#1: I'm in my twenties, I'm 40 yards from my first truly large black bear, middle of the day, he's broadside, motionless, and doesn't have a clue I'm there. I have my muzzleloader supported on a horizontal branch, I have the presence-of-mind to hold the trigger so that I can #### the hammer silently, I take careful aim, squeeze, and watch the bear charge off while a wrist-thick branch FOUR FEET OVER HIS HEAD slowly breaks and falls. I know it's the gun...I load and fire three shots that print a one-inch group right on POA. Can you say "buck...or bear...fever"?
#2: I'm in Africa in 2009. A blue Wildebeest finally steps clear of the herd 125 yards away. He is to be the ninth animal of the safari, which up till now has gone very well. I'm on the sticks, I aim and squeeze, hear the sound of the hit, and he takes off at Mach2, running across my front, right to left. I work the bolt quickly and fire once, twice, three times, and MISS EACH TIME! I claw at my pocket for more ammo and find that, for the first time in decades of hunting, I have no more shells...they're back at the truck, a kilometer away. The wildebeest stops after a hundred yards or so, looks back at me, and as I ponder continuing the assault with a pocketknife, he falls over dead. I look at the PH, a young guy who has been good for a lot of laughs, and he says, totally deadpan, "Nice shootin', Tex" with a Boer/Dutch accent. We laugh ourselves silly.
And the best: I'm twelve years old, rabbit hunting with my dad and one of his buddies. It is the first time I am allowed to carry the 12-gauge Ithaca which, shortly after, becomes mine. I have shot it many times, but I am now carrying it for real, on a hunt. The rabbit breaks from under my dad's feet, runs in a huge curve and stops 20 paces in front of me. I point the gun and pull the trigger without result. Ignoring the safety, I pull again, and again. Finally I yank the trigger so hard that I fall flat on my ass, with both of the grown-ups laughing. I am pissed, the rabbit is finally gone, and now I calmly disengage the safety, with the gun pointing straight up, and pull the trigger. BOOM! I'm lying on hard ice, the gun recoils into my shoulder which has no way to give, and it hurts! My dad calmly walks over, looks down and asks if I'm hunting or signalling for help.
Good times!
John
#2: I'm in Africa in 2009. A blue Wildebeest finally steps clear of the herd 125 yards away. He is to be the ninth animal of the safari, which up till now has gone very well. I'm on the sticks, I aim and squeeze, hear the sound of the hit, and he takes off at Mach2, running across my front, right to left. I work the bolt quickly and fire once, twice, three times, and MISS EACH TIME! I claw at my pocket for more ammo and find that, for the first time in decades of hunting, I have no more shells...they're back at the truck, a kilometer away. The wildebeest stops after a hundred yards or so, looks back at me, and as I ponder continuing the assault with a pocketknife, he falls over dead. I look at the PH, a young guy who has been good for a lot of laughs, and he says, totally deadpan, "Nice shootin', Tex" with a Boer/Dutch accent. We laugh ourselves silly.
And the best: I'm twelve years old, rabbit hunting with my dad and one of his buddies. It is the first time I am allowed to carry the 12-gauge Ithaca which, shortly after, becomes mine. I have shot it many times, but I am now carrying it for real, on a hunt. The rabbit breaks from under my dad's feet, runs in a huge curve and stops 20 paces in front of me. I point the gun and pull the trigger without result. Ignoring the safety, I pull again, and again. Finally I yank the trigger so hard that I fall flat on my ass, with both of the grown-ups laughing. I am pissed, the rabbit is finally gone, and now I calmly disengage the safety, with the gun pointing straight up, and pull the trigger. BOOM! I'm lying on hard ice, the gun recoils into my shoulder which has no way to give, and it hurts! My dad calmly walks over, looks down and asks if I'm hunting or signalling for help.
Good times!
John
