Life Cycle of Guns

Brigid waxes eloquently today, although today is no exception for a display of her considerable writing talent, on the subject of favorite guns and hunting memories:

The Old Man and the Meat Gun

It triggered a realization about life. Those of us who value guns and our hunting experiences go through a cycle, a dramatic arc in our lives, that relates to our relationship with guns. Some might miss the experience if they are privileged to avoid consideration of costs and their changing capabilities. But the lucky ones will know what I'm talking about.

I grew up in an apartment in a big city with what are still called "working class" parents. My father had a dead-end semi-sales, semi-management job that paid little and my mother morphed from beautician to receptionist to bank-clerk to receptionist again. They struggled and never seemed to get very far ahead.

Dad didn't hunt and mom wasn't too sure about a somewhat independent, head-strong boy who went from interest to interest and would eventually be well beyond their control. Along the way I passed through a stage of gun fascination. I never got over it. It was an inevitable outgrowth of the American culture of the time. We had the Hollywood cowboys who had the pearl-handled, nickel-plated single-action Army Colt six-shooter always at hand. We had World War II with Garands and carbines and Thompsons and the moral authority to make the world safe for democracy. When we played with our friends it was either "guns" which meant cowboys or "war" which meant guns. The most popular kid on the block was the one who could make the most realistic "bang" and ricochet sounds with his mouth then "die" convincingly.

I pored through Gun Digest every year and plotted how to save for a rifle. My first was a Beretta Silver Gyrfalcon semi-auto .22LR. I've still got it today although the stock fractured years ago and got repaired with my usual lack of craftsmanship. My second gun was a Ruger Bearcat, a .22LR six-shooter that looked like a Colt SAA left out in the rain that shrunk to half size.

When I decided I needed a center-fire rifle I dealt with the reality that financially I could only afford one rifle for all the hunting in the North America continent. It was a limit to deal with. I compared numbers and statistics, muzzle velocities and ballistic drops linked with foot-pounds of energy. I read about Winchesters and Remingtons and ruled out anything more exotic. I ignored sporterized military rifles. This would be the gun of a lifetime. A jack-of-all-trades that must master every one.

I bought the latest, greatest, be-all/end-all caliber, the .264 Win Mag. It was a pre-'64 Winchester Model 70 with 26 inch chrome-lined barrel (because the hot cartridge already had a reputation for burning up simple steel barrels). It kicked like hell and never was very accurate despite my best efforts. Eventually I killed an elk with it and an antelope as well. But that was 25 years after I bought it!

The cycle involves growing older and then with work becoming slightly more affluent so that my arsenal could grow. I still had a fascination with the ballistic numbers. I bought another Winchester 70. This one a remake of the pre-'64 called a Super Grade. This time it was .338 Win Mag. I'd get a head-ache every September when I'd put a handful of rounds through it confirming it was still sighted-in. The macho magnum thing wasn't working for me.

Soon I found a Tikka sporter in .30-06 at a gun-show. It had beautiful wood and a stock that simply felt good in my hands. A Leupold scope and it shot where I thought the bullet should go. A tack-driver that was a pleasure to own and shoot. Went through a sequence of 11 years of one-shot kills of deer, antelope and elk. It has become my meat gun. I haven't thought of taking anything else to the field except maybe for prairie dogs for a lot of years now.

I added a Marlin Guide gun in .45-70. Then a Ruger #1 in .22-250. Over the years I picked up a couple of shotguns; a Charles Daly O/U in 20 gauge and a Winchester 101 in 12. Shot a lot of skeet, dove and desert quail with them. Added a commemorative 1886 lever action as a collectible. Picked up an array of handguns including a Dirty Harry Model 29, a H&K P-9, and then a Sig P228. A couple of 1911 clones followed.

But the arc of a life continues. Recoil isn't tolerable and arguably pain in my recreation has never been a goal. I've unloaded the .44 mag. I got rid of the poor-shooting .264 about fifteen years ago. Recently I realized I hadn't shot my shotguns in 20 years. They went on the block. The .338 and the .22-250 are gone now as well.

I still love my guns. I think about picking something new up once in a while, but I know I won't shoot it that much. I'm ready for the revolution, of course and I've got the requisite wardrobe of proper carry-guns so I'm not goblin-bait. I've got my meat gun, the Tikka .30-06. Maybe I'll ask that they bury it with me. I dunno if a burial gun is allowed in Arlington. I'll have to check.

But there is a definite cycle here. It's one that should be appreciated and contemplated like a good life.