2011 Missouri Rifle Season. 18 November 2011 Chapter 1. Prelude to a Click. Out deer hunting on my small property here in Central MO, I was sitting in a tree with new (to me) pre-64 M70 300 H&H that I rescued from oblivion at my local gun and pawn shop, when I spied a decent example of a whitetail buck wandering towards me along the fence line. Bino’s confirm-at least four on a side, I swing the safety forward, steady the crosshairs on his shoulder, just inside his chest, as he quarters along 90 yards distant an closing and squeeze. Sickening "click". Buck alerts snorts and bounds off into the cedars.
I hesitate a moment, thinking, “it fired fine during zeroing”. I again pause, pondering the eternal question "do I actually remember snapping those long, lean 200 grain Nosler PartitionTM hand loads into the magazine?” Oh, well most certainly, must have, of course I did. I'd be daft to think I would fail to actually load my rifle. Silly me. Must be a weak FP spring or grease. The temperature was approaching 65 f though, reducing the likelihood of cold stiff grease inducing a misfire. I lift the bolt, hoping, knowing, certain that I would see shiny brass with a belt under the claw. Nope. Wait, I must have "CMP'd it- you know, closed the bolt over a round in the magazine (for you High Power Service Rifle Shooters). Bolt retracts slowly, no lead tip behind the ramp, empty. I shake my coat pockets, no rattle. I search more thoroughly, no rounds on my person at all. I sigh, lower my empty rifle dejectedly to the forest floor, and then strap in to my stand and climb down, head hanging in a sense of personal shame.
Silently I enter my house via kitchen door. Sitting on the table are 4 nice, shiny 300 Magnum hand-loaded rounds standing at parade rest in single file aside my cold coffee cup like a fire team awaiting instructions from their team leader. Trust me, it took a while to admit to myself that I indeed may have lost my marbles and left my ammunition at home. Good thing my hunting grounds are only 300 yards away! I dare not reveal the story to my wife, or even more so, my son; rather my response to the question of how my hunt went was “nope, only the coyote that ran underneath my stand and a few Chickadees and the ever persistent squirrels”.
Chapter 2. Boom. Okay, my initial story occurred last weekend-opening of MO rifle season. Then I had to travel to AP Hill VA for a humanitarian demining training event with some Dept of State folks early on Monday morning. Anyway, I get back late last night, forego going to work, work from home today. Weather is coming from the North so I figure deer will be moving. I don’t bother to suit up in my dedicated hunting gear, rather just staying with the khakis I have been wearing all day. No long johns, no camouflage other than my jacket and poly balaclava, no scent killer. Insuring I have my ammo this time, I climb my tree at 2:00 PM, wind is ferocious and temp is dropping rapidly. An eastbound train rumbles in the background south of me, must be the 3 o’clock run. Around 4:00 PM, I think to myself, I’ll stick it out until 5:30 PM, it’ll be dark then and a good effort, half-heartedly accepting that my stand, the wind and the temperature are not working in my favor at all. Well, I check my watch again at 4:10 PM. Hmmm. A few minutes later I do my best dominant buck grunt and pause, listening as hard as I can. I hear (I think I hear anyway) movement in the buck brush and cedars to my right, peering intently, I see white antler tips a then a body ghosting along, head down. Bino’s up, nice rack, rifle up, in the scope, confirm 4 points on a side at least, swing right and down, finger goes to the trigger and presses automatically. Boom! I see the buck drop and kick even as the rifle recoils up and away from my target. I did not hear the report or feel recoil as is usual. I reload and scan. Nothing moves, the wind seemingly quiets in honor of the moment and the act. I scan with my scope, but see nothing in the growing shadows of the deep green cedars while the low overcast dulls the soft failing light. Feeling some adrenaline and a little shaky from the emotion, I pause while a thousand thoughts occur simultaneously in my mind. Velma, my wife is a non-hunter who supports my hunting and in whom I hold in a dear and tender place. I think how I hope she will forgive me for my act and know in my heart she is with me, even though she does not participate. A few minutes pass, I unload and rig the rifle for the short trip to the ground and lower it gently, assuring its repose on the dry oak leaves. I climb down the tree like a mechanical praying mantis, irregularly jerky and most unnatural task I think. As I climb down I thank God for the opportunity and am blessed.
I seem to have lost the azimuth to where he went down at the shot due to the changing perspective from stand to ground level. Anyway, he cannot be far, just off to the right and hard against the wall of cedars; that way, just above the fence line and right of those big oaks. I meander slowly, stepping over the fallen branches and scanning with my freshly loaded rifle, just in case. 90 yards and there he is, a nice eight pointer lying in the sweet musty oak leaves reminding me of times past and my Dad, passed also. I think how nice it would be to call him and tell him the story; he would have listened well. I silently offer praise for the buck to my God, who created him and me.
The bullet entered behind his left foreleg and angled down and forward to exit behind the right foreleg, and then busted a rock at his side. Okay, maybe a lesser/smaller bullet would have worked too. Later, after field dressing, I determine that the bullet touched nothing but the top of his heart and lungs. Death was instantaneous and I am happy with my riflemanship and resultant clean kill.
Epilogue. Three lean 300 H&H Magnum rounds are sitting on the table next to me as I type, the fourth, now an empty and sooty case, lies alongside. Since purchasing the rifle a month and a half ago, I spent much of my free time cleaning, re-bluing and refinishing the battle worn metal and bruised and dented classic Model 70 walnut stock. The rifle, some 9 years older than I now wears a Pachmayer DeceleratorTM recoil pad too. The previous owner had replaced the original steel butt plate with a White LineTM ventilated pad that was well past its service life. Just as my wife likes to wonder about the people and the stories that her antique furniture could tell, I do the same with this rifle. I obtained 100 pieces of Winchester brass, Lee Precision dies and built a starter load from Hogdon H4350 powder and Nosler PartitionsTM. That makes seven total shots that I have fired from this classic rifle, I think I’ll keep it.
----------------------------------------- "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. -Henry David Thoreau, Walden
Posts: 897 | Location: Tanzania | Registered: 07 December 2007
Thanks, Andrew. I, too, offer a quick prayer of thanks and to a couple other guys that got me to where I am today - Dad, Larry Glover, and both Grandpas. No matter what I shoot, I know they'd be proud to have been with me.
You are not alone. I drove from Corpus Christi TX to Ardmore OK once and did not bring my ammo. I watched 3 beautiful deer prance across the pecan grove just laughing.
now i dont even think about any other gear but rifle and ammo
Good hunting
Tim
Posts: 137 | Location: Maine | Registered: 03 October 2006
