HAPPY NEW YEAR

HAPPY NEW YEAR

BE SAFE AND MAY GOD BLESS.

Swamprat

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL.

A Merry Christmas and safe Holiday season to all of you!

 SSL

Staying Busy

I have been busier than a one armed paper hanger lately.  Seems Christmas always does that.  Got several projects going at once.  One of them is this holster and mag pouch for my Great Nephew, Tucker who is in the army.  Hope he likes it.

Merry Christmas to everybody.

Swamprat

New Spotting Scope for the Range

After weeks of agonizing research and consideration, I flipped a coin and ordered a spotting scope. I read review after review on umpteen web sites and am more confused now than ever. I was leaning towards a Vortex, the scope I bought is amazingly clear but the reviews on the spotting scope were not very good. I settled on a Celestron with ED (I hope that,s not what it sounds like). It was more than I wanted to spend but I can't see the dang holes in my targets and am too dang old and crippled to walk out there after every shot. Sue has started shooting with me at the range and insisted we buy a good one for "our Christmas Present," so I did. Here is what I bought, I'll let you know if it works out or not.

Celestron 52304 Regal M2 65ED Spotting Scope

The Regal M2 spotting scope series is the next generation of our top-performing Regal F-ED spotting scopes. Day or night, the Regal M2 is optimized to provide the sharpest images available. You’ll love them for bird watching, nature…

AMAZON.COM

HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYBODY.  

BE SAFE.

17 HMR TNT GREEN

Since California demands that all bullets used in hunting be non-lead in the near future, it kinda put me and Bill at a loss as to what to do with our 17 HMR squirrel rifles. Until now I have not been able to find any nonlead bullets available for them. I found some CCI loaded with 16 gr. TNT Green Bullets that are approved, Midway had them. I ordered 2 boxes to see how they would shoot.
The wind was gusting at the range today but I decided to try them anyway. I needed to... order more if they turned out ok. They shoot a little lower than the lead bullets it's sighted in for but all things considered I am gonna try to get more.

The first shot is at 50 yds. You couldn't ask for better. 

  The group opened up a lot at 100 yds but without the wind I think it would have been much better. 

I also took my 223 to check zero in case I use it for bobcat later this month. I can live with that.                                                                                 Swamprat 

USAHUNTER STRIKES AGAIN.

Bill went to Colorado and got his bull on opening morning.  At 74 he is amazing. 

He shot it with these bullets.  They are Barnes TTSX 225 gr. for his 338 Win Mag.  One of them passed through the shoulder bone and took out a big chunk of meat on the opposite shoulder and stopped just shy of exiting.   Barnes Bullets are awesome.

By the way, these are from the reloading bench of Swamprat. lol

BRIGHT NIGHTS

I've been getting up a little before daylight every morning (almost) and watching for the local coyotes.  One thing I've noticed the last few mornings, the moon has been full to about 3/4 this morning and I haven't seen any coyotes after a light night.  No rabbits either, there are usually a lot of rabbits out on the golf course early in the morning.  Not the last few.  I've always had better luck hunting early on dark nights, but never had a chance to study it.  Think I'll start a journal and see what I can learn from it.

Swamprat

Went out to where we say the bobcat yesterday morning to see if I could call him in . The area was full of deer hunters. A Pruis was parked where I was going to hunt. That's embarrassing. I never got out of my truck, for 2 reasons. One I didn't want to get out there and ruin some ones deer hunt (it's called hunter ethics, not many in California recognize or practice it) and two, I didn't want to get shot. I rode around on the backroads some and saw 11 deer, somebody should have had some luck. These were the only ones I could get a picture of. I saw one young buck that wouldn't have been legal in CA. Oh well I got to unlimber the Bronco and get out for a drive.

Swamprat

I read a good article the other day about the "Battle of the Pumps."
Mossberg 500 vrs. the Remington 870.

Personally, I like the location of the safety and action release on the
Mossburg over the 870. but I can't gripe about the service of my 870.  I am still hunting with my brothers Remington Wing Master
870 that was bought in 1955. I'ts still a work horse.
Here is the link to the article.  Hope it works.
Doug

 http://blog.cheaperthandirt.com/battle-pumps-mossberg-500-vs-remington-870/comment-page-1/#comments

SIMPLE THANGS

SIMPLE THANGS

By Swamprat

Sometimes I get so caught up in the rat race.  Always trying to get something or the other done or on the go all the time.  I forget how much fun the simple things in life can be.  That includes shooting.  The other day I got out the little Ruger 10-22 I bought and did all the modifications on a while back and took it and my 17 HMR to the range. I'm usually doing some kind of load development or sighting in a big game rifle and had forgotten how much fun a 22 can be. 

I  bought an older 10/22 on Gunbroker a couple of years ago, I forget I think it was made in the 60's, before the plastic trigger groups and all the useless "safety" additions the lawyers made them add to them.  Then I bought a pdf book by Roger Seher, at roger@dominateyourmarket.com called Performance Enhancements of the Ruger 10/22.  Man that is a good resource if you want to make one shoot.  I think I did everything he suggested in that book, it took quite some time to get it all done.  Then I bought a Green Mountain barrel for it and mounted a Bushnell Banner 3-12 scope on it.  I expect the new barrel and trigger work had more to do with the accuracy of that little rifle than anything else, but that little gun will shoot.  I can shoot the 1" center of a target all day long at 50 yards.  I've never seen the beat of it.  I usually take it with me when I go to the range.  I really enjoy it when a kid or woman is trying to learn to shoot and is having trouble with their groups.  I take it out, load it up and let them shoot it.  It's a real confidence booster when they can actually hit what they shoot at.

Anyway I took it to the range and was shooting it and a guy walked up and asked how I got that kind of accuracy out of it.  He bought one for his grandson and was really disappointed in it.  I told him what all I did (that I could remember) and he said he didn't want to do that much work on one.  I understand that but you don't get something for nothing.  I hear it all the time.  They want accuracy and dependability but they want it without any effort on their part.  It's too much trouble to reload and do all that load development, it shoots ok without it.  I understand that but then they ooh and ahh over my groups and wish they could do as well.  Kinda like the work force these days.  Somewhere along the way Americans have forgotten that it actually FEELS GOOD to accomplish something with their own hands.  I guess I'm crazy but that's what I enjoy most about shooting and hunting.

I wish 22 ammo wasn't so scarce because I really had a good time with it.  It's about as much fun as you can have with your clothes on.

God Bless,

Swamprat

Foxpro Large Bag for Callers.

I broke down and bought a new bag to keep and protect my Foxpro. I had an old FX5 and bought the bag that Foxpro sold for it and it worked great. But after I bought the Fury II and the FoxJack decoy the only way I could keep them in the bag was to remove the decoy everytime. That was a pain and there still wasn't really room for them. I found the new large bag from Foxpro and decided at first it was too expensive. Sue told me as much as the Foxpro cost I should do it anyway. I found one for about $40 on ebay, it was new so I bit the bullet and bought it. It may be a little bigger than it has to be but man does it have room and more pockets than a pair of carpenter overalls.. I put the caller with the decoy, the long strap I made for it out of braided paracord, my braided paracord lanyard with calls in the main compartment. It has a zippered pocket for the remote, and plenty of pockets for the charger, computer cable and the battery compartment door that you remove for the decoy (so I won't lose it.) There is a pocket with loops for shot shells and rifle cartridges. gps pocket and a lot more that I don't know what I'll put in them. It's made to carry across your shoulders and neck and has plenty of room for about anything you would need to carry to a stand. It might get pretty heavy. I am pretty happy with it. Hey Bill, I have a bag for you for your Foxpro.

Swamprat

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New Pup

When I first set the date to retire I decided it was time to think about getting a bird dog pup. It has been many years since I had the time to train a pup and it would be a good way to help stay in shape. Though I once raised English Setters and still have a soft spot for them, the absolute best gun dog I ever had was a German Shorthair so that's the route I went. I initially picked my pup out at two weeks and picked him up this last Saturday. The breeder insists on only original German lines that have proven themselves in multiple versatile/ hunting disciplines. This also results in substantial bone and muscle. I had not known that black/roan Shorthairs existed but soon learned that they not only are acceptable, but are sought after in many circles in Canada and Europe. Since I'm sort of like the old cowboy when asked about his horse's papers replied, "Hell, I don't ride papers!", I don't hunt colors. More important to me is bloodlines and genetics. All of the breeder's dogs and pups are AKC registered and hip-tested...that works for me.

First day home at 8 weeks.

SCHOOL HOUSE TURKEYS

Doug sent this along, he had trouble posting it.

My son sent me this. This is on the school grounds at Fort Ord. Ca.

Water, feed, nobody bothers them, and seldom over 80 degrees.  They also have deer on all the golf courses.

I never can seem to send attach pictures on the VHI blog. I kinda wanted to post this as an answer to your post on “To Dang Hot and Dry to Hunt.”

TOO DANG HOT AND DRY TO HUNT

Bill and I got out today and tried to call some coyotes.  Man it's hot and dry out where we hunt.  We started calling about daylight near some private land with a little water on it.  I did a interrogation howl and got an answer back not too far away.  I played with him a little and the last time he howled it sounded a little like a challenge  howl.  I answered back with one and thought he might come looking for a fight.  Never saw or heard from him again.  I tried every trick in my book and nothing worked.  He might have seen us coming in or setting up, or maybe he just wasn't interested.  We saw a few tracks in that area but nothing real promising.

We went back to the truck and headed southeast.  We hadn't gone 1/4 mile when Bill spotted something running across a field.  We first thought it was a coyote but on closer look it was a bobcat, a big one.  Bill's window was down and I blew a distress call from inside the truck and the cat stopped.  He watched us until we drove away.  Bobcat season doesn't open until October 15 but we plan to try him later.  

We made a couple of more sets but saw no tracks, scat or other sign at either place.  No ground squirrels or anything, it's just too dry.  No water except on private ranches where we can't hunt.  It was well into the 90's when we left about 10:00 am and we called it a day.  We had a good morning anyway but I sure hope this drought ends soon.  There won't be anything left to hunt if it doesn't.  

Swamprat

HOUSE COYOTES

I have been getting up a little before daylight and sitting on the patio.  We overlook the 5th green on a golf course.  NO I don't play golf.  Anyway I have been seeing a few coyotes on the golf course.  Much to my neighbors (and maybe Sues) annoyance I have been playing with them with an old Pee Wee CrittRcall I had lying around.  It's amazing what you can learn by just calling and watching.  I have a few new tricks up my sleeve, but mostly I've learned that less is more.  This morning I saw 5 coyotes, 3 in one bunch and 2 singles.  Soft lip squeaks do wonders.  I saw one that was about 400 yards out when I first saw him.  I did a real soft squeak on the critter call.  He stopped what he was doing and started looking my way.  I waited and he started coming towards me.  I kept quiet until he stopped.  Then I squeaked a little more but with a cadence like the rabbit calls.  He started coming again and I kept quiet and let him come.  Every time he stopped I'd just give him a little squeal and stop.  I had him within 20 yds of me......................sitting on my patio which is attatched to the house.
He knew something was off, but he kept coming. 

The others acted similarly.  They were all closer.  I gave them a rabbit in distress and they all stopped and looked.  Not for just a second either, those yotes stood there close to a minute, just frozen in place.  One trotted away but the others came closer and stayed a while, trying to make up their minds. 

Now granted these yotes haven't been hunted but I can't help but wonder if their actions were not kinda normal to what we could find in a place where we can hunt.  This is how I used to call before the electronics.  I killed coyotes then and think it will work now.  I may still use my Foxpro but I think I will try using it like a mouth call.  Less just might be more.

Swamprat

Just a plain old 243

I finally went to the range today and shot the 243 with the new Vortex scope.  First, I really like the scope.  It is as clear as any I have ever looked through and the adjustable parallex  really helps.  I never owned one before. I bore sighted it at home.  At our range we cant shoot at 25 yards, don't ask me but the powers that be have deemed it dangerous.  So I set the first target up at 50 yards and was about an inch high and 1/2" left of the bullseye.  I can't complain about that.  I moved it out to 100 yards and very few shots later it was zeroed.  The 1/4" clicks MOVE the point of impact 1/4" at 100 yards.  I had it set at maximum (12x) power and it delivered just like they say it does.  I am really impressed with the optics and mechanics of this scope.  As far as I can tell from one time out with it, I would recommend it.  But it's still early in the game.

The next thing I did was the load development with the 80 gr. Barnes TTSX bullets.  I get good groups with the 85 gr. TSX with 38 gr. Varget, so I started there with the 80's.  

Then I moved up to 38.5 gr. of Varget.

That was a little better but not what this rifle is capable of.  Like I said I had a hard time finding load data on the powders I had.  I wasn't sure how far I could go with the Varget so I stopped there.  I found data using H-4350 on LoadData.com.  It showed a minimum charge of 41.5 gr for 3159 fps and a max of 45.5 grains for 3398.  I didn't start out at the bottom, I know I should have but this rifle is solid and I fudged a little.  It usually shoots best at the higher end of velocities.  

I should add here that from my observation (for what thats worth) Barnes Bullets are kinda finicky.  A half a grain of powder can make a lot of difference with them.  I haven't read this but I start out on the low end and move up 1/2 grain at a time.  Somewhere in there you will find a "sweet spot" that shoots really well.  A 1/2 grain either way will put you out of the ball park.  So thats what I did.  I didn't figure flyers in the group size.  I am not the worlds greatest shot so some are 4 shot and some are 3 shot.  That's why I load 4 rounds for each weight.  So far it works for me.

I started at 43.0 grains of H-4350:

That's an honest 1" group.

43.5 grains:

44.0 grains.

44.5 grains

45.0 grains.

Sweet Spot.  Folks that top hole is 2 shots, believe me.  It's hard to show it in a picture but another guy at the range helped me verify that.  I'll probably never do that again.

45.5 grains.

It opened up.  Still not bad but you can see what I mean about the Barnes bullets.  This has happened with every rifle I have used them on.  Every time.

I still need to load some more and verify my results but I think I have found the right load for this rifle.  It's just a Plain Jane Remington 700 ADL with a synthetic stock.  I bought it at Walmart in Tyler, Texas years ago.  They had it priced wrong I know, I asked if the price was right and the manager at the gun counter told me they didn't price items wrong, it had been checked and rechecked.  It was almost $100 cheaper than one just like it in 270 Win.   I don't remember what I payed for it, but I bought it.   It has to be one of my favorites.

Swamprat

www.loaddata.com/

I signed up to www.loaddata.com again yesterday and found some new loads for Barnes Bullets that are not in the Barnes Manual or the web site.  I have used it before and had good luck.  That's where I got the load I use for the 85 gr. Barnes TSX for my 243.  I was looking for loads for the 80 gr. TTSX.  I intend to try the same load I use for the 85 but wanted another choice.  The problem with Barnes is that they don't offer info on the older powders most of us have on hand and powders are still hard to find.  If you don't believe it try to find Hunter powder on line.  

Over 90% of powders listed at Powder Valley are unavailable with no back order.  The other sources are the same way.  I wanted data on Varget, 4350, 4895 etc.  None available but Load Data has loads from Handloader Magazine articles from way back to present.  Plus from all the manufacturers load manuals.  It costs $30 a year but I think it's worth it.  

I started a links section at the bottom of the blog.  I will ad to it as time goes on.  If anyone has a site they want to ad, just email me.  I'll giterdone.

Swamprat

What about a back up hunting weapon. 

Here is a guy that is lucky.  Probably belongs on the 'Darwin' list.  But glad he's alive though.
 http://www.msn.com/en-us/news/us/man-in-serious-condition-after-attack-by-bear-in-Alaska/ar-AAeh9FN?li=BBieTUX

What should he have been carrying? I have a Ruger 41 Mag.  single action.  Being in California, the off the shelf all copper bullets aren't worth much.  They fall apart as soon as they hit something hard.
But aside from that, I think that a good Barnes hand loaded bullet around 215 grain SWC would do the trick.
Now some of my friends are touting the 44 Mag.  I personally think the the 41 Mag has a flatter trajectory, and more penetrating power than the 44, plus less kick.   

Any comments out there?
Doug

Forget Hell is right.  And we are letting thousands, more in all the time.  excuse me, not 'we' are letting them in, just B Husein O.

 http://dailysignal.com/2015/09/10/a-timeline-of-73-islamist-terror-plots-since-911/?utm_source=heritagefoundation&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=saturday&mkt_tok=3RkMMJWWfF9wsRohvaXPZKXonjHpfsX57OkvWKOxlMI%2F0ER3fOvrPUfGjI4ATcNhMK%2BTFAwTG5toziV8R7jHKM1t0sEQWBHm

FORGET HELL!!!!

243 Brass

Doing a little brass prep today. Gonna load some Barnes TTSX bullets for the 243. I have some TSX bullets loaded. When I take it to the range I want to see if the same loads work for both and if the point of impact changes. The TTSX are 80 gr. and the TSX are 85. BC is real close but only shooting will tell.

Anyway aint the brass purty.

Swamprat

GRRRRRRR.

After I ordered the Pachmeyer screws I found this one. It has a tap to repair damaged thread holes. It also says they are grade 8 screws. I might have been better off with it.I don't have any damaged threads but it might come in handy some time. Oh well.

Swamprat

Wheeler Engineering Professional Optics Fastener Kit

This kit is a must have for anyone that mounts optics or works on guns. Many fasteners with bases and rings are of inferior quality and can be easily damaged or lost. These Grade 8 high strength quenched and tempered alloy steel...

AMAZON.COM

RING SCREWS

I pulled a scope off my Remington 243 yesterday. Man that blue loc-tite really works. Too bad the tool that came with those Leupold rings didn't. I wound up buggering up a couple of the ring screws. I ordered new ones on Amazon, should be here tomorrow. I learned a lesson about torx screws, I got out my set from Brownells (yeah I know) and tapped a good driver down in the screws and tapped on it while I was turning. Just like a rusty bolt on a car engine.

I bought this set. http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00AU6COWQ…

I'll let you know how it works out.

Swamprat

Savage 110 trigger job by Swamprat

I want to start this by saying I am not a gunsmith.  This is the first time I ever worked on a Savage trigger.  Don't take this as a how to on anything.  This is what I did.  Work on your own guns at your own risk.

I got the Timney Trigger for the Savage 110 338 today. It was a simple fix, pop out an e-clip and pin, remove the old one, install the new one, reinstall the pin and e-clip and adjust. I wound up with about a 4 lb. trigger and a safety that works. I really like the Timney Trigger, it has a completely different spring configuration than the Savage. I want to get one for the little Stevens 200.

The old trigger had a long pin-like spring held in place by a retaining nut on one end, a small protrusion in middle of the trigger and a bigger one on the back.  It was held in place by tension.  A screw in the center of the trigger adjusted the tension.

The Timney Trigger has a coil spring that fits in the hole above the trigger pull adjustment screw. It is a lot more adjustable and works a lot better.  You lose the retaining nut and old spring.

The new trigger came with an e-clip and spring and complete instructions.  Here it is in the rifle.

The whole process took 20 minutes or less.  The front screw adjusts the sear engagement.  The one directly behind the trigger is trigger pull, the next on adjusts the safety and the last one is over travel.  It's pretty simple.  If I adjusted lower than 4 lb. I could bounce the recoil pad off the floor and trip the firing pin with the safety off.  It would hold on safe or the middle setting on the safety where you can still work the bolt without fail.  But if you dropped it with the safety off it could possibly fire.  No problem set at 4 lbs. or above.  Not sure if that's normal or if I need a new safety and safety spring,  I may try that just to see.  But 4 lbs is ok for a hunting rifle, at least I think so.

Swamprat

Check your Safety!!

Before hunting season starts,PLEASE, check your firearms.  I got my old 338 Win Mag out  the other day.  Bill has used it for years and I have hunted with it too.  Never gave much thought to it not working properly, it always has.  I decided to check the trigger and safety.  I pulled the trigger with the safety on, it moved a little too much, I pulled harder  and heard and felt the click.  Uh Oh!!  Then I tried it again, not pulling quite so hard this time and it held.  Then I moved the safety foward to off and the firing pin dropped again.  This aint good!

Savage says we are not supposed to adjust the safety screw on 110's.  This one has never been adjusted, neither had the trigger.  The jisem on the screws was still there.  I scrapped it off and adjusted it so the rifle won't fire on safe, that's a good thing, but if I bump it real hard on the butt pad on fire it will.  There is a lot of slack in that trigger and I am replacing it and possibly the safety also.  I ordered a Timney Trigger for it and am waiting to see what comes with it and how it all works.  I'm not going to tear it down until I get the new trigger.  I'll decide then what else I need. I may be able to adjust it all more but I have been wanting to try the new Timney Savage Trigger anyway.  I figure now is the time.

After that I pulled everything out of the safe and did a safety check on them all.  That's a good idea for us all.  Just Saying.  When I get started on this one, I'll update with pictures.  I may need some help.

Swamprat

Range time

I finally got the chance to fine-tune my Ruger #1B after replacing the old scope with the new Redfield Revenge 6X18. This was also a good opportunity to finish testing the new load I had been trying when the old scope died. Once I had sighted in the scope with another load, I settled in for serious work with the new one. Imagine my surprise when the first 3 made what looked through the scope to be a single hole. Taking a deep breath, I fired number 4...same result. Now we all know that we should always quit while we are ahead, but I sat back, relaxed and thought pure thoughts. Must not have been enough since, as everyone knows, there is always the shot that brings you back to earth.

Guess those things happen to keep us humble. Obviously this load deserves serious investigation.

SSL

The Old Man's Stand

The old man and his grandson slipped quietly through the dense brush at the edge of the woods. In the near total darkness of the early hour they navigated by habit borne of long familiarity; moving slowly and with frequent stops to listen intently to the sighing of the breeze and muted nighttime voices of the woods, towards the well-used deer stand by the creek bed. This particular stand location had been carefully chosen by the old man nearly thirty years before and had never failed to produce a deer. Consisting of a wild growth of brush growing to the edge of a steep drop-off to the creek itself, it was faced with a rocky outcropping that formed a natural rest for a rifle while concealing the shooter. All that was required was an annual trimming of new growth to maintain a quiet zone to hide within.

The overlook provided a mostly unrestricted view of the creek bed for a distance of a little under one hundred and fifty yards to the right and roughly two hundred yards to the left. Deer trails spider-webbed the area leading both to and from a cornfield a quarter of a mile away. A small brushy meadow across the creek and slightly to the left opened the woods and provided a convenient bedding place. The terrain and confluence of food, water and a safe bedding area proved appealing to does and their fawns all year long. This plentitude of does also provided an irresistible lure for cruising bucks during the fall rut. The attraction was so strong that the old man had always restrained from hunting from this blind unless there was no luck to be had elsewhere. The certainty of harvesting a good buck at this spot made it too easy, so until recent years it was not used until late in the season…and then only if other locations or methods failed to produce.

The old man’s health and stamina had gone into a drastic decline of late as years and tragedy both took their terrible toll. No longer could he tirelessly still-hunt for hours and miles on end as he once had. In recent years he had taken to coming to this spot even on the first day of the season. Here he might spend several days just quietly watching and enjoying the deer moving about and conducting their activities. Only during the last days of the season would he select a specific buck to take. In this manner he was able to continue to experience some of the old thrill of the hunt without dangerously exerting himself. It wasn’t that he would have minded dying in the woods; on the contrary, since the loss of his beloved wife a few years before and with little left to hold him, he could think of no better way to pass on than in the woods doing what he loved to do his entire life. What held him back was both knowing that his wife would not have approved of him deliberately taking senseless chances and a task that he had vowed for himself that had now come to fruition…the training of his only grandchild in the ways of the outdoors and true hunter. Over the last year, however, a peculiar heaviness seemed to have come to rest on his chest, with breath coming short and his legs always seeming to be tired; a fact he refused to share with anyone.

As they reached the stand, both stopped to breathe in the scent of the creek and surrounding woods. The rich, loamy fragrance of the damp soil blended with the warmly acrid aroma of the oaks and the sharp, clean scent of pines. The chuckling of the creek, water still too warm to have grown an icy cover despite the blanket of fresh snow, as it danced over the shoals and rocks was soothing and familiar. There was no stench of gasoline fumes or sounds of traffic and people. There were only the sounds of nature with its own fragrances. This was their comfort zone and retreat from daily life. Over the last few years the boy had come to learn to spend the bulk of each year looking forward to this time and place. For the old man it had become the only noteworthy landmark left in his life.

The boy was the son of the old man’s only child, a daughter. Though growing up loving to shoot, she had not inherited her father’s passion for the hunt. Wise enough to know not to press the issue, the old man had taught her all he knew about shooting and spent countless hours enjoying her company while just plinking at tin cans and targets. As she grew older, married and moved away, their times together became fewer as college, followed by her responsibilities as a career woman, wife and eventually mother, took up her time. Though a very good man and provider, her husband had little interest in the outdoors beyond golf, and distance had prevented as much association with his grandson as he would have liked. Upon the death of her mother, his daughter had detected the old man’s rapid decline. The devastated figure in the ill-fitting new black suit sitting at her mother’s funeral bore little resemblance to the strong confident man she had always depended on to fix anything or solve any problem. She quickly decided that her son should spend a couple of weeks each year with his grandfather in addition to the periodic family visits. She felt that it would benefit both; the boy was beginning to adopt bad habits and starting to make equally bad choices and her father needed a goal upon which to focus and look forward to for his own well-being. For the old man it was a lifeline thrown to him that involved a single simple decision; since the boy had early on expressed a desire to learn to hunt, it was quickly decided that those two weeks should fall within hunting season so he could properly teach the boy the skills necessary to enjoy hunting in a safe and ethical manner.

Moving carefully, the boy laid his rifle on a small bed of exposed moss and silently shrugged out of his daypack. Gently feeling around on the ground, he cautiously cleared the snow from the area and made sure that no leaves or twigs were lurking in wait for a careless foot to fall on them and create a noise at the wrong moment. Seating himself on a low folding stool he had carried in, he quietly opened the pack, rummaged through the various objects within and extracted an old, dented green thermos. The old man grinned fondly at the sight of that old thermos, a battered and faithful friend of countless hunts and stands. Stretching out on a weather-beaten and torn old Army sleeping bag folded on the ground, with his back against a comfortable oak stump whose massive roots rose from the ground like the friendly arms of a favorite easy-chair and his legs contentedly aslant downhill, he watched the boy pour two small tin cups of the scalding hot coffee, handing the old man one and blowing softly into his own as the steam wafted on the vagrant breeze.

The first of those two-week periods had been the year following his wife’s death. Still mourning and bitter with no direction left, the old man had hated everyone and everything. Despite his daughter’s gentle scolding on their frequent visits, he was neglecting his house as well as himself in the rage and grief of his loss. Totally purposeless without his wife, he was in sore need of a distraction and reason to continue to function. The arrival of the then fourteen-year-old boy partially filled that void and brought light as well as a purpose back into his house. The boy’s hunting education soon began in earnest with a comprehensive instruction on firearms basics, shooting and safety. Towards the end of that visit they tirelessly roamed the creeks and ridges with the old man’s aging beagle Spud, hunting squirrels and rabbits with .22 rifles. Evenings, the old man served up savory dinners of pan-fried squirrel or rabbit, potatoes and gravy to the proud boy. The seed of the pride of accomplishment had been planted and, with the proper nurturing, would continue to grow straight and strong as the years progressed.

The cold measurably sharpened as the sun started sending out tentative, creeping fingers of light to brighten the eastern sky. The woods slowly, grudgingly, began to awaken with the chirping of the birds and the sharp angry chatter of the occasional squirrel. A sudden rustling in the brush revealed a fat raccoon contentedly ambling back to its den after a successful night of foraging; his fat rump waggling like that of a plump old char-woman headed home from her labors. A distant murder of crows decided to noisily greet the new day with their harsh cacophony of calls shredding the still of the morning. The boy sneaked a peek at his watch, nodded to his grandfather and cautiously picked up his rifle. Moving carefully and with great deliberation, he managed to load the old Savage with barely a hint of noise. The old man looked on fondly as the boy performed the functions with skill that spoke well of both his training and commitment. There was a certain pride in his eye that the boy, when he had found that his grandfather wouldn’t be shooting today, had asked to use the old man’s favorite rifle, an old weather and care-beaten Model 99, .300 Savage rather than the shiny new, scoped 7mm/08 Remington that he had given the boy last year. Touched by the request, he had happily agreed.

The second year had found the boy and the old man spending virtually every daylight hour examining trails and tracks. The boy learned to identify the maker of each track and their habits. He soon learned to locate those wispy “buck” trails that usually paralleled the more common game trails frequented by does and fawns and to estimate the size and dominance-standing of the makers of rubs and scrapes. Long days tracking, trailing and learning hardened the boy physically and mentally. Tired enough to fall asleep over dinner each evening, he would yet be up at dawn and be ready to start each new day. An introduction to quail hunting kept spice in the routine while adding a delicious change to their diet of the previous year. That was the year that he sat for several days where the old man now reclined; eagerly observing deer drift in and out of the meadow and finally watched his grandfather drop a nice 8-point with a single shot. The inglorious mess of field dressing and subsequent care of the meat and hide were a revelation to the boy, but he attacked and learned each in its turn. The old man continued to heal, though the pain was yet a constant dull ache and he still often awoke at night crying out his despair and loss.

Placing the rifle carefully on “Safe”, the boy slowly positioned it so that he could easily reach it with a minimum amount of movement and noise. Carefully looking around, he noted the position of each trail and mentally reviewed his mind’s chart of the distances to each. Glancing at the sky he realized that an impending threat of further snow seemed to have developed with the dawn. Heavy gray clouds, pregnant with moisture, were drifting on the horizon. He grinned to himself; it had snowed most of the night before and he loved hunting in fresh snow where each and every track was new. There was also a good chance that the threat of new snow would keep the deer moving until later in the day than normal.

The third year’s visit was the successful culmination of the work of the first two. All plans and energy were directed at deer season. Nearly tearing up with pride, the 16 year old had happily received his grandfather’s early Christmas gift of the new Remington. Hours and hours of scouting, lots of shooting of the new rifle, countless strategies discussed and plans made right up to opening day. The boy managed to shoot his first deer that year, a fat fork-horn, under the careful eye and guidance of the old man. The boy needed little help dressing or dragging the young buck out of the woods and was as proud as if it had been a new state record. The old man had insisted on having the head mounted for him and it still hung in the boy’s room with the understanding tolerance of his parents. That was also the year that old Spud died. The boy had campaigned strongly for the old man to get a puppy to keep him company. Even though the old man really missed the old mutt, he was still stalling, saying that he didn’t have the energy to train a new dog; while actually unwilling to acknowledge the silent thought that it was unfair to a new pup to very likely leave it without a master.

The boy suddenly stiffened slightly as he caught a glimpse of furtive movement in the brush across the creek. Stepping daintily through the new snow, a big doe and two yearlings slowly emerged and cautiously headed for the creek to drink. Having quenched their thirst, they moved gradually towards the bedding ground in the meadow, stopping briefly here and there for a mouthful of succulent graze that still peeked through the snow cover while nervously watching for any signs of danger. They hadn’t even bedded down before another and then another doe arrived until it seemed that there was a steady stream of deer coming out of the woods. Interspersed with the does were a few spikes and a couple of fork horns, but the big bucks appeared to be hanging back yet. The boy relaxed and returned to watching the does. Just like the years before, the bucks would come in their own time. He turned and grinned at the old man. He would wait.

The old man watched it all with a proud eye. How the boy’s grandmother would have loved to see him now. And how much he wished that the boy had the opportunity to know his grandmother better. Thoughts of his wife had lost much of their bitter sting to be replaced with an illusionary sense of seeing her influence in all of the places so familiar to him. Memories that used to leave him devastated were warm comfort now, but there still were times he felt that he could almost see her standing just at the edge of his vision, almost as though if he could turn just fast enough, at the right time, he would catch her standing there with her gentle loving smile. He could still clearly remember her cheerful scolding that day in their kitchen about his habit of leaving gun parts on the kitchen table. As he passed her he had patted her fondly on the bottom. She had spun around in mock outrage, smiling and a spoon raised to swat, when he saw the sudden look of confusion cross her face and the light quickly fade forever from her lovely hazel eyes as she slumped to the floor. The doctors had all assured him that it had been fast and completely painless; that she had been gone before she even collapsed. He was infinitely glad that it had been quick and without suffering, but forever regretted that he had not been given time to say all the things that he wanted to say, should have said, needed to say; the things she had always deserved to hear but he had seldom voiced. He had finally come to terms with his grief and thrown his efforts and love into his time with the boy. There was no lessening of his sense of loss…only a softening of the devastating emotional pain that had been attenuated by his desire to teach his grandson. Once the worst of his grief had passed, his lasting tribute to her memory was to keep the house religiously cleaned, as she would have, and to keep everything exactly the way she had left it. But to this day, the overwhelming memories made him unable to sleep in the big four-poster they had shared contentedly over so many years, choosing instead to sleep in what had been their small guestroom.

A faint bristling charge suddenly seemed to fill the air, like that of the feeling just before an impending electrical storm. Becoming aware of the change, the boy slowly straightened on his stool and quietly reached for his rifle. Watching the slopes carefully, he could see nothing moving yet, but instinctively he knew without doubt or question that the time had finally come. Ever so slowly a dim shape materialized in the brush. Like a skilled magician’s illusion, the shape slowly took form as a massive buck strode to the clearing. Gazing regally around the edges of the meadow, he took in the does and younger bucks at a glance. His arrival was a primordial signal for the young bucks to scamper into the brush leaving the big buck the sole and undisputed ruler of all he could see. The old man’s eyes widened at the sheer mass and width of the buck’s rack, though neither he nor the boy took the time to count points. Without speaking, both knew that this was The One.

The boy slowly raised his rifle and struggled to bring the sights to bear firmly behind the buck’s shoulder. A faint tremor increased as he fought to steady the dancing sights on his target. Suddenly the old man whispered the first words spoken between them since entering the woods, “Relax, take a breath and squeeze.” The sound of his grandfather’s voice, so quiet as to almost seem like a thought in his head, calmed the boy enough for him to remember the basics. Allowing the rifle to gently settle into his shoulder, he let the sights slowly drift across his target as he smoothly began his trigger squeeze. Just as the sights crossed the big buck’s shoulder the old Savage spoke with authority. As if hit by a bolt of lightning, the buck leaped high into the air, staggered once and collapsed in his tracks. The spent brass case spiraled high, spinning and winking in the sunlight to clink musically on the rocks as the boy instantly levered another cartridge into place and waited expectantly. The bedded does had vanished like noisy ghosts at the sound of the shot, crashing through the brush in a desperate escape, but the buck made no further movement.

Looking over at his grandfather, the boy grinned and said “Thanks.”

“It was your shot to make or miss. You made it. Damned nice shooting. You go on over there and take care of him,” said the old man. “Think I’ll just wait here. Don’t believe my legs are quite up to that climb down and back up again today. ‘Sides,” he grinned, “He’s your buck. You shot him, now you get to do all the work.”

The boy laughed and nodded his head. Thumbing his rifle to “Safe”, he dropped lightly over the edge of the ledge and started sliding easily down the steep slope.

The old man smiled sadly to himself, “I remember when I used to be able to do that. Been a spell.”

He watched as the lanky boy forded the creek on the massive old fallen oak trunk that served as a bridge from bank to bank and cautiously approached his buck. Nodding in satisfaction, he fumbled in his jacket pocket for his battered old briar pipe as he saw the boy, now certain that his buck was down for good, carefully clear his rifle of cartridges and set it safely against a sapling. The old man watched as the boy made a leap into the air almost as high as the one the buck had made.

“He’s a 10-pointer, Grandpa!” he shouted, the sound of his voice echoing down the creek and across the clearing.

The old man waved back and made a half-salute with his pipe stem. Contentedly, he finished tamping the tobacco in the bowl, expertly cracked a kitchen match with his thumbnail and touched the flame to the pipe until it was drawing smoothly and to his satisfaction. Leaning back again, he watched the boy work as he enjoyed his smoke.

Finally he could come to this place without the brutal heart pangs it used to bring. The old man and his wife had often walked the little trail farther down the creek in the spring to look for mushrooms and wild flowers or nuts and berries in the fall. He seldom returned with mushrooms or nuts, but his wife always could find flowers or berries for the table and carried them home in her little blue wicker basket. He invariably grumped that he only went on those walks because she wanted him to, but neither was fooled. Despite his rough manner he had loved his wife deeply and had always enjoyed time they spent together no matter the activity. Their walks along the trail usually ended with a sandwich picnic under a massive oak on a little bed of soft green moss delicately trimmed with ferns that shyly crept to the edge of the stream. Those were joyous days of laughter, conversation, plans and love drawn indelibly in the soft gold, green and purple shadows of memory. They had always considered this their private place, secret and distant from the rest of the world, and it had held a special meaning for both.

The boy carefully unloaded his rifle and propped it securely against a bush. He then expertly rolled the massive buck onto its back and drew his knife to begin the task at hand. Having been well taught, he soon made short work of the field-dressing chore and slinging his rifle securely to his back began dragging the buck back uphill to the stand. Crossing the log spanning the creek while dragging the buck was a bit tricky but the boy made it and soon reached the side of the stand. Stepping around the edge of the rocky ledge he smelled the rich aroma of the pipe smoke and grinned.

“Mom would be furious and giving you one of her famous lectures for that right about now!” he laughed as he rounded the ledge.

The old man looked impossibly tiny, slumped over with the pipe lying on his chest and smoke still gently drifting from the bowl. On his face was a look of amused bewilderment and acceptance. The overriding impression was one of deep and utter peace. Instantly the boy knew that his grandfather was no longer with him; that he was gone, past cares, pain or sorrows. Gently laying the old man’s rifle on the ledge, he removed the old battered pipe from the man’s chest, carefully checked the side of his neck for any signs of life and then eased the once powerful body to the ground. Kneeling as if in prayer over his grandfather’s still form, he slowly leaned forward and kissed him gently on the forehead while a thousand thoughts and memories flooded over him.

 “I’m sorry I never told you before Grandpa, but I love you” he murmured as the tears began running unashamedly down his cheeks. “I hope you knew. Be sure to kiss Grandma for me.”

Tenderly covering the old man’s tired face with his ancient battered hat, the boy stood and looked around to see if there was anything else he should do before heading back to the road and his cell phone to call for help. As he started uphill he noticed the snowstorm that had been threatening all morning was beginning to close in with fat, wet flakes drifting gently down.

“Guess I’d better hurry. That storm looks like it could mean business,” he muttered as he set a hunter’s practiced, long-legged pace up the slope toward the road and waiting pickup.

Maybe, just maybe, had he looked a little closer and strained his eyes real hard before he started up that hill he might have barely made out a faint shape in the distance, no more than a vague fleeting shadow, a wavering outline only slightly darker than the brush, trudging slowly along the little creek bed trail into the face of the oncoming storm. Dimly seen through the snowflakes that were beginning to fall, the figure seemed to stand a little taller, straighter and gain in strength and purpose with each additional step. Just before the snowflakes finally closed in like a curtain falling on a stage to conceal the figure from view, the boy might have also seen a second much slighter shape emerge smiling from the edge of the brush and stand quietly poised, a little blue wicker basket dangling from one hand, the other held out in tender welcome. As the first form drew abreast, it gently took the extended hand of the one waiting. Together they continued side-by-side, step-by-step and hand-in-hand under a massive old oak and through a little bed of soft green moss delicately trimmed with ferns that shyly crept to the edge of the stream, and into the storm until the falling snowflakes hid them forever from sight, leaving behind nothing…nothing at all.

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