No, it wasn't The action is clearly stamped Cordite 43 270 Max 375EX. the rifle was put together by Alexander Martin Aberdeen. But go ahead and call it a 9.5 x56/57 if it makes you feel better
It does...it does make me feel better!
No, it wasn't The action is clearly stamped Cordite 43 270 Max 375EX. the rifle was put together by Alexander Martin Aberdeen. But go ahead and call it a 9.5 x56/57 if it makes you feel better
Federal still make the paper shells that have "THE" smell, one you never forget. My most used gun for big game is the 50/90 Sharps, which I make up with my own cast bullets, same with the 45/70 and 30/30, also use for hunting(though not as much) the .32/40, .38/55, and .45/100 Sharps. For varmints I really like the .218 Mashburn Bee, and this season it will be joined by a .25/20 SS. I have many modern rifles but don't consider them very effective on big game, this year I will have my Win. '95 in .303 for use in the field...
When i reload the Federal papers, they give off the smell, they still make them in Trap loads, hard to find sometimes and more expensive. The last bunch i bought must have been old because a lot of the paper hulls split down the side and I've never had that before with "papers". I don't think it's the powders that create the smell, I think it's how they treat the paper so that it doesn't swell over time.
They smell like the poplar leaves scattered throughout the October woods, and like the spruce bog you hike across to get there. They smell like the two ruffed grouse you carry by their feet in your left hand as you walk down the trail with your shotgun in your right. They smell like the crisp autumn wind, as it swirls beneath the late morning sun busily trying to burn off the morning's frost.
They smell like the sandwich and the crisp, juicy apple you stop to have for lunch before having to turn around for the afternoon's walk back to the truck. They smell like the cooling air as the sun starts to move over the trees and begin its leisurely descent. But most of all, they smell like the man who walked beside you as you did all this. The man who taught you and got you started on this endless journey called hunting. The man who carried the same single shot twelve gauge for as long as you can remember. The man who once accidentally dropped a slug into the chamber and still managed to hit a bird on the wing -- what a story that was for awhile, something that only the two of you shared. The man who, yes indeed, always had a handful of Imperial paper-cased shells in the pocket of his hunting jacket.
Yes, most of all, they smell like Dad.
God, I miss him.
Brought a tear to my eye reading that ... because that is exactly what the smell of those shells is.OMG i thought I was the only one who smell the shells. next season will be my 49year of hunting

They smell like the poplar leaves scattered throughout the October woods, and like the spruce bog you hike across to get there. They smell like the two ruffed grouse you carry by their feet in your left hand as you walk down the trail with your shotgun in your right. They smell like the crisp autumn wind, as it swirls beneath the late morning sun busily trying to burn off the morning's frost.
They smell like the sandwich and the crisp, juicy apple you stop to have for lunch before having to turn around for the afternoon's walk back to the truck. They smell like the cooling air as the sun starts to move over the trees and begin its leisurely descent. But most of all, they smell like the man who walked beside you as you did all this. The man who taught you and got you started on this endless journey called hunting. The man who carried the same single shot twelve gauge for as long as you can remember. The man who once accidentally dropped a slug into the chamber and still managed to hit a bird on the wing -- what a story that was for awhile, something that only the two of you shared. The man who, yes indeed, always had a handful of Imperial paper-cased shells in the pocket of his hunting jacket.
Yes, most of all, they smell like Dad.
God, I miss him.
I was looking through a book "Cartridges Of The World" (great bed time reading) and wondering if there are folks who enjoy hunting with some of the old gems. Cartrigdes that you can not find in a shooting store and have to load your own or hunt through gun shows and auctions fo find some ammo.
I have an 1893 Marlin in 38-56 I want to take deer hunting next fall.
They smell like the poplar leaves scattered throughout the October woods, and like the spruce bog you hike across to get there. They smell like the two ruffed grouse you carry by their feet in your left hand as you walk down the trail with your shotgun in your right. They smell like the crisp autumn wind, as it swirls beneath the late morning sun busily trying to burn off the morning's frost.
They smell like the sandwich and the crisp, juicy apple you stop to have for lunch before having to turn around for the afternoon's walk back to the truck. They smell like the cooling air as the sun starts to move over the trees and begin its leisurely descent. But most of all, they smell like the man who walked beside you as you did all this. The man who taught you and got you started on this endless journey called hunting. The man who carried the same single shot twelve gauge for as long as you can remember. The man who once accidentally dropped a slug into the chamber and still managed to hit a bird on the wing -- what a story that was for awhile, something that only the two of you shared. The man who, yes indeed, always had a handful of Imperial paper-cased shells in the pocket of his hunting jacket.
Yes, most of all, they smell like Dad.
God, I miss him.
This past fall, I hunted deer with a 45-60. Watched a doe go slowly browsing by, but I had a buck tag. Next fall, I'm thinking of hunting with a 38-72.
They smell like the poplar leaves scattered throughout the October woods, and like the spruce bog you hike across to get there. They smell like the two ruffed grouse you carry by their feet in your left hand as you walk down the trail with your shotgun in your right. They smell like the crisp autumn wind, as it swirls beneath the late morning sun busily trying to burn off the morning's frost.
They smell like the sandwich and the crisp, juicy apple you stop to have for lunch before having to turn around for the afternoon's walk back to the truck. They smell like the cooling air as the sun starts to move over the trees and begin its leisurely descent. But most of all, they smell like the man who walked beside you as you did all this. The man who taught you and got you started on this endless journey called hunting. The man who carried the same single shot twelve gauge for as long as you can remember. The man who once accidentally dropped a slug into the chamber and still managed to hit a bird on the wing -- what a story that was for awhile, something that only the two of you shared. The man who, yes indeed, always had a handful of Imperial paper-cased shells in the pocket of his hunting jacket.
Yes, most of all, they smell like Dad.
God, I miss him.



























