threw me. I had just bought a call the day before. Sure, I was carrying the tried and trusted Beretta ES 100 from the five minute Turkey Hunt of last year's season, but I was missing something: my teacher J.B. I'd tucked my self so far under his wing, under his natural ability to sweet talk Turkeys that I had never walked the walk, or talked the (Turkey) talk myself. I'd never uttered a cluck on my own in the woods in my life!


"You know what you're doing?" Cousin Bill had asked.


I grinned and shook my head. "No," I said.


I could see his return grin, even in the growing grey light, and I could see the urge to go with me flicker in his eyes but only for a moment before he waved and headed off with the others. I turned around and headed towards the gobble.


Now, alone on the logging trail, I looked down to see petrified in the dried mud of the road bed the tell tale tracks, the miniature T-Rex footprints, that let you know that at least a few times before, Turkeys had wandered by on there way from the woods to the corn field...and I was hoping to bury myself out of sight and catch a Tom doing just that.


I crouch over and schlep over to the edge of this little natural clearing just off the logging road and barely out of sight of everyone's trucks. I mean, it's a used truck lot just over the rise to my east. I sit down in what used to be a mud hole but now, thanks to what our local whiz-kid "meteorologists" are already calling a drought after only ten days of no rain, is just a damp spot of stinky, sticky black dirt and algae. The Tom's calls seem rather close, and I know if he sees me it's over.


And then I do it. I pull out the slate call I bought just yesterday, tilt the stick a tad, and cluck for the first time ever on my own in the woods. Behind me through the low scrub trees tens of yards deep, the gobbles continue and the cackling hens holler as well, but I am only listening to the gobble just ahead of me and up the hill. He hollers back and I just know, at any moment, I'll have him coming down the mountain and strutting around the bend to me. Only that doesn't happen.


He keeps gobbling, not walking. It doesn't sound like he's going anywhere. Or sometimes, I imagine he's actually further away. I fret and fret and finally get up to move closer to him. Of course, I don't know if this is proper procedure or not, but it feels right.


And see, that's something about hunting I rarely seen written about, or discussed. But sometimes, when you go hunting, you pick out an area, sit in a spot or make a stand because the time and the place just feels right. And more often than not, it ends up paying off. Even fishing, you just get that hunch, that under that branch is the Crappie hole you've been searching for.


Just as sure as lining up with four other guys to hunt didn't feel right at that moment, getting up out of my stinky mud hole and moving closer to that Tom in the tree seemed like exactly the right thing to do. This time I plop down in some wet grass, sun behind me, as it's fixing to pop over the hill and I figure I'll be back lit which will make me too easy to see, or harder to see by some poor turkey looking up into the sun. I'm not sure which, but I'm hoping for the latter.


This whole time, he's been good enough to gobble, and I'm coquettish enough to cluck back. After all, I am trying to convince him I'm a hot and bothered hen....likewise however, he's a proud male trying to convince me that he's worthy of my time and that I should hoof it to him. And in a way I am...I just can't be seen. I mean, I don't look a thing like a hot hen Turkey.


Here, we continue our chat until about the time the sun's come up over the hill, colouring the trees and grass around me back from that early grey to bright green, and casting long shadows pointing south west. I can see the shadow of my hooded head. I'd forgotten a hat and was breathing through a borrowed camo mask...borrowed from a smoker--borrowed from a smoker who apparently never bothers to take the mask off when imbibing. Anyway, about that time, Tom had stopped talking to me.


So the sun's up, and in the hunting business, the show's usually over about mid-morning. Is that always the case? No, of course not, nothing's always true out in the woods, but I start to figure on another hour maybe left of good hunting--after that, for me, good hunting would turn into sheer dumb luck (which I'll take any day). Fretting a little more, and giving up on calling, I post a facebook status and get up to move again.


This time, I go to the hill. I decide to stay on the shady side, halfway up, with a panoramic view of the creek bed and hardwoods that grow there. Now, despite the fact that the Turkey stopped talking, this really does feel like a good spot to be.


After the move, I can't take the cigarette-scented face mask anymore, so I pull it off. My nose has been running too, so I make a mental note to tell Anthony that he better wash it before he uses it again! Also, I take my camo-ed gloves off and I use the call the way I was taught. If J.B. taught me anything, it's "less is more" when it comes to calling Turkeys.


A couple of "bok boks" and I set the thing down and watched. I've seen J.B. conjure a bird in the middle of the day--way past prime time--with just a single cluck and 20 minutes time. At that point in the day, my stomach was growling so loudly (as it was way past lunch time too), I'm surprised it didn't scare the bird away. So I just copied the master.


Suddenly, some deer popped over the rise from the scrubby flood plain! Three of them. I gave them a taste of the call to see what they'd do. They looked in my direction unexcited and casually sauntered off. At first, the lead one's wagging ear had freaked me out into thinking it was a flapping hen's wing so incredibly, I was a bit disappointed when I saw they were "just" plain ol' deer.


A few minutes later and I tried another curt "bok bok bok". Off in the distance I could hear shooting...multiple shots and happily cursed the others as I imagined they'd whacked 'em and stacked 'em like cord wood. I was alone on the hill trying to stay still, trying to stay off my phone and onto the task at hand. Every five minutes I'd will my self to sit another five minutes. I was getting done. Without the feedback of a gobble, there wasn't much holding me to that spot. It was like fishing without getting a bite after a few minutes.


And then, right where the deer had appeared, another ear flap? Oh no, not this time, it was a Turkey! That much I could see even at that distance. It took a while longer to make out that it was a Tom, but I didn't need to know he was a Tom to get that rise you only get when something you want to shoot and kill walks out in front of you. Soon I could see the "beard" and enjoyed the heart pounding and tunnel vision I always get at moments like that.


Now calling is not an option. The slightest movement would alert him and send him in the opposite direction. You know they can see extremely well and are very wary of their surroundings. In fact, he looked right at my moon face, white hands at least once, but paid them no heed. The sun was behind me glaring down in his face giving me an edge.


He crept closer and closer with purpose. Every time he passed behind a tree, I'd shift my shotgun higher to my shoulder. I'd twist left and have the true-glo bead on him when he'd come out the other side. All I needed was to breathe, calm down, and wait for him to get within 35 yards. And when he did, the Beretta did the rest.


A three inch shell only pats your shoulder when you're hunting. At the patterning board, it rattles your teeth and your friends laugh at you.

The other star is my Beretta ES 100 12 gauge.

He kicked over dying and I had just "bagged" my first solo Turkey! Such a relief as the pent up anxiety rushes out of you and leaves a euphoria that's hard to describe. I wanted to shout aloud, I wanted to call J.B. and tell him what he'd done, but I knew he was probably still hunting. I gathered up my strewn gloves and stinky mask and fairly trotted down the hill to see my Turkey. And there he was. I watched as he exhaled his last breath and I smoothed down his ruffled feathers and just looked into his iridescent colours and felt bad, and good, all at the same time.


I had done it. I'd like to say on my own, but that's not really the case of course. I had hunted with the iceberg's tip of craft J.B. had taught me when he'd taken me hunting the last four years or so. I was hunting on land that one of the four guys still down on the edge of the cornfield manages and invites us all to hunt there. It would have been nearly impossible for me to have harvested a Turkey without all of that help.


I carried him back to the used truck lot and put him on the tail gate and waited for the other guys to bring theirs in. There had been at least four shots so I expected to see happier than usual faces with more Turkeys, but I didn't. One of the guys had had a little trouble and had done all the shooting.

I forgot to cut the beard off of him. Almost ten inches!

Before they came up and out, Tay, the host, had called me and asked, "Did you get one?" and I had the head-swelling pleasure of saying, "Oh yeah!" over the phone. I don't get many moments like that, I reckon not many of us do, so I enjoyed it to the fullest.


I took to wearing a tail feather or two in my hair that morning too and still fancy it. A tiny trophy and throwback to a simpler time, but it'll probably have to come out before the soccer game this afternoon, but I would love to wear it all day, all the time, and would love to retell the tale about how I got my first Turkey of 2012 all by my lonesome.

Would wear it all the time if I could get away with it!

Baby Got Wet.

I made my Italian baby wet,
Which was good for me,
But bad for her.

She doesn't like to be left like that,
She wants to be fondled,
Oiled,
Wiped clean,
Touched in every place she keeps hidden,

She likes to spread out,
And shine with an oily sheen,
Then caressed whole again,
Then held to my cheek,
Then put back to bed,
Until I can get her up,
Get her out,
and get her wet
again. 

-rbm

Naw, There Ain't No Pictures.

What happened? What finally got me off my quest to hunt and harvest an animal with every high-powered rifle I own in the safe when I am close to doing so?


The French MAS has a wonderful, ugly appearance. It shoots a serviceable, 30 caliber cartridge that is on par with our own well-used and oft written about .308 Winchester cartridge. And it has what for many years I would have considered great, open sights. The aperture sight it is equipped with serves extremely well on the range, but I've yet to shoot a wild animal on the rifle range in broad daylight.


But that's not how it was when I came to be sitting in a covering corner of pines along the side of a wide, wheat field at the fish farm--it had been a dark and stormy day, and knowing, that with open sights, my hunt would be over well before legal shooting hours, I went and carried the 1950's weapon anyway hoping to fulfill my quest and freezer. After all, gainfully employed these days, I only get to hunt during the week if it rains, rain being the only thing that can stop a modern framing crew dead in its tracks.


To the non hunter, a quick word about "The Rut". It's the one time of year that deer get to pass around their genetic material. And, brother, pass it around they do--have you noticed how many deer there are around here? The bad news, for the bucks, is that it takes alot* of begging and damned chasing to convince a hottie that you're worthy.


So, as I sat down in this natural blind on the edge of this field, eager to take an animal with this 1950's rifle, The Rut was in full "swing". And sure enough, close to Remington Hour, a doe trots out of the woods a couple of hundred yards away and doesn't quite make it to the other side before two young, four-pointer bucks come out of the same spot and proceed to cross the field after her, chasing her.


So far during this season's rut, this has been a familiar theme: How to shoot a big meaty doe when she's being harassed and chased by eager bucks. And so, once again, I saw my opportunity to harvest scared away by, what clicked in my mind that late afternoon, two bullies. I was chapped, I mean, I have a daughter, and the thought of her in college being chased by dumb freshman bucks with their noses to the ground just behind her might have been too much.


I remember being glad I saw deer, my pick of a spot had been a good choice, but I remember being disappointed too. And when one of the two bucks, all puffed up and ready to rut, stepped back out of the woods less than 60 yards away, it was all too much.


In an instant, the rush, the call to arm came over me. This four pointer looked for his quarry, and I at him. That instant, for some reason, some little boy urge, some quick and cocky impulse to kill had me. I can't really explain it. It was that thrill of seeing game, and seeing it as a target, an immobile target/living thing that I could take quickly and cleanly. Or so I thought.


I couldn't stop me, so pure and awful was this urge. At the fish farm, the decree by the land-owner is "Don't stop shooting the deer until I tell you to stop, and I ain't likely to tell you to stop," but the gentleman's agreement with his son and my buddy J.B. is "Let's let 'em get bigger." Shamefully, now, I followed the former.


The buck was quartering towards me, that is to say, he wasn't presenting the classic broadside shot which, at least in my mind, I'm usually famous for waiting for. No, he was walking from right to left angled towards me. No problem for me, I'll aim low, a little on the right "brisket" and it'll pop out after tearing through the off-side lung. I'll just put the front post I painted white about ten years ago on his chest and...


The rear aperture and the front sight completely hid the animal in the overcast afternoon lighting. I'm sure I could have picked out the "sweet spot" if the sun had been straight up in the sky on a cloudless day. But this day I had to raise my cheek off the gun to find the deer over the top of the rifle, then scrunch down into battery to try and find him in the sights over and over again. The head bobbing should have sounded a bell, should have snapped me out of my haste, but it didn't.


When I thought I had him. I squeezed.


The shot sets him down on his haunches, and he raises the on-side leg in a tuck, right where I had wanted the bullet to hit it looks to me. Just after the shot, I'd racked the bolt and reloaded--something we all do after a shot--and watched this buck over my rifle as he painfully pulled himself back up to all fours! Yes, I'd reloaded, but then had to do something I rarely ever had to do before. I had to shoot him again.


Now he's a moving target though, and I'm still saddled by the "combat" sights of a war rifle. I do the best I can and shoot for center mass of course. Bang! and a MISS! Now I'm starting to get sick inside...now I get it, I shouldn't have even shot him. Bang! And he drops this time. And I reload. It's over.


Out of anger at myself I lean the gun against the nearest tree and rip my poncho off, and my coat; I'm so hot and physically sick that I need to cool off. Of course, I'm also shaking now. I'm just relieved it's over and happy I can get him before dark and that I don't have to track him...I'm embarrassed that I missed and wonder what someone would have thought miles away hearing me shoot and shoot and shoot...


Then the buck raises his head.


He looked at me as I was wadding my poncho up and stuffing it into, well, the stuff sack. He sees me, and I know he knows. It's just at that moment the tiny amount of relief I was feeling washes away; he knows I did it. I sit down and hide behind the tree from his eyes. I can't see him see me, and I don't want him to try and run off from my presence, I want him to bleed, to die.


I've shot him enough, I don't want to anymore. I probably should have, but I just sit there. I sit and peek, waiting for his head to go back down, and it does a time or two, but it always pops back up. I draw a bead on him more than once, but I just can't pull the trigger on him. Until he rises again.


He get's back up and heads for the woods, and since it's even darker now, I fumble through the sights worse than before trying to lock in on this deer before he disappears into the woods. He presents that classic broadside and when I shoot, again, the bullet rolls him over, and the hooves kick, and it really is over. I heard the muffled cough and I stand up, and without looking back, a carry my crap back to the truck.


I have no excuse. I wanted to shoot a deer with this rifle, and I did. Angry at the bucks for chasing off a good shootable doe, did I want to punish him? A little boy with a gun?


It seemed fitting that the night sky opened up again on me as I hoisted him up on the truck mounted gambrel system I made. The pouring rain a punishment for my hubris as I skinned and quartered this deer by the light of a head lamp. Each ham placed in an open cooler. With the skin pulled back, I could see the "job" I had done. The first shot would have indeed been lethal, in a few days perhaps. The second shot, a poorly placed "gut shot" that certainly would have been lethal that night, and the third connecting shot, had it been the first shot...well, there'd be pictures here and words of me slapping myself on the back on a job well done.


The cooler didn't have a drain plug, and when I was done, I had to tip it to drain the rain water, and in doing so, as if to add one more insult to the buck, I accidentally let the meat slide out onto the wet grass. Impossible to hold almost, I scooped it up, covered with grass and grit and loaded it up.


And so, this challenge, this goal to use every rifle in my arsenal to take at least one game animal each might have slipped away. I would say, in no way was my performance the rifle's fault, I just should have stuck with the plan I had had last year which was limit those hunts to morning hunts when the sun climbs higher and higher, always brighter and brighter. The MAS was made to be carried by young men, young foot soldiers with crisp, clear vision and not 45 year old dumbass carpenters.


It'd be hard to put into words what the whole "point to hunting" is to me, but suffice it say, I only want quick, clean, "humane" kills and nothing like the above train wreck I had. It's not fair to the deer, and it's not good for my soul. The only thing I can say is that at the very least, I knuckled down and did what I had to do, and I didn't lose that buck.


I ain't ready to quit hunting, but that shook me pretty good. Shook me up so that the next time afield I carried a rock steady standby that is scoped with some of the best glass money can buy. That is my Custom Casey M700 in 6.5X55mm topped with a Vari-X III Leupold in 2.5x-8x. That's the rifle that I shot the coyote at 167 yards with before sunrise that morning...and even that exposed an internal conflict, but that's another story.


p.s. Backstory on the MAS

And Part two about the French MAS

Opening Day!

I made it all the way around the sun for another opening day here in Guilford County. Sure, I was there for another opening day way over in Vance County, and I spent another opening day for muzzleloader season here in Guilford County, but yesterday was opening day for rifle season. It's the day I get to choose and use one of the rifles I've been fondling, cleaning, shooting, and writing about all summer long and take it afield.


This year, I carried the old warhorse M1 Garand for the morning hunt because my eyes don't really like open sights for those evening hunts. So for the morning hunt, as the day gets brighter and brighter, an old rifle like that does just fine. The only "problem" I faced was finding a shootable target where I was hunting.


Right off the bat, stuck in the burgeoning brightness of a growing dawn, I was beat to my stand by that irascible three pointer I'd seen last week hunting with a camera! I had had the sense to stop just in the edge of the clearing the stand sits alongside, and had thrown the binoculars up to check the field before crossing. Of course, the first thing I'd seen there was this same big-bodied, future-bruiser deer staring back at me from about thirty yards away.

This guy! That missing tine is in someone's belly right now I bet.

I was still somewhat concealed, and I know he couldn't "see me" see me, so we both just stood still and stared. I was stuck. I knew he wasn't a shooter, too young, and I didn't want him flying off the handle and scare any other deer off when he did "see me" see me, so we both just stared. He didn't like it, but he broke the gaze first, and I got to see him do the classic deer moves to get a predator to give up a stalk. He did the stamp! He did the "blow". He took a step towards me--what?


Well, his wheezing blow noises would have alerted anyone else for 100 yards that something was amiss, so, still trying to get rid of this guy gently, I tried a "snort" to get him to move along. The good news? I pulled it off sounding just like a store bought call and/or a rival buck. The bad news? I pissed this horny bastard off and he started trotting right towards me!


He's a three pointer, I realized then, not because he's a genetic weakling, but because he's a fighter and he probably broke an antler off in some dummy's gut in a fight over some chick. And now he's coming to kick my ass...or worse, he thinks I'm some hot doe and he's gonna break me down like a shotgun and have his way. Either way, I was a tad nervous to see him trot up to about ten yards away from me. We still had scrub and trees between us, but he could close that yardage very quickly, more quickly than I could raise a rifle and defend myself and my honour.


I had forsaken the bayonet for the Garand, but wished I hadn't just then. I had to do something, so I just took one step to my right and, thankfully, he stopped short and turned right and trotted on up the edge of the clearing. He knew something was up, and decided he was out of there, albeit slowly. I'm glad he didn't bolt, raising his ass-flag the whole time, but he had to go. I made it up into my stand just in time to see him turn into the woods about 300 yards away, still nervous, but not panicked.


People don't think about it, but deer ain't all cuddly. As a matter of fact, I heard from Anthony, that someone out there recorded video of a doe eating the carcass of a fallen comrade! How's that for cute and cuddly, boys?


Anyway, sitting there, I saw a few lone bucks, and a couple of does, probably sisters, being chased by a retarded, yet ambitious spike buck looking for love. It breaks my heart to see a feller work that hard and get NOTHING--kinda reminded me of my college days when I got stood up 5 times by five different young ladies in five weeks my freshman year.

Here's a seven pointer that hung out for awhile.

It was a pretty good show. And the whole time, I'm hearing shots from all around the countryside as well. And naturally one of the shots was from someone in our group. By ten o'clock, I was more than ready to get down. The sun was up and I was super thirsty, but by the time I got back to the truck and cracked my big orange, I got the text: "Head to roof stand for tracking."


Usually this is no big deal. When you shoot a deer through the heart and lungs, their instinct to run after they're hit can carry them for 10 to 15 seconds, even on broken forelegs. I've seen it done before. But, when you hit them hard with a well placed shot, the blood trail is easy to follow. When I found the guys tracking, it was clear that this was not a well-placed shot.


Tiny drops, few and far between, and an ever longer growing trail meant that the deer the "new guy" shot wasn't just going to lay down and die. After an hour of tracking, sometimes on our hands and knees, someone had to call it. When the blood had all but stopped, we were just guessing on direction anyway. Giving up on a wounded deer is disappointing to say the least. And I'd like to be able to wag a haughty finger, but I won't or can't. It happens, and has been happening for as long as people have been hunting.


In fact, while we were tracking this deer, I found a relic from another time and another hunter. I found most of what I guess is a spear point laying in the clay from some ancient, distant cousin . Was it broken in use, or had it been discarded back in the day cause it was broken? Who knows, but for a second, I felt the coincidence of the moment; two hunters, a couple of hundred years apart doing the same thing at the very same place. It was a pretty cool feeling.

The tip was broken off. Was it damaged in a deer a couple hundred years ago?

I also found my first antler shed. It wasn't much to look at from just a yearling spike buck, but it was my first after years of stumbling around in the woods with a rifle. So I picked it up, carried it back, and threw it in the back of the truck--scratch that off the bucket list. I bet Emily's last rat would like the minerals in it while she (the rat, not Emily) keeps her teeth short and sharp.


The "new guy" took some ribbing from me as I couldn't resist even a gentle finger wag. We all felt pretty bad for the guy, and even set a target out at 100 yards and let him shoot from a stand to check his rifle's zero. It checked out perfect, which meant, he had just flubbed the shot. Buck fever? Lousy shooting position? Probably all of the above. Before the afternoon hunt, I got down on all fours and pointed to my armpit and said to him, "Right here! Hit 'em right here!" for the last word on the whole affair.


For my afternoon hunt, I cased the M1 and pulled out that Marlin Model 375 in .375 Winchester that I was bragging about a few months ago on another blog. This lever gun has a scope on it which lends itself well for evening hunts as the darker it gets, the better one, hell, I, can see targets with it. I took some jabs myself from the hunt host about this rifle along the lines of, "I have a real rifle you can borrow if you want." I've never really understood this mentality from him on the subject actually. In his mind (and Jack O'Connor's), if it ain't a bolt-action rifle chambered in .270 Winchester, it ain't worth carrying.

At any rate, I ended up in a stand with this rifle and some time to kill before the Remington Hour. Before the end of the day, I watched a pair of red tails ride a thermal up and out of sight. I heard shots from afar and sighed--always happy for another hunter to collect, but always wistful it ain't me that just punched his tag. I sent Cousin Bill a message of text when I thought a deer was headed his way--modern deer hunting includes many types of communication...the lone gunman mentality is quickly evaporating with smart phones. I do miss my walkie-talkies though. The third grader in me still likes them!

It was only a matter of time before a shootable deer stepped out. It wasn't a buck. Again, the only male deer I saw still needed some growing up to do. Since I'm a guest at this location (as well as most of the other locations) I pretty much do what I'm told. No bucks smaller than a HUGE eight, and only big does. Stuff happens, sure, I've blown it before, but I try to stick with the program. And just between you, me, and a fence post, the youngish does taste a hell of alot* better than a gnarly ol' buck.

This could be captioned, "Before". I'll spare you the after for now.

So when a two or three year old stepped out, I shot her. And when the 200 grain, .375" diameter bullet drove through her foreleg, into her heart, and out her neck on the opposite side, she dropped in her tracks going much less further than a buck did that morning from a poorly-placed shot from a (you guessed it) .270 Winchester Model 70. Suck it, Jack O'Connor!

So, opening day for me became harvest day, and I'd made it to another rifle season by the Dan River. I'll always count myself lucky to do so. I have seen too many widows at the gun shop bringing in forsaken rifles for sale. And last summer I lost a good friend, hunting partner, and brother from another mother to cancer. I never take it as a given that I'll be around for another year. I don't count birthdays anymore, but hunting seasons...opening days.

Sure, I can count the friends I have that like to hunt on one hand, but most are the kind that'll help you change a tire in the dark after you cut it on a sharp rock after an evening's hunt on opening day, which is just what we all did for Cousin Bill last night before we left for home.