I had some money invested in Zimbabwe, and finally hit it RICH!

I have become rich beyond my wildest dreams.

So I have decided to give some of this wealth away to deserving members of this forum.

To qualify, you have to tell us a hunting story.

It does not have to be true, and the best part is EVERYONE who posts a hunting story here will win at least $Z 1,000,000.

If your story is REALY entertaining, you will get Z$ 100,000,000.

Let let your imagination run wild.

Walter is going to be the sole judge, and the more you make him laugh, the bettr likelyhood of him approving your story.

This is a true hunting story.

In 1984 My wife and I were hunting at our deer lease. The landowners son, a buddy of mine, came by camp and asked us if we would like to go on a quail hunt with a prize winning bird dog.
The hunt would be on his friends land, with his friends dog.

The price was $50 dollars each.

We said sure. So the next day we loaded up and drove about 25 miles to his buddies ranch.

We were to ask the ranch hand where to get the dog. The ranch hand did not speak english but he took us to the kennel and pointed out a dog.
We got the dog out of the kennel, loaded him up and went to the first field we were going to hunt.

We started along a fence row. The field was pretty flat and looked like it was almost a mile long.

We started the hunt. In no time the dog is on point. We ease up behind him and a big covey of quail gets up, and we shoot.

At the shots the dog takes off at full speed.
He runs straight away from us, never looks back, never slows down.

He runs totally out of sight. GONE.

We go and get the truck and look for him.

He is GONE.

We never saw that dog again.

So my buddy calls the owner of the dog and tells him what has happened.

He cannot believe what had happened. He said that his dog is a quail hunting champion of the highest order.

We go back to the kennel to meet him.

When we get there we find out that my buddy had taken the WRONG dog.

That dog was still in training. He had not been trained around gunfire yet.

We were supposed to take his other dog, the prize winner.

So we get the second dog and load up.

It is time for lunch so we drive to the hunting field and park the truck to fix lunch.

My buddy tied the dog to the front bumper of his big diesel pickup, on an 8 foot or so leash.

We fix and eat lunch, pack all the food away and load up in the truck.

My budddy fires up the truck and begins driving away.

some of us are in the bed of the truck, and we hear a thumping sound from under the truck.

My wife hollers, STOP!STOP!! WHERE IS THE DOG!?

My buddy jams on the brakes. Seems the dog had layed down under the truck, and my buddy forgot to untie him, so we were dragging him along under the truck.

Luckly for us, and the dog, his truck has big tires and a lift kit.

Well, we get the dog out from under the truck, she is not banged up bad, but she does look at us kinda funny like.

We pet her up good, give her some water and go hunting.

She points good and we have a great hunt.

We find out she is the mother of the dog that ran away.

The runaway dog came back home late the next day.

When I first started hunting 35 years ago,I had to find new ways to do it. I found a 44 mag barrel with vent rib and choke tube for 44 mag shot shells for my contender pistol. My buddy Ted and I went rabbit hunting, but could not find anything but snipe. The score was Ted's 10 to
JD's 0.

Ted was starting to ride me a little hard ! We were walking a long and a marsh hen flushed. I quick drew the contender and shot the marsh hen. We were standing there and Ted was going on about how lucky that was and it would never happen again. I looked up and saw a dove coming, I reloaded and fired one shot killing the dove. It fell and rolled to a stop in between Ted's feet. All I said was next time "if you want, I will reload and field dress it on the way down". I put the gun back in the holster and left it there for the rest of the hunt.

JD

You made a hit with Walter with this story!

Are you sure you are not related to Walter?

This is the sort of thing that seems to hapen to him almost on a daily basis

Your name and mailing address by PM please, the Boss decided to award you $Z 50,000,000 for being the first with a story, and very funny too!

Congratulations on becoming a millionaire!

I know that humor carries the winning votes here, but I have to go with the first (and most important) story that came to mind – that would be the last hunt with my father. And if you are repulsed with the thought of “exotic game†or “game ranches†then maybe the next posting might be better for you to read.

Dad started me hunting when I was about 8 years old with a BB gun. My job was to keep the chicken house clear of sparrows and I’ve hunted ever since (I’m 53 now). I never dreamed that I would be able to pay him back for the love of hunting that he instilled in me.

Dad gave up hunting in his later years because his health wouldn’t let him go anymore. But I knew he always missed it. Then one early spring day he said that he would like to go deer hunting one more time before he died. Short of poaching a deer (since the season was over) I suggested an exotic deer hunt – specifically going after a nice fallow buck I had seen while guiding a hunter a couple of weeks before. He quickly agreed and we made plans for the upcoming weekend.

Each day he would continue to prepare for his hunt. He would go through the closets and find all of his hunting stuff and lay it out as I have seen him do countless times as I grew up. He didn’t want to forget anything. As much as he wanted to take his Heym 30/06 that he had purchased in the Rod & Gun Club in Germany many years ago, he knew that he could no longer take the recoil and, almost defeatedly, asked for my advice. This was the first time I ever recalled him asking ME what he should do!

I had a .223 Remington Mohawk and suggest that he use it. Dad recently had about half of his right lung removed as the result of way too many cigarettes and was still nervous about the recoil of the little .223.I told him not to worry, that if he didn’t want to risk the recoil, he could move the stock out of the “pocket†and put it on his upper arm and it would be OK. We would just have to make sure that his oxygen line didn’t get in the way.

The weekend neared and I told him that I would pick him up at about 7:00am for the two hour drive from central Texas to the ranch just outside of Kerrville. He replied that there was no use in us going if we weren’t going to be there before daylight! Everyone knows that just after daylight is when the deer move! I had been on exotic ranches many times and already knew that the time of day was not that important. Still, he thought the trip was going to be a waste of time.

I did tell him that, even though he had never had a credit card in his life, he might want to apply for one before our hunt. I wouldn’t tell him why when he kept asking, but he always answered with, “I don’t need no damn credit card!â€

Finally the morning came and we were off. It was a glorious two hours driving a grumpy, cantankerous, retired Army sergeant major to the Texas hill country – all the way listening to how I didn’t know my ass from a hole in the ground by not getting there before daylight!

We had never discussed it before this time, but I knew that because of Dad’s health problems, we would have to hunt out of the truck. This is against my hunting principles and I just knew Dad was going to vapor lock at the idea. When I mentioned to him that we could just use the truck for the “stand†since he couldn’t climb a ladder, he only sighed and dropped his head.

It hurts to realize that your mortal.

We finally pulled up to the gate as I was telling him that he had to remember that I was the guide and, like it or not, I called the shots since my access to the ranch depended on me following the ranch rules. His response was something along the line of, “Like hell!â€

I went through the gate and got back into the truck. Dad was staring intently through the binoculars at some distant brush and declared that the “one on the left†was the one he wanted. I looked through my binos and saw a couple of young fallow bucks that were a long way from the dinner table.

Try to explain to a stubborn old codger that even though the antlers were bigger than any whitetail buck that he has ever pointed a rifle at, he could not shoot “the one on the leftâ€. That’s exactly why I had earlier made it a point to put his ammo in MY jacket pocket instead of within his reach!

As we drove slowly through the ranch, I knew what was coming up. The tire ruts would curve to the right and then back to the left. The brush would open up and we would be at the top of a low bluff that overlooked many acres of winter grass. I knew it would be an irresistible magnet for no less than 10 different species of exotic game, including fallow deer, axis deer, assorted sheep, blackbuck, aoudad, oryx, elk, red deer, and others.

As I slowed to a stop, my father forgot about lung cancer, bypass surgeries, arthritis, emphysema, and the constant aches and pains of someone in their mid 70’s. His mind was in another world. He was where he had spent countless hours in the woods and fields in countries I could only hope to visit. He was experiencing his love – hunting.

After what seemed like several minutes of silence, Dad broke the quiet with a simple statement, “I need a credit card.â€

We found the buck I was hoping to find a couple of hours later. Dad made a perfect shot and his final hunt was over. I could only get a single photo of him in the brush with the trophy because his pains overtook his excitement and he had to go back to the truck. The ride back home that evening was quiet. Dad was lost in thought. Occasionally he would clear his throat and maybe wipe an eye.

I owned a taxidermy shop at that time and the mount of his trophy was put at the top of the list. I was friends with the guy who owned the tannery and he rushed the tanning job for me. Dad sat and watched me complete his pedestal mount, paying close attention to the extra detail I was adding. When done, it went right next to the TV in the den, where he looked at it more than his favorite shows.

He got to enjoy the mount for just a few months before he left us. But during that time he seemed more reserved . . . more at peace.

Thanks, Dad, for the memories.


JDS

A few year back a couple of friends and I were out spring Black Bear hunting. I was fortunate enough that I scored on a very large boar late in the evening. We got it skinned and the meat boned out but by then it was to dark to navigate the river back to camp so we stayed put until it got light enough to see and headed back to camp. Since we had been up all night we fixed something to eat and headed to the tent for some sleep. By about 10 a.m. it was getting hot and I was down to just my scivies when I heard what I thought was wings beating. At this point I was concerned that there were Ravens trying to get at the game bags full of meat so, I stuck my head out of the tent and low and behold I was eyeball to eyeball with another very large Black Bear holding my Bear skin in its mouth. As I dove back into the tent I realize I had left my rifle in the boat and the only gun in the tent was a .44 auto. I grabbed the pistol slipped on my boots and stepped out of the tent. The bear was gone and so was my bear hide. So, off I go through the woods looking for the bear and my bear skin with just my boots, scivies and a .44 pistol. I found the bear skin about a hundred yards into the woods but, didnt see the bear again. When I got back the two guys with me couldn't quit laughing at the sight of an old fat guy running through the woods in his underwear and boots carrying a pistol yelling at a bear to give him back his bear hide.

It was teal season, and I wanted to do some scouting,between hunts. I asked my wife and 5 year old daughter along for a ride. I was running a go-devil rig and ran aground. I got out in the 4" deep water, it had a hard sandy bottom. The wife won't get out the boat to help push, so I called my 75lb retriever Midnight to get him out the boat.

Old midnight started around to the back of the boat.I knew he would try tojump back in. Just as midnight put his paws on the back of the boat, I commanded Midnight PUSH! and gave the boat a good tug. My wife was convinced I had taught midnight to push the boat.

Here is were the story gets funny.

My wife Ann is having lunch with a friend who is married to a wildlife agent named Richard. After lunch they drop in to see Richard at work..

Ann brags to Richard and some of his fellow officers how great of a dog trainer I am, and that I taught my retriever to push the boat.

These guys don't know what to make off her story?

Richard asked how was my Hunt. My dear wife answered it was great! I got my limit that morning and had so much fun I went back out that evening again. (For those that don't duck hunt, thats not legal and she telling the law all about it.)

Ann came home and told me how she was bragging on me, and how the agents were real impressed and wanted to know where I was hunting.


Richard called that night and wanted to know what was she talking about. I told him about the trick I played with the dog and the boat. He asked about me going back out, I told him I went back out to catch some guy poaching my lease in the evenings.

He told me that were two of the best stories he had heard in a long time. He also told me Ann was able to pin point my lease on the map and that I better behave myself.

It was 5 years before I told my wife about the trick, by that time she had told every body from the retriever club the story of how I taught midnight to push my boat and was the worlds best dog trainer.

JD

Is it 1USD on 50 mill Zim Dollars?

In Germany in the 1930 they used D mark as a wallpaper, this is the same matter.

What dont you do for money?, this is a story I was planning to keep as a secret to the world....

Last year I was sitting in a blind with both bow and rifle together with a tracker. We had not been there for more than a very nice warthog comes in.
He starts to drink at the far end of the water which was to far for the bow, so I slowly puts the bow away and reach for my gun, WHEN suddenly the chair I am sitting on collapses........

Needles to say the Warthog was gone, but worse was to hear the laughter of the tracker. He would have a fun story to tell his friends he might have had time to think just before his chair also collapses. So there we were both of us on the ground laughing out loud

20 minutes later I shot another warthog from the blind, not as big but who cares having such a great story to tell around the campfire beats a big tusker.

OK Saeed,

I haven't started with my new company yet and I am cash poor. A million dollars would sure help out over the short term.

This goes back about eight years. It is not a funny story, but it is a hunting story.

This was my first "coyote safari". It has since become an annual pilgramage to New Mexico for me.

Bob

A Solo Coyote Safari

I had never been on a coyote hunting trip by myself before. To be honest, it had never occurred to me. I am so used to hunting with my calling partner, Mark, that I just naturally think of going on hunting trips together. After all, without Mark there, who would do the dishes and carry the gear?

But here I was, between Christmas and New Years, all by myself, with a new 4x4 Ford truck that hadn’t been hunting yet. My wife was in Texas with her family, and I had some time-off from work. I decided it was time for a road trip.

Mark and I had been to Soccoro, New Mexico earlier in the year hunting with Mike, another friend of mine. He had introduced us to, and hooked us on New Mexico coyote hunting. We were able to hunt desert, high plains, and mountain coyotes, all in the same day. It was a whole different world from the coyote hunting we were used to in Oklahoma. You could actually see the coyotes before they were in your lap. What a concept!

I new the trip back to Soccoro would be a stretch by myself for a three-day hunt, so I got out my maps and picked a spot to try. I decided on trying to hunt the area around Logan, New Mexico. There were State and BLM (Bureau of Land Management) lands in the area, varied terrain, and it was a doable drive.

I called Ed Sceery (Sceery Game Calls) in Santa Fe, and as always, he was kind enough to spend a few minutes on the phone with a fellow predator caller confirming that the area was knee-deep in coyotes. He also said that the ranchers in the region were generally eager for responsible predator hunters to deplete some of their coyotes.

I loaded up the BRST (Big Red Shiny Truck), and headed west. I got in late that afternoon and checked into the Yucca Motel in Logan. I asked the owner about coyote hunting in the area, and she gave me the name of two ranches she thought I should go see.

I hopped back into the BRST and headed out to the first ranch. I met the foreman, Gregg, and his wife Deon. Gregg said that I was welcome to hunt his entire 34,000 acres, and that he would call his neighbor and get permission for me to hunt the adjoining 60,000 acres. I thanked him, said a little prayer of thanks, and spent the rest of the day scouting stand locations. Sometimes, it seems, things do go your way.

Just before first light the next morning, I settled down on my camo stool. I started calling just as the sun came up. When I am hunting by myself, I usually use my Johnny Stewart electronic caller. This allows me to get the speaker (and sound) out away from me. This morning I was using the Johnny Stewart Jackrabbit tape as the dinner bell.

Within five minutes, I could see a coyote trotting towards me from about a quarter of a mile away. When he cleared the last rise 75 yards from me, I introduced him to my Remington 700 22-250. He was not going to be making his lunch appointment today.



For the second stand, I headed down one of the ranch roads about a mile and a half. I set up at the top of a draw against a bush. This time I switched tapes and used the Burnham Brothers Cottontail Duet. Two minutes into the stand, a coyote popped over the rise to my left. I let him come within 30 yards of the speaker at the bottom of the hill and took him. I decided that this trip was going to be fun!



By this time, however, the wind had picked up to over 20 miles per hour. I went ahead and made several more stands, but with no luck. I decided to do some more scouting, have lunch, and drive over and meet Steve, the other rancher.

Steve turned out to be every bit as nice and welcoming as Gregg and his wife. He gave me the scoop on the ranch, and told me where he was having problems with coyotes bothering his stock. I scouted out several stand locations and told him I would be back in the morning.

At sunrise, I was sitting down in one of the problem areas Steve had told me about the day before. I put the trusty Jackrabbit tape back in and waited. I did not have too wait long. A pair of coyotes came charging in with a hungry look about them just a few minutes into the calling. I took the second one, but missed the first one on his way out the back door at full speed. I have to admit that Mark is a better shot than I am on coyotes heading out at full-tilt-boogie.



I continued on down the road a mile and set-up again. I walked off the road about 200 yards from the BRST (which was hidden in a wash-no rain in the forecast). I sat down facing into the wind along another wash. I could already visualize the coyotes stampeding toward me up that wash. What I didn’t expect, was to hear a coyote blasting in from behind me. I heard feet crunching the dry grass over my left shoulder, and coming fast. This coyote would have had to cross the road I drove in on, and almost run over the BRST.

Earlier in my predator-hunting career, I would have tried to turn around and hope for a shot. This time, I just froze and waited for him to come to me. Sure enough, he had slowed down, and was circling in front of me toward the screaming bunny (speaker). As soon as he cleared the bush, he dropped in his tracks.



I climbed back into the BRST and headed up to the top of the mesa to try calling some mountain dogs in the pines. On my next stand, I called in another pair, and took one (I know Mark, if I had brought you…). This coyote was about a third again as large as the ones I had been calling in at the lower elevations. We just aren’t used to these big boys in Oklahoma.



Two miles down the road, I headed off the main ranch road on a two-track Steve had told me about. I parked the BRST and walked over the next ridge to call at the top of a small canyon. I decided to use a hand call for a change of pace. I pulled out my Sceery AP-2 Cottontail Distress call and started screaming like a bunny. The screaming bunny worked its magic once again, this time, about fifteen minutes into the stand.

WAIT A MINUTE! It was only 11:30 a.m., and I had taken four coyotes in one day. I had never done this before! Mark and I considered two between us a good day in the areas we were hunting. I also noticed that the wind was starting to howl around me again so I decided to head over to the lake and have some lunch.

The morning of my last day of the “Great New Mexico Coyote Safari†turned out to be perfect in every way. I got to see a truly spectacular sunrise, and took three coyotes on my first three stands.



I stopped by both ranches to say thank you, and headed back to town. Both Gregg and Steve invited me back next year for another hunt. Next time, I guess I will have to take Mark with me.

While I generally don’t relish hunting alone, this little “Solo Safari†turned out to be a trip I will remember fondly for years to come. I had called in fourteen coyotes and taken nine in three days. I had also made some new friends and enjoyed exploring new, exciting, and beautiful country.

Good Hunting!

In the 1990's in spring time I hunted Turk Mine in Zimbabwe, in Gourlay's Block. Several natives living and working in the area came to my guide with the report that a savage elephant had raided their camp repeatedly, especially at night. There weren't supposed to be any elephants in this area. They wanted all the help they could get to track him down and eliminate him. They were clearly scared and demoralized, and already panicing about the coming nightfall. My guide and I loaded up with all the heavy ammo we had and headed out to some very thickly forested areas where the natives were camped.

When we got there we noticed that conditions were dense, and visibility was near zero. Several of the bravest natives agreed to walk ahead of us and lead us in to the problem area. We were on the alert for any unusual forest noises. Suddenly we heard screaming from up ahead. Immediately natives came flying out of the bush, passing us at a dead run. We prepared to see a tusker on their heals at any second. With a crashing sound out popped a black rhino which veered off and kept running back into the forest. It was out of sight in an instant. Needless to say for a brief moment our adrenalin was pumping.

In an instant the pressure was off and we had sorted out the "problem elephant." The natives began to realize that none of them had actually seen an elephant, but were simply terrorized by the noises and by the descriptions of other natives. They felt highly embarrassed that they all could have made such a mistake. With the tension gone suddenly we all relaxed and laughed up a storm. Thanks for giving me a chance to share this memory.

Bill Meaney, P.O. Box 45, Mena, AR 71953

True story:
Several years ago, I decided I wanted to go alligator hunting in Beaumont (EAST Texas). I put in for a draw tag with my father in-law (Jim) who is not a hunter but does like the outdoors. We did get drawn and so I started looking for tips on alligator hunting. Some of the information I learned was:
Bait: Chicken on a large 16/0 J hook left to "ripen" in the August Texas sun for a day or two.
Method: pole and line??? [100 ft 600 lb test rope, 6 foot steel leader and a 20 foot piece of bamboo.
Set up: Use a John boat to get to the backwaters.

No problem, I'm an excellent shark fisherman right, I have the steel leaders, big hooks, and rope. I got no boat... Lets rent one. OK, Rent a John boat.

Two days before the season opened (a 2 day season) I bought 2 chicken halves and stabbed a hook through them. Figuring the smell would get pretty bad, I put them in a gallon zip lock bag with only the swivel hanging out. In a white disposable beer cooler they go, and TAPE THE LID ON.

Leave Houston after picking up the boat at Johns rentals(name changed) headed to Beaumont. We checked in to the hotel and hit the sack. Got up 5:00 the next morning and headed to the check in point. Check in time on the water 12:00 noon, nice to be aware of that huh. We kill a few hours and are first in line for check in.

"OK, here's yous tag, info sheet etc, have fun and be safe" the ranger says, "O'ye, all of yous who are on the salt bayou follow me we have to drive a bit." This bit of driving is 15 minutes of backwoods driving with a trailer. No problem, I'm excited, lets go kill us a gator. Ranger pulls off beside a house with a ramp behind the house. We get out of the truck and start gathering around the ranger. "You need to put 5.00 in the box to use this boat ramp." And be careful, the ramps only wide enough for 1 trailer, and it ends real fast, and there is a slab missing out of the middle that you don't want to fall into" quotes the ranger.

After getting the boat in the water we head to our compartment to start setting up. Hey, wait just a second here, I am supposed to motor up to a steep bank where there is signs a big 'gator slides into the water, then hop out and wade ashore carrying a rotten chicken for bait, in 'gator infested water...

Amazingly I get to the first location without getting wet. Stick one end of the bamboo pole into the mud and rubber band the rope to the tip hanging over the water. Get back in the boat and as we pull away, clip the (oh my God, that stinks) swivel onto the end of the rope. Not too bad, I think we can do this. Head to bait site two.

The current is going out real strong here, Jim has to keep boat in gear and continuously bump throttle to hold position. I go to jump off and the boat drifts 2 foot and I end up in 4 foot of water. Jim "I didn't know you could walk on water, we didn't need to boat if you can do that." Ha-ha. Pole goes on the mud, rope goes on the end. Get back in the boat. Tie the (oh man, this one smells worse than the first one) swivel on to the rope. In the time it take to close the swivel, we drift 10 feet or so and the end of the stick is right over Jims head. I have a rotten piece of chicken on a sharp hook and somewhat knowing physics ( one of three minors in college) if I drop the chicken, Jim will get a face full of the chicken and hook. Lets toss it to the side and try to motor away before it swings back. It clears Jims head (Way to go, me) then proceeds to slap into the cowling of the motor and spatter Jim with the chicken juices. Oops. We finally get away and head back to check out and get cleaned up. Mess around at the hotel and go to sleep.

Day two:
Get up the next morning and head back to check baits. Pay our 5.00 again. Put boat in water and head across to first bait. Get to first bait and its untouched. Pull stick out tie rope to back cleat and try to pull nasty chicken off in the water. Did you know that you can troll for alligators, they get behind the bait then snap at it. I watched a large gator try just that, I killed the engine and waited, 10 minutes pass with no action so we pull in the hook to find no chicken. Off to bait two. On the way, Jim asks "Rine, if that gator would have come back, how where you going to kill him, your guns disassembled and stowed away under the seat." Me "I dunno." Ride up to bait two bait is knocked down. Awesome, get the gun out and load it this time, I am dumb but not stupid, I do learn...eventually. Jim asked "Where’s the rope", "Tied to the old pier." I replied. "You mean the one that’s 3 foot under water?" Jim asked.

Now, Just to make perfectly clear what was going on in my head:
I have just seen a 10 foot gator try to take a top water lure.
The bait we are checking now was 4-5 foot out of the water 8-10+ foot gator obviously took the bait.
Where is the rest of the rope
Did he get tangled up and is 3 foot from the rope

I figure sticking my left leg under the rope to be safest option as I aint going swimming. Get the rope and get back in the boat. Count fingers and toes, everything is attached, I win. Start pulling on the rope. I end up pulling the boat the where the 'gator is still hiding. The longer He stays hidden the worse I figure it’s going to be. I pull us across the canal. Right before we hit the other bank, I notice a rope that looks just like the one I have in my hand goes up the bank. Oh great, now I have a pissed off gator and I am between him and the water, this isn't good. As soon as the adrenalin gets dumped into my system and the fight side of the brain won the argument, the hook comes swinging free of the bush it was hung on. No gator. Oh well. I am safe and did not have to repel boarders. Lets head for home.

Back at the ramp. we get loaded up and head for Houston. 15 miles out of Beaumont a lady passes us and waves...Something must be lose in the back, so I pull over to look, Busted wheel bearing, great. Hey its a rental, call them.
Me, "Hey John, we have a busted bearing can you help us out?"
John from Johns rental "Where are you at?"
Me: about 15 miles from Winnie Texas (1/3 of the way between Beaumont and Houston)
John: call me when you get inside the loop.
Me: ...
Me: ...
Me: click.
Jim: Uh Oh, Rine...
Me: Sorry Jim, I was real close to telling him he can come pick up his boat it would be the black smoldering thing on the side of the road.

Jim, "Lets limp into Winnie and see if we can find someone to fix it. 45 minutes later we arrive in Winnie. First stop the Ford house. Salesman, "You need a bearing, you want to see the Jeep." Me, "No, I don't want to see a F&^%ing Jeep, I want to get the F&^%ing wheel fixed." Salesman, "No son, You want to see a man named Jeep Smith, he can fix you up." Winnie Texas, a.k.a. Podunk, U.S.A. "Go down two lights hang a left hang another left at the hospital and Jeep's on the right aways down look for the lawnmowers got that." The salesman said this is one sentence with no breaks. To this day, I can still find the place though. Go figure. We head to Jeep's house. Older house with 50+ mowers out front, this must be the place. Two men talking in the front yard, being polite I stay at the truck waiting on the first man to leave.

Approach Jeep Smith: older man 60+ white ribbed Tee- Shirt brown corduroy pants complete with a rope belt at his front porch with more whiskey bottles than dogs under the porch.
Me: Mr. Smith?
Mr. Smith: Yes
Me: Sir, I was told you may be able to help me
Mr. Smith: Nope.
Mr. Smith: Nope, you need a Stainless Steel 216 tapered ball bearing and I aint got one. Sold the last one this morning.

I turn around and look at the truck and trailer 75 yards away. I can barely see the wheels, how in the world did he know what I needed from here. (Hence the reason I still refer to him as Mr. Smith)

Mr. Smith: Go back to the highway and head to the auto store about 4 blocks outside of town.
Me: Thank you, Mr. Smith

Drive to the auto store. Its deserted except for a clerk and another guy with his feet propped up. Jim asks for the bearing and they have one. He asked if they could install it. The other guy said, I dunno, we're pretty busy. I walk off, so my temper doesn’t get me killed. after 10 minutes, the other guy stands up and says "I think I can fit y'all in, drive around back and I'll fix it. I though Jim was going to kill him right then. I drove around and he fixed it. After this adventure, we headed for Home.

Jim has not hunted with me since.

I really need the money, so I'll tell on myself. This is long because it's three separate stories with the same theme:

Many years ago, I was hunting for my first elk on a Colorado Ranching for Wildlife operation. Unfortunately, this particular ranch is mostly open range and the unseasonably warm weather had most of the elk staying high in the black timber. Finally, as the hunting days were winding down, the ranch owener, Curtis, and I walked over a hill and a bedded down heard of elk started getting up about three hundred yards below us. Cow afer cow got up and started milling around waiting for the lead cow to gather them up and take them away. Finally Curtis says, "there, shoot that spike. As hot as it is it will be the only bull we see this week."

So I shot the spike! The echo of the shot had not yet disapated when a very, very nice bull elk stood up right beside the downed spike and presented a beautiful broadside shot. Curtis yelled "Oh no! My bad! But you've shot your elk!"

I'm still depressed about it.

Strike One!

Fast forward a couple of years, same ranch, same guide. This time the elk were down in force. Thousands of them on the ranch staging before their final trek to their winter range west of Craig. Curtis and I were watching a group of about 700 bedded down on a sagebrush knob about a half-mile away. Finally Curtis said "we'll never sneak up on them; way too many eyes. Let's just stroll up the hill like we don't have a care in the world. They'll see us coming from way off and maybe they will simply drop off the back side of the hill and We'll get a shot when we get to the top."

The plan worked to perfection. As soon as we started walking, elk started standing up. Soon there were several hundred up and, again, looking for instructions from the lead bitch. At first it was just a trickle, but it turned into a mass exodus as they departed their comfy beds for the other side of the hill. They were all gone while we were still 500 yards away.

As we approached the summit, I could hear hundreds of soft cow-calls from the other side. When we reached the top and peered over it, below us from 100 to 300 yards away stood half the elk in Colorado! Curtis started glassing the throng and said "There," pointing down the hill without removing the binoculars from his eyes. "Shoot that six-by-six! Hurry, they're going to leave."

I looked in the general direction that he was pointing and, at first, all I could make out was a sea of elk. Finally I spotted the one he was pointing to (so I thought) and took aim and fired.

At the shot, Curtis turned to me and said "why'd you shoot that rag horn?"

"You've got to be kidding," I said.

Sure'nuff, I had shot the wrong elk -- again! The little 5x5 now graces my wall rather unceremoniously.

Strike Two!

Several years later -- same ranch, same guide. Again, we caught the elk down by the thousands. First day of the hunt we find a group of 22 with at least two nice 6x6s and several rag horns in a small pasture. We ease up to within 200 yards and the elk know something is up and slowly start to string out in departure formation. Curtis looks and says, "shoot the very last one in the string when I stop them; that's the six-by-six."

He then blew on the cow call, and the heard froze and looked in our direction. I had taken a rest on a fence post and eased the cross hairs down on the big six-by, and squeezed -- nothing! I yelled "shit!" and elk took off, I finally realized that the reason the rifle wouldn't fire was because I removed the safety on the Browning FN .375 from the "safe" postion, but had stopped in the middle "still safe" positon, rather than the "off" position.

This corrected, Curis again blew on the cow call, and the heard, again, froze in place. This time I took aim at the last bull in line and the H&H roared! The 270-grain bullet stuck with a loud "WHOP" and the entire heard, including the one mortally wounded, topped the hill. I looked at Curtis with a smile, only he wasn't smiling.

"Leon," he said, "I think you've done it again."

"What do you mean?" I yelled. "I shot the last one!"

"Yeah," he said. But the big one swapped places in line with one of rag horns after you yelled. Why'd you do that, anyway?"

Depressed, we walked up the hill and when we got to the other side, there lay the ugliest rag-horned 5x5 ever shot in the state of Colorado.

Strike Three -- You're Out!

I give up! From now on, I'm only hunting cows and spikes. Maybe that way, some day, I'll screw up and "accidently" shoot a big trophy. Of course, with my luck, it will be on a cow-only hunt and I'll go directly to jail!

C'est la vie!

Well I got paid in advance for my story!

This happened back in the 1970s , and though I was only a witness, it is a story I will never forget!

A rancher friend of mine had twin sons who were real young cowboys, and very good hunters, having hunted since that age of 10 yrs with their dad, and granddad. We were camped on the Pueblo Creek in the saddleback Mountain area of West central New Mexico.

The twins piled into their dads’ jeep, and lit out of camp headed for the top of the ridge about four miles up the dirt track. In about ten minutes we heard a single shot up that way. My friend said one of those boys got a deer.
We were loading up my jeep to go to another place to hunt that evening, when the two boys drove into camp. They were all skinned up, and bloody, but had a very large Muledeer in the back of the jeep. My friend asked, what in hell happened to you two? Well…….. it seems the one shot we heard, put that deer down right on top of the ridge above the track. The boys left their rifles in the jeep, and went up to gut, and drag the deer back down to the jeep. When they walked up to the deer it stood up, but didn’t run. They didn’t have a rifle so one of the boys decided to cut the deer’s throat, and placed his hand on the deer’s antler. When he pulled slightly on the horn, the deer took a step in the direction he had pulled.

This gave them a work saving idea. They would simply walk the big deer down to the jeep, then cut his throat. They made about 30 feet before the buck came very much alive, and started trying desperately to get loose from their hold on his antlers. It got a little rough, and one of the twins let go, but the other one held on.

The one who let go was telling the story, and said, after a short time, he could see his brother wasn’t going to let the deer go, and was getting a heavy dose of “HOOF IN THE CROTCH†kicking, and thought he better help his brother get control of the deer, and grabbed the other antler, at which point his brother let go of his side, and stated, “Now, You hold him a while bastard!â€

About 8 years ago, I had a group of friends that wanted to come to Texas for an exotic deer,/ feral pig hunt. Most were flying in from as far away as Maine and they asked me if I could provide rifles so they didn't have to check guns. As you can guess, most were not real serious hunters. My friend from Maine took my sons Remington 700 bdl that I had some really good loads made for that would drive tacks at 100 yards. The first morning out we went to pick him up with the ranch owner driving us and he had shot a Sika buck, an Aoudad ram, and 2 feral pigs, a very successful morning. I failed to mention the airlines lost all his luggage on the flight down so he was glad to be using my gun and his not be lost. On the way back to the lodge I asked him what he was going to do when he got back to the lodge expecting a long photo session and he said he wanted to go to the range and shoot some more shells. I asked him why because the gun was obviously on target and he said he just wanted to smell more gun poiwder. I asked him if he knew what those rounds cost to load,,,,, Mind you, he is wearing my extra clothes, boots, hat, using my gun, ammo, binoculars, he says,,, "hey Wes, if you can't afford this sport you shouldn't do it!" The ranch owner started laughing so hard he was crying and he wrecked the surburban by running into a tree.....so for a MILLION BUCKS,,, MAYBE I CAN AFFORD TO HUNT WITH MY BUDDIES AGAIN......

A true story.My best pal and three other aquaintances and I went deer hunting in southwestern Colorado.One of the guys had made a camper out of a 36 passenger school bus, with bunks,propane stove,and a rack on top for cargo.One of the guys killed a monster buck the first day and as we were hanging it some other hunters stopped to admire the buck and we learned they were from Arkansas.
As we prepared our camp i stumbled across a blue grouse which I promptly shot with my S&W .22 Kit gun. As it was out of season for grouse I hung it in a tree outside of camp to be eaten later. The 2nd day, as we were preparing lunch one of the Arkansas hunters walked into camp and exclaimed he had just shot the biggest doe in Colorado. I asked if it was brown in color and if it's hoofs were about 4in. in diameter and he replied yes to both questions. I advised I thought he had killed a cow elk and not a doe deer so he asked If i'd check it and tell him for sure. We walked about 3/4 a mile from camp and there lay a nice 2 year old cow elk dead as yesterdays coffee.I asked if he had a tag to which he responded no tag, but all his life he had heard about these Colorado mule deer and she sure was as big as a mule and thus his error.I rolled her over and gutted her,setting aside the liver and heart and told the hunter he needed to find someone with a cow tag to keep her from going to waste.He responded with " shes your problem now" and calmly walked away,leaving me with a startled look on my face.I took the liver & heart back to camp and told my companions what had transpired.A day later we couldn't bear the thought of all that meat wasting so a couple of the guys went back that night and took a hind quarter off and hung it outside camp and we ate most of it before the end of the hunt.
We had all filled our tags and as we broke camp the deer were put in the rack on top of the bus and I remembered the grouse I had shot and we hadn't eaten due to the elk we had enjoyed. I didn't want it to waste so i picked out the smallest, non descript deer on top of the bus and slid the grouse up into the chest cavity.As we drove ,just outside Cortez we came upon a Colorado Game & Fish Dept. check station manned by an older cowboy type warden. He checked our licenses, chatted about our good luck and then proceded to climb the ladder to examine the game on top of the bus. He admired the huge buck and commented on it and procedrd to walk over to the little buck where I had hidden the grouse, raised a front leg,looked into the cavity and exclaimed "I'll be damned!a carnivorous deer."As he climed down from the bus he smiled,looked at me and said"I'm glad you boys had such good luck. Ya'll come back next year." Nothing more was said about the illegal grouse and I'll never know how he knew to look at the carniverous deer.

Sam

3 years ago we went hunting for deer here in Romsdalen of Norway.The weather was horrible with rain and fog!the place we hunts we have to climb upp 1 hour to get to the place where the deer are staying and to do this story short !!we hunted 8 houers that day and saw nothing anywhere so we climbed dow again and went to the car.As we had been swetting all day the windows inside the car got foggy and on the way out to the main road we came to a corner and what happens !!! we hit a deer standing in the middle of the road!!so the story is!! why work the whole day climbing up and down the mountains! when you can get the deer easy with the car!! john kofoed tegeltun 4 6300 Ã…ndalsnes Norway.

7 Life Lessons For Free: Is Anything Really Free?

I come from a decidedly non sporting family. Not anti-gun, just non hunters or fishermen. Somehow, a gene or three got misaligned and I showed up with an itch to hunt and fish. My dad recognized this and gave me a used Ithaca 20ga. pump for my 15th birthday. The scratch only got worse.

It was my junior year in high school that I finally found an outlet for my latent hunting lust. My new best friend Kenny came from an adamant bird hunting family. So, one crisp Fall day during second period he revealed a plan for me to go along with two of our other friends on a trip to Duck Hunting Nirvana.

Cool.

After a week of anticipation Stevie showed up in his mom's 'borrowed" white 4-door Cadillac. The thing was massive and ironically nick-named Moby. We loaded up that pig of a car up to it’s gills on that dark Wednesday morning, just after 2:00 a.m. if I recall.

We decided to "save time" by suiting up now, so we wouldn't waste killing time once we got there getting dressed. Lesson #1: You never know what might happen, or where you may need to stop, so wear your civies and get dressed at your destination.

After much infighting as to seat assignments, we were headed East on I-90, heading out to the ''millions of ducks and geese" that were so thick they "blotted out the sun." Of course, noone had ever been there in person, but that didn't seem to matter at the time. Operating on the information from an anonymous tip only added to the assurance of that informations veracity. We were set!

We were from Western Washington, so, of course this Holy Grail of Waterfowling could only be found in Eastern Washington --Lesson #2: The grass is NOT always greener on the other side of the mountains.

The trip would take us an expected four hours.

Our teenage driving reveled until then hidden character flaws in each member of our gang. For instance, Stevie was a closet asshole driver. Simple as that. We're talking Dr. Jeckel and Mr. Hyde. He would run up on the tail of people and start swearing, blowing the horn, giving them the “you're #1†middle finger sign, etc. Even though they were in the far right lane, minding their own business and not bothering anyone, Stevie gave them the business.

His attitude changed the minute it was his turn to drive. He'd go from joking around and laughing to developing a noticeable swagger, and a strange glazy eyed vacant stare.

Why we drove in shifts on a four hour haul escapes me now, but lesson #3 was; No matter how tired I am, I drive, always. Still to this day, I always drive.

The incident that caused a 20 minute roadside beat-down on Stevie was his cutting off a logging truck on a long downhill stretch of highway then hitting the brakes and making Mr. Logtruck Driver do a sideways skidding maneuver to avoid hitting our dumb asses. If you didn't grow up in logging country the ominous specter of 'paid by the load" logging truckers wasn't part of your up-bringing. Suffice it to say, they drive their rickety loads at +20 over the speed limit with absolute impunity. It is understood that it is YOUR responsibility to avoid them, to give them a wide berth, and to take one on is beyond insane. We knew we were doing right when the log truck screamed by and signaled our pugilistic efforts with a looooong blast from his air-horn. I'm sure the sight of four cammo clad teenagers fighting on the shoulder of the highway brought a tear to that tough-bastards eyes.

I'm also sure Stevies bruised ego lasted longer than the black eye.

We found the exit shortly after we started speaking to each other again. But was it a left or right turn? No one knew, and oddly, Kenny was the director of operations, but remained silent. We decided left.

We got back to the exit an hour later and drove over the overpass and down the road to what would have been 60 minutes earlier the right turn. It was starting to get light now, and we started getting antsy. Every possible turn-off required slowing to 60mph to check it out. "Was that our turn?" became the 30 second mantra of the group.

"Was that our turn?"

"Was that our turn?"

"Was that our turn?"

Lesson #4 seems so simple in retrospect; Get reliable written directions.

Finally Bryant, the current wheelman, took a stuttering high-speed 90 degree hard left. "Was that our turn?" It was now.

We barreled down the single lane dirt road in that borrowed Caddy like a moonshiner evading the Sheriff. Our dirt roostertail was quite impressive. Left side scraping the sage brush, Stevie whimpered, Bryant veered right. Right front wheel took a decent pothole shot, Stevies eyes started to swell, Bryant added gas. We were rocketing down the single track close to out running our headlights.

After making yet another sideways-drift negotiated turn, the road opened up to reveal a mud puddle. Bryant valiantly attempted to make it through the long L_O_N_G mud puddle by adding right foot pressure, Moby lurched forward, we all hunkered down, and Stevie finally exploded.

As did the rest of us.

Once we figured out we weren't dead from the instantaneous deceleration, we laughed hysterically. All of us but Stevie, who I am sure was examining his short life expectancy from that point forward.

We waited for the mucky water to run down the windows enough for us to kind of see our predicament. We discovered Bryant had landed us smack-dab in the middle of The Mother of all Mud puddles.

We rolled down the windows and assessed the damage. It was 30 feet of water from where we entered, and about 20 feet from the end we were headed towards. The sides of the puddle revealed that it was more of a trough. The sides of the trough were so tight that he doors would only have 6 inches to open before hitting the sides. Bryant had stuck a perfect landing.

The Caddy, given its weight, sat mid-door in the stained water, the exhaust was bubbling up from the muddy water, and the rear wheels were spraying mud under Bryants right foots applied pressure.

We were stuck stuck stuck. Big time!

Lesson #5 came on the heals of #4: Never, Never, NEVER attempt a high-speed water crossing without prior assessment. Never!

We crawled out the windows and started formulating a plan. In typical Kenny fashion, he spoke first. His idea, a good one I thought, and was that there was no reason for all of us to ruin our hunt, and since it WAS Stevies mom's car and all…. Stevie cut him off with a fist full of mud slung at Kennys head. Stevie assured us that if WE didn't get this car unstuck, WE would share in his Fathers "Welcome back home" party.

I was elected to walk back to the road and try to find a sympathetic local to come and pull us out. Bryant was unanimously nominated to be the undercarriage digger. Stevie and Kenny started collecting branches to be used as traction.

The walk out was way longer than the drive in. I had been walking in my waders for a good 40 minutes before I heard truck driving on the road. I made it over the small rise and thankfully found myself less than a hundred yards from the road.

I waited at the road by our turn-off for over an hour before another vehicle drove by. It was a US Mail truck. The nice Mailman stopped to see what has happening. I'm sure the sight of a skinny kid in waders had is curiosity piqued. Of course he couldn't help out beyond calling for a tow truck once he got back to town. That sounded good to me, and I thanked him. He pulled away chuckling under his breathe, and I headed back to tell the others of my success and wait for the help. Who knows, maybe we could still get some duck hunting in.

On my way back I had to look REAL hard to see my boot prints to backtrack my outbound path. I hadn't realized how many turn off's I had walked past. Lesson #6 had just happened; Always look back when your hiking to see what your return trip will look like, if needed, leave markers as to your path taken. Be alert!

I figured it out and returned to the others to find my three friends sitting along side the mud puddle eating. The Caddy was still in it's watery grave, and the three of them looked, clean.

Turns out they banked on my abilities more than they should have. Bryant "tried" to scoop mud, but it was "too hard". Stevie and Kenny "tried" to get brush to stuff under the spinning drive wheels, but without an axe or even a knife, it turned out to be "too hard." I had "tried" as well.

Unfortunately for all of us, I "tried" to get a tow. But in my youthful way I forgot to give accurate directions to our rescuers beyond "we're about 2 miles down this dirt road." Lesson #7 was brutal: Even though help is "on it's way" you should keep digging while it's light out. Because once you realize help "isn't on it's way", and all the food is gone, all the 'borrowed' beers are gone, and your friends moms car is still stuck up to it's gunnels, scrapping away at mud in the pitch dark in the middle of nowhere really, really, REALLY sucks!

a few years back a friend who just loves his doubles, especially old ones had found a real treat. In the attic of an old widow there was an old 8 gauge double. I showed a lack of care, but was still a 8 gauge. Tom, being of high spirit, grabbed onto the old piece, took it home and proceeded to restore the old double. It took quite awhile, since he even took the task of regulating the barrels. In anycase when the job was done it was just about duck season.
Tom didn't have a boat, so we took him out and set him on top of a muskrat house. Now the only problem with that old gun was that with a heavy load it did have the nasty habit of doubling every so often.
12 O'clock noon the season opened, and it wasn't long after than that the ducks were getting disturbed and flying. A teal came in low over the rushes, heading directly for Tom. In our blind we could see tom crouching, the barrels of the old 8 gauge coming up, pointing at the teal. The little duck came in low over Toms head. We watched as Tom stood up on the muskrat house, following the teal. As the teal was directly overhead his head, the old 8 gauge went off. And doubled. Tom just sort of continued his swing, straight backwards in one smooth motion and promptly knocked himself into the lake.
It took a bit to get our boat out of the blind and over to him. Partially because we were in the blind, but mostly because we had to finish laughing first.

When I was fifteen my family went on a hunt for whitetail deer in south Texas. I was lucky enough to take a deer on the first day of our hunt and so it was my duty to babysit my youngest brother so Mom and Dad could both have a chance to do some hunting. Youngher brother Doug was seven years old at the time.

We took our guns, mine a scoped custom 35 Whelen Improved and he a non-scoped Daisy lever action BB gun.We walked and talked, and after a while we jumped a big old Texas Jack Rabbit. I raised my rifle and let him get out far enough that I could follow him in my scope. As he "touched down" I let one go between his ears and took the top of his head off.We made our way over to collect our trophy.

" How come you did not shoot him , Doug?", I asked.

"Well", says he, "He was kinda haulin ass!"

Classified as fiction - or is it?

The Man from W.A.L.T.E.R.

World

Alien

Location

Tracking &

Elimination

Regiment

If people only knew. "Walter" (not his real name but the cover name chosen from the acronym of the top secret intergovernmental agency he once established and headed) looked pensively into the campfire and sighed again, "If people only knew".

The gentlemen he now worked with was a nice enough chap. Generous, witty, but a total bust with firearms. Walter began to recount the times when he "stayed with the truck", only to secretly track his friend to keep him out of harms way. Walter had learned long ago how to time his shot so the report of his rifle was masked by the blast of his friend's. Eagle eyes, leopard-like reflexes and his degree in astrophysics enabled Walter to time his shot from a distance so that his distant report was heard as but an echo of the action in the distance.

Walter's superior conditioning and unmatched skill in bushcraft enabled him to return to the vehicle before anyone was the wiser to his presence.

Of course, being the progeny of the fine genetics found only in the distant galaxy of his birth certainly accounted for his superhuman physical and mental abilities. But no one could know that. No one can know that. And for the benefit of those amusing but inferior beings of his adopted planet Earth, he would forever maintain his secret.

Another hunt. Another successful mission in saving his friend, "S", from mortal danger or extreme embarrassment.

It was not always this way. Although it was somewhat less stressful a life than his well concealed past as head of an unknown organization that saved the world each and every day.

And those Hollywood movies, touted as "science fiction"; best the world did not know how close their "science fiction" was to reality. The galactic battles were over, with good triumphing over evil, with no small thanks to Walter. He had led the loose coalition against the overwhelmingly superior dark forces, and eliminated them in their entirety. With the universe now safe, it was time for Walter to retire in peace, with his new identity.

It is a peaceful and enjoyable existence, and playing the role of jester is certainly an effective and enjoyable cover. It is exciting to have to constantly come to "S's" rescue, while remaining in the shadows and leaving "S" no wiser to the intervention of his secret protector and savior. The role of Guardian angel does have its own rewards.

And if anyone needed a guardian angel, it was "S". A constant vigil is required to keep "S" from being eaten by savage beasts or blowing himself up in the reloading area. Sometimes it was not an easy cross to bear, but it was one graciously borne by Walter. The strong must protect the weak, be they weak of body, weak of mind or both. And with S, Walter reveled in the good fortune of having struck the "daily double".

But sometimes, Walter sits and wonders, what the world would think...

If the world only knew.

Gentlemen,

Would all of you who have posted a story and not sent me a PM with your mailing address do so at your earliest conveience

I will have all your millions off to as soon as I get your address.

My son, basically a very good boy (now a man) had the bad habit of disagreeing with his dad on the best places to hunt. He, his closest friend, and I drew antelope permits in my favorite area. I set the two sixteen year old boys up at a point where two fences intersected. Antelope daily made crossings under one of the fences.
Not seeing anything immediately, the two boys moved, leaving a blanket and cooler where they had been sitting. A small herd of antelope crossed right where I said they would less than fifteen minutes later.
I told them to stay in that place and wait. Patience is everything. Nope, they moved another ways off and, you guessed it, antelope crossed through again.
Should have learned, right? Nope. They stayed at the spot, but walked off later. I'd moved so that I was only about 200yds away. A little bit later, shot my antelope.
Has my son changed? Nope.

I hope that I'm not too late!

We were hunting Teal in the salt marsh years ago. My son about eleven at the time was retrieving for us ( shooting also ) We had never had any alligators in this pond, but I was still watching carefully any time the kid got out of the pit to retrieve. The birds had quit flying and we were still sitting in the pitt enjoying a cold beer after the hunt when the kid says Dad there's a Gator staring at me. The boy has always had a very vivid imagination, and I said "well just shoot the damn thing". He did, an 8' Gator had eased up to his end of the pitt in 12" of water. He killed it with one load of #2 steel at four feet! I guess that nasty son of a bitch was just waiting for my boy to make one more retrieve.

I don't think I slept for a week after that!!!! And, I, do all retrieving in Teal season now, and I don't leave my shotgun in the blind either!

We typically have fun with practical jokes in hunting camp, everthing from tying the shoe laces of a napping partner, putting a rubber snake next to someones sleeping bag or rubbing campfire soot on the eye pieces of someones binoculars. One year in deer camp we were swapping tales. One of the guys, Ron, recalled how when it was his turn to make the sandwiches for the crew, he would put a single piece of toilet paper in between the slices of meat. We had a pretty good laugh over that.

We'll, it turned out that it was my turn to make the sandwiches for the three of us for the next day. I made lunch as usual and did nothing out of the ordinary.

When it came time to eat, Frank and I agreed that when Ron took his first bite from the sandwich, we would both look away make the sound of supressing a laugh.

It went off perfectly. Ron took a bite, we both looked down and laughed, and Ron came unglued "what'd you fu.kers do to my sandwich?" We told him we did nothing. He then took his sandwich apart, piece by piece. Upon finding nothing, he threw the whole sanswich away convienced it had been sabotaged! He still doesn't believe us to this day.

Scott Terry
P.O. Box 3471
Jackson, WY USA 83001

Here is a tale of a hunt shared with another AR member sometime back on the cat forum:

45-70 Govt.
one of us
Posted 29 April 2008 18:35

Let me note here that I've never hunted lion. The closest contact I've ever had with a lion is in the zoo or with the MGM logo.

Dreaming, sound asleep, safe at home, in bed, in Oregon . . .

I'd come upon a large, "trophy" male lion, out on the African plains. He was not in a good mood. I was infringing on his territory. So he started approaching me, ready to attack, at about 20 yds.

I raised up my my bolt action Weatherby -- probably 300 mag. because I can't imagine having anything else, put the reticle of the Leupold 3 - 9x 40mm VX III right on his chest, just under his chin.

click . . .

Cycled the bolt . . . reticle on his chest again
. . . click.

No ammo in the gun.

-- I gotta cut back on the spicy food before I go to bed.

Posts: 330 | Registered: 10 August 2007

Mary Hilliard-Krueger
one of us

Posted 29 April 2008 19:19 Hide Post

....and the magnificnet beast never took his eyes off of me. 20 yards to my death, as I saw it. As he glared at me with those large golden eyes, almost patheticaly, he started his advance. Slowly at first, one large paw after another, gliding over the ground as if he were floating. Then his speed picked up, and as he neared and was ready to leap, I started to close my eyes in anticipation of the ravaging of claws and teeth. It was then I realized, "Dear God, it's a tiger"!!
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Any monetary awards, considered to be sent this way, for this horrific hunting tale (that some may find humerous), should be divided equally with my co-author(and spicy cuisine connoisseur) 45-70 Govt.
Thank you for your kind consideration.

Gentlemen: I killed my first Elk at the tender age of 8 years old, hunting completely by myself and using only my BB gun. It was in the high mountains of San Juans of Colorado. I made a careful stalk on the bugling monarch, took careful aim, and shot him squarely in the buttocks. He lurched, at and ran at full tilt until finally looking back to see what had given him such a start. Whereupon he smacked dead on into a mature aspen, instantly breaking his neck. I have been a legend in my own mind ever since. Is that your boots or mine that has something smelly on them???

I grew up in a non-hunting family in a very gun unfriendly city. I moved out east after college and got the shooting bug. Then I had all these guns in the house so two years back I decided to try hunting. A few hunting friends volunteered to take me out and as (bad) luck would have it, my buddy who just started two years before was the first that had the time.

So we're out on public land sitting along the tree line. We see a doe duck into a little thicket. We both popped up with rifles shouldered waiting for her to show herself. I was so excited that I'm not sure how I avoided peeing in my pants. I safetied the rifle and put it down because my hands were shaking so badly from the adrenaline. Eventually my buddy gives up and sits back down. I kept standing very still waiting for the doe to come out. A half hour later she starts walking right towards me. I lose her where the land ducks down. And she reappears 20 yards away. I shoulder my rifle and tell my buddy that my safety is off. That does two things: it fogs my rifle, and causes my buddy to jump up yelling "what, do you see something?!?". The doe looks at him for two seconds and bolts. My scope unfogged when the doe was about 100yards away but I'm not taking a shot on a moving deer let alone from behind. In hindsight I should have drawn the .45; I'm not sure on the doe or my buddy ;-)

I did get some good BBQ on the way home and I somehow got hooked. I'll be in Africa in October...

Hi
Now I understand why the people in zimabwe love robber mugabe . so much ha has made them all to the millionairs ,nowhere else everybody have some million dollars to spend every day.
YES

I was in school in Texas in the late 1990's. My roommate came up with the idea of going feral hog hunting south of San Antonio in the town of Cotulla.

We called a rancher who said we could shoot all the hogs we wanted in a day for $50.00 per hunter. We left on Friday with a cooler of beer and drove to a cheap motel in Cotulla. Saturday morning the rancher put us in deer blinds that situated along breaks cut in the sage. These were basically firing lanes for the deer who came out to pull grain off the feeders at the appointed times.

I had too many options running through my head before going, but took an FN/FAL for my primary weapon and a Colt's 38 super if a hog came up close. My buddy's blind was about 1/2 mile from where I sat. And boy did I sit, hours and hours in this little elevated shack. The shack was accessed not by steps, but by a gang-way type arrangement that terminated about 15 feet from the ground.

I had the door closed to the entrance/exit while hunting, all the while glassing the field for hogs. After a while I sat at the stool and table inside the blind and decided to just listen and enjoy what I could see of the sky.

Slowly, I began to hear a scratching at the door of the blind. I thought maybe a branch had blown against it and ignored the sound. It persisted and became louder. I got a little worried, but not so much. It went on for about a minute, and I decided to make some noise, moving the stool back and forth on the floor. The noise got louder. I did not know if there were bears in that part of Texas or armadillos or what that could be wanting in the blind.

Finally, in my most threating tone, I said "I've got a gun in here and you best leave me alone." The noise got louder and I got nervous. I did not have room to crack open the door and angle out my rifle, so I pulled the Colt, cocked and locked it. I put my hand on the door and released the safety, then opened the door kind of quick. I looked out, and briefly did not see a thing -- then I heard a loud "QUARRRK". I took a half stumbling step back and saw a roadrunner with his head tilted sideways at me. He ran off like some kind of space alien. Scared me to death. Did not see any hogs. On the ride back to our vehicles, the rancher said he had not seen any hogs since about two weeks ago when a group came in and killed about 60 hogs off his property.

One other quick story involves a friend of my father's. I was about 12 and this guy was all serious about his guns and vehicles. Had CJ-5 with flame stickers on it. We were riding and he saw a deer standing in the edge of field, on a steep decline from our position. He got out, as did my father. I watched him take out his 264 win mag with a huge scope. He threw up a rest on the hood to shoot across the hood. He then squeezed off a round through the side of his hood and fender. He does not like to hear that story.

I have a pair of stories.
About 20 years ago, when lead was legal for waterfowl, I was with a group a friends, around a duck pond, looking to fill our bag of ducks. A teal came in, with the wind, and moving fast. I lead him somewhere around 15 feet, as he was 60 yards high. I uncorked my hot handload of 1.75 ounces of #6 shot at 1200fps. I fired it out of my A-5 12g 3 inch magnum. After the shot, I had time to recover from recoil, and see what happened. The teal went into a dive straight up. I lined up a second shot, by now, the bird was at least 100 yards in elevation. I did not know any better at the time. As soon as I fired, a the bird lost upward momentum, and started the long, fast fall to earth. A buddy next to me, looked my way, after seeing this improbable shot, and asked-what are you shooting? I held up my A5 and said, a Browning! The bird probably was brain hit, dead on air, and in a death dive straight up. The second shot looked impressive and was superfluous to the final outcome. Mr Teal hit the pond about 3 feet offshore producing a 4 foot splash!!!

The next story happened 30 years ago. My neighbor trained his big dog to unload in my yard. After a while, this got old. One fine morning, Mr. Big Dog is standing broadside, 15 yards out the front window. Out comes the BB rifle. I cracked the window and took aim through the screen. I lined up the gun to the two hanging, and squeezed off a shot. The result was priceless. The dog did not make a sound. He ran off like something just rang his bell. The eight year old, charged with watching the dog, yelled out, stupid dog, get back here!!! I was on the floor of the living room, trying to be quiet and invisible. We never saw that dog again. That was the last time that big dog visited my lawn.
OK, a bonus. This was a fun shot. We were in a harvested maize field with goose decoys, full body, forms, and rags out. We were in camo watching for birds. My hunting buddy was 10 yards to my left, with his trained black lab. I saw a lone speck angling our way. I lined him up, trying to dump him on my friend. I fired, the bird landed next to the dog. She stands up, stretches, grabs the goose by the neck, flicks it to her master, and lies back down. Her shortest retreive, a good stretch!!!
Jeff in Texas

My story is true. It must be gator night for me, this is the third different post somehow involving an alligator.

Every year we hunt/fish alligators and there is always something that happens that generally requires stitches, money to fix, or perhaps CPR.

My brother-in-law (who tends to be the victim) and I pulled up to an alligator on a line. I stopped the airboat about 20' away. I removed the 22 magnum from the gunboot, drew a fine bead on the gator's head and squeezed the trigger.

I will now sidetrack a little bit. 22 magnum bullets will at times break apart on a big gators head. It can be a little messy at point blank range.

The instant I fired the shot the "bullet" ricocheted and hit me just below my eye. I touched my cheek with my hand and could feel the blood. "Brother-in Law I shot myself" I screamed. He immediately pulls my hand from my face and begins laughing.

At this point I was shot and hurting and he was laughing. I figured it was payback for things like the wasp sting between his eyes, now that was funny or when he cut his hand and had to get stitches, neither of those incidents were really my fault.

Well the laughter continues and he pulls the blood from my face. It turns out to be the the remains of the alligator's eyeball not the bullet. It stung like hell but began to feel better. I could not do that again if I tried for a 100 years.

There are many other stories like shooting off 6" of the airboat propeller to match the 6" missing on the other end that flew off in the days before cell phones, my brother being bit by a gator on the hand, or running out of bullets and using a hammer to dispatch gators. Those will be for another time.

Forgive me AR for I have sinned... it has been a hell of a while since my last confession...


A few years ago I went duck hunting with a few friends and a local television reporter who did a Saturday night "outdoor" series.

The morning went slow, just a few ducks and on what ducks there were, I shot very poorly. I had borrowed a shotgun for the show, having somehow been convinced an SBE with 3inch shells would kill better than my 870 with 2 3/4. The reporter didn't have much footage, just a shot or two of us missing and one embarrasing shot of me missing twice and then barely hitting a drake flying straight towards me. It was the gun, all the way. The thing had a tall rib, whereas my 870 had none, it was an auto and did that thing that Benelli owners know about when you soft cycle the damn thing and it goes 'click' when it should go 'boom.' I did not know this at that time and fell into fits of cursing as my companions enjoyed themselves ay my expense and the reporter, who had brought his camera and was shooting what he hoped was an action packed morning that really turned out to be lots of shots of us missing and not much useable footage given the amount of swearing I did.
We saw a flock of geese far, far away and one guy I was with hauled out his long-honker and proceeded to assail us with the most God-awful racket you have heard coming from the end of a goose flute. A few geese twitched and he got excited and more wailing ensued. The geese paid no attention yet my friend continued unabated as he turned various shades of red, veins from his neck and forehead, his eyes watering and I turned to keep from laughing. Eventually he stopped once there were no geese anywhere and I made a few lone-hen quacks on my double-reed since there was nothing else to do. It became quiet, duckly-speaking and the reporter did a few interviews and we talked about steel shot and plumbism and the guns we were using and I got to blame the gun on camera for the piss-poor shooting of earlier.
In a bit, the camera was off and we were contemplating getting our decoys when this happened:

'It's a goose!"

"Where?"

"Coming from where the were when I was calling. Don't move. Stay quiet."

I had rested the Benelli on the rail at the front of the blind and I kept my head low.

"Where is it?"

"He's coming, Don't move. Get the camera going."

"It's rolling."

"Get ready, he's going to come right over our heads, Baxter it's your goose."

"Tell me when to go."

"Wait, wait...don't move, he's... NOW!"

In one motion, and without ever looking up first to see the goose, I reached forward and grabbed the Benelli, wondered if the bolt had closed hard enough, raised it, mounted it to my shoulder and lifting the muzzle skyward like one of those pictures of those snooty english guys with the cabby hat and a hot gun in the hands of his bearer on a driven shoot, arched my back and in less time that it takes to write this word, sighted the bird, covered it properly, snapped the trigger and saw his wings fold. He fell into the river and slowly headed down.

"Holy Shit!"

"I got it, I got it!"

"Aww, what a lucky shot."

"Lucky hell. if there were another I'd do it twice."

"Let's get it, come on."

"Let's get a shot of you walking down to the water and picking it up. Wait a minute, let me get ahead of you. So tell, me Baxter, you said you were struggling with the gun all morning, looks like you finally figured it out."

"Yeah, I guess so. that was a pretty good shot. Can't owe it to the gun any more than I can blame it on it. Guess it was me all along."

"That was a great shot. Tell me what you shot."

"He said it was a goose, I barely saw it; only when I shot. I had my head down the whole time. Just until he told me to shoot."

As I walked toward the water, i kept my eye out for the long black neck and brown body that should be in the reeds.

"What is that?"

"I don;t know. Looks like a pterodactyl."

"Is that what you shot?"

"Don;t know, I guess so. Maybe you should kill the camera."

"I'll edit it out. No that was a great shot, maybe you can;t tell what..."

"I don;t know what it is. Hey man, what is this thing?"

"It's a goose...isn't it?"

By this time he was walking down to the water and i was holding up an orange billed, web-footed short tailed black 'goose' of the likes I had never seen.

"Merganser."

""Mer...?"

"Merganser, diving duck."

"Doesn't look like a duck to me."

"I've never seen one like that either."

"You sure this is a merganser? Is that camera off?"

"I'll edit it if it's not one, but that was one great shot, best all year."

" I thought you said it was goose? Where the hell is my goose?"

" I thought it was too, I didn't really look too hard 'cause I was keeping my head down."

"Shit man, I thought you were on top of it!"

"Sorry man. But's it's a merganser, you're good to go."

"I'm getting cold, let's get a quick final interview and I have to get going."

"Me too, me and my merganser."

"Don;t for get your drake."

"How could I, old 3-shot drake."

We packed up our gear and I loaded the decoys on my back and with one hand around my shotgun and the other holding the necks of the birds, we walked back to the truck.

"When's that segment going to air?"

"If i can get back to the studio, tonight, else I will put it in the can for next week. I'll call you when it's going to be on."

"You may want to leave out the shot, until..."

"it's a merganser, I now what I am talking about."

"Fine, leave it in. Was a hell of a shot wasn't it?"

"Hell of a ..."

I arrived home and dumped my gear in the garage and immediately went upstairs and jumped on the internet to look up this merganser.

"Goddam! Shit!, This isn's a merganser. What the hell is it!"

I searched every possible way for ducks, geese, water birds until I sat back in the chair and remembered when I lived in Seattle and I remember seeing the cormorants sitting on the bouys that float alongside the I-90 bridge.

"Nawwwww."

In the search engine I typed "cormorant" and hit enter.

"Goddam!" again.

Then I typed 'cormorant hunting'

"Oh my God!"

I reached for the phone and dialed the station.

"He;s not in right now, do you want his voicemail"

"Yes!"

""DON'T show the shot in the show! It's a damn cormorant and you can;t hunt them here. Call me as soon as you get this. Again, DO NOT SHOW THE SHOT."

I ran downstairs and stuffed the contraband in the garbage can and then proceeded to breast the drake and stuffed his carcass on top. For good measure, I double bagged it and dropped it in the trash can. Garbage would be picked up on Tuesday so that was... hell, just a few days. No problem.

All that afternoon, I paced the house, irritated at the lack of call-back and wondered nervously if he got my message. I called the station again. Again voicemail. Having written for newspapers and whatnot, I know that there are sick individuals who get a perverse pleasure in 'calling' reporters and writers and so called experts when they goof. Hell knows there would be any amount of Johnny game-ranger wannabe's calling the station reporting a murder of cormorant on the evening news.

Seven o'clock came and went and still no call from the station. Another call in and he was there.

"Did you get my message?"

"YEah, but you can't really tell what it is, it's kind of far away. You just see you lift the gun and then boom, his wings fold and it falls/"

"You can;t show it!"

It's no problem, no one..."

"YOU CAN"T SHOW it. Someone will notice and I'll get in a shit load!"

"But it's the best...

"NO"

"Alright, i'll edit it out."

"Good. Thanks man."

"But the show is boring without it."

"Then you'll have to wait until later for your Pulitzer."

"Ha, screw you."

"Ok, thanks man, take it easy. Hey, I know this place that's great for pheasant, you want to go sometime, do a show on it. Promise I'll only shoot roosters."

"That works, I need a pheasant show anyway. Just let me know when."

"Sure. I'll see you."

"OK, see you.'

"Oh and one more thing/"

"YEah?"

"Can I get a copy of that shot?"

"Ah, Christ!"

I didn’t start hunting at a young age like some of you. I purchased my first hunting license when I was able to drive to hunters’ education and was able to drive myself to the country to hunt. My first year of hunting was very entertaining, for others. For me, it was the school of hard knocks.

My small game hunting that year was hit and miss. Well, to be honest, it was a lot more miss than hit. I couldn’t find the game, let alone shoot it when I did find the game, but that didn’t detour me. I was sure I was going to bag a deer.

I was told that hunting deer on the public land around here was not a good idea. As one gun shop owner pointed me to a news article from the previous year where one hunter shot another hunter on public land. So hunting on public land was not going to happen. As luck would happen, I found a friend of a friend who would let me hunt on a very small peace of land they had in the country.

I scouted the land and saw lots of deer tracks, and rubs. This was going to be where I was going to get my first deer.

I took a couple boxes of pumpkin balls and my grandfather’s smooth bore shotgun with a brass bead site out a few days before deer season to see where it shot. I will not say sight in because there was nothing to adjust. I shot a few shells from each box. This setup would not hit the broad side of the barn, but the deer will come in close and I was going to get my deer.

The week of deer season came and the weather was miserable. Every day I went out to that property and hunted in the rain, snow, and sleet. It rained some more. It snowed some more and sleeted a lot. It didn’t matter; I was going to get my deer.

It was one of the longest weeks of my life. I saw squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, and quail. All the animals I had hunted, but not got during their seasons. What I didn’t see was a single deer until I stopped off at my parents place in the city. In the back yard of my parents place, there were several city deer eating my parents’ bushes.

So the end of my first deer hunting season was spent eating a steak watching the city deer eat my parents’ bushes. So sometimes you don’t get the animal you are hunting, but instead, get an education. When I finally bagged my first deer it was few years later, in a different state, with a different gun, and people could hear me hoot and holler because I finally got my deer.

Learning to hunt with trial and error.

Back in the early '90's when it was still easy to get a rifle license my friend bought a cheap norinco .22. With the scope on it, it was actually quite accurate and we could put 3 shots into 3" with high velocity rounds at 50 meters.

Since we felt so confident with the little rifle and the accuracy we would have been able or so we thought to headshot any game and drop them on the spot. So off we went to the veld walking along the field my freind with his .22 and myself with my 303. The idea was that is we could get very close to game we would use the .22 and for longer shots the 303.

Walking very slowly to a spot where we knew game was using regurlaly to drink water. A warthog sow came into the open field. As quickly as we could we laid down flat on the ground and my friend was taking aim. She was looking at us trying to figure out what we were ? The range was around 30 meters. The shot went off perfectly between the eyes but with a ricochet sound after it and the warthog headed 5 meters into the tall grass vanishing.

We could not believeit myself looking trough the scope of the 303 and my friend, Vernon looking trough the scope of the .22 could clearly see the shot hit the mark and the bullet ricocheing ?????

After a bit of conversation to try and find out what actually did happen, we stood up and checked for any blood or sign of a wounded pig and we obviously could not find any. So we decided to keep going and see if we could spot anything else but with the idea that if we should find anything else it would be taken with the 303. Without spotting anything and it getting quite late we headed back the same way we came up back up. A couple of meters away from where we shot at the warthog there was another warthog and after a short stalk we dispatched it and it dropped on the spot.

Inspecting it we could see that it was the same warthog sow we shot at earlier with some skin being shot off between her eyes. obviously the bullet didnt take any effect. To make the long story short we finally ended shooting a couple of warthog with the .22 but not with high velocity bullets but with plain old standard velocity bullets. And maximum range kept at 20-25 meters.

Just goes to show you who said speed kills ?

Somebody submit a better story than the one in the Aussie forum. You can't do it!

C'mon Saeed. That should be the clear winner!

The Infamous Snipe Hunt;

When my cusin and I turned 12, all of the older kids in the family decided to take us on our first snipe hunt. They showed us how to make a snipe call out of a beer can top and gave us each a burlap sack, for all the snipe we were expected to catch, and a salt shaker. They took us deep in the woods, just before dark, and told us to wait until the moon rose. At that time we were to start calling. When a snipe was spoted we were to sneak up, behind it, very carefully and sprinkle salt on it's tail. we were told that once you sprinkle salt on one's tail that they are no problem to catch.

Well I am getting tired of typing, and you all know the rest of the story anyway...

Chris

This may not be as funny as some but it was a fond memory for me. I have shot bow & arrow since I was about 8 years old. No one in my family except one cousin either hunted or fished. I started fishing the local creeks for catfish when I was about 8 as well. I remember my parents wondering how I got into these things. Anyway, I would come home from school, change clothes, pick up the bow and head out back and shoot for hours. I made up Cowboy and Indian games in my mind while I practiced.

Years later, at the age of 16, I was invited to “Deer Camp†by a gentleman that supplied meats to my brother’s restaurant that I worked in after school. My Brother was bragging on my archery skills and the guy invited me to go hunting with his group. I think he never expected me to say yes.

I took the invite seriously and started reading every magazine and book I could find about Whitetail Deer hunting. We drove the 4 hours to upstate Pennsylvania and “Deer Campâ€. Truth be told, the 12 or so men there really couldn’t care about bow season. They were there to escape their wives. None had practiced shooting. They would be coming back in two weeks for rifle season and they never thought they could stick an arrow in a deer anyway. Fact is, they shot so poorly I doubt they could hit a Deer.

We set up some hay bales as a target and they pinned a paper plate to the center. None of these guys could consistently hit the plate. I never missed it. I was grouping about two inches at the distance we were shooting. One of the guys put an Apple under the baling twine and told me, “Let’s see you hit that William Tellâ€. I hit the apple and split the twine and the bale expanded like an accordion.

We got up before dawn and posted on the mountain side at various intervals along game trails. I hunkered down inside a downed tree’s root ball. About an hour after sunrise a lone Doe made her way up the game trail and got within range. I nailed her and she was down in about 20 feet. I was told to “holler if you get anything and we will help gut and drag itâ€. I started to holler as I was told. The guy that invited me in the first place couldn’t believe I “ruined†the day so quickly, especially since I shot a Doe. I told him they are legal and taste the same as a Buck. I never hunted with them again.

I got teased the rest of the weekend for “shooting Bambiâ€. Later I found out through my Brother that they put a picture of me with the deer in the camp scrapbook with “Bambi†underneath the picture.

Fast-forward 30 years

I was living in bush Alaska and had killed many Moose and Caribou but I was leaving the bush to move to Anchorage. I was never a “trophy†hunter but the year I was moving I decided to do a self guided spring fly-in for Brown Bear (with rifle not bow). I killed a decent Bear on day five.

I sent a copy of the picture to my Brother who gave it to Steve the meat man. Steve took the picture up to Deer Camp that year and put it in the scrap book next to the Bambi picture.

Controlled-Round Feed Nearly Kills Dog!

There are occasionally lively posts on various firearms boards concerning feeding issues with assorted rifles. Sad stuff. Nobody loves rifles that behave poorly. Rifles that won’t feed bullets are lower than low. I know because I’ve been there.

Now I find myself there again.

This time, it’s not with some newly-arrived, whipper-snapper rifle (read: Kimber or even Remington), but with what even the best of us refer to as a highly-regarded firearm from an era when everyone cared.

Three nights ago, I reached into the back of my gun safe and pulled out my one remaining hand-made-by-virgins Pre-64 Model 70 Winchester. It’s a lovely, wonderfully classic, early-1950s Model 70 Featherweight in .30-06. Legend has it that it would/could never-ever fail…controlled-round feed and all that.



Well, the third time I cycled the bolt the other night, just to feel and hear the silky action, the omnipotent, invincible, never-say-die controlled-round-feed extractor broke right in half, the top half ricocheting off my gun safe door and hitting my sleeping Chocolate Lab squarely between the eyes, scaring him half to death. Perfect frontal brain shot. Karamojo Bell could not have done better.

After settling the dog down with over half of the elk sandwich I was eating (that always works with him), I retrieved the broken part.



Damn. So much for 100% reliability against charging grizzly bears. I was, quite frankly, pissed. I’ve had that rifle for over 20 years. It was invincible. Everyone said so. Now it was crap. Instant, Pre-64 controlled-round-feed crap.

A curse on all things Winchester. This was a really serious feeding issue (extracting too), and with a highly regarded rifle to boot. Kind of like a mint 1967 Corvette failing to start.
I fleetingly wondered if a controlled-round-feed epidemic was afoot? Are the stars not aligned. Is the controlled-round legend only a legend?

In any case, I’m torn - do I sell this abominable Pre-64 anchor or help finance my gunsmith’s new house to get it repaired? My dog votes for a sale. I don’t know. What do you think?

P.S………My dog has sworn off pre-64 Winchester Model 70s forever (or until the next good deal pops up). He is clearly not amused. But, he would love it if his owner would become a millionaire.

I think you should rid yourself of that dangerous contraption! I'm fairly brave, so if you are worried about being alone with it, box it up and send it to me, as I know where there is a deep well on my property, and you will be out of danger!

PS: I'll get rid of that damaged dog for you as wel, if you want!