had any luck. When we were safely out of earshot, Buddy chuckled and said, “Your brother-in-law’s a good man but he’s god-awful with a rifle.”
I smiled. “He means well. But I can smell his deodorant from here.”
“I think that boy’s gonna need a lot of luck and one developmentally-impaired deer if he’s gonna come home with anything today.”
Buddy led me up a steep slope and along a narrow trail that skirted the ridgeline. We found a spot about a mile from where we’d left Jeff and Jack, on the opposite side of the ridge in a small stand of trees with a broad view of the valley below and the mountain peak above. Buddy didn’t have a portable blind like Jeff, but he did have blankets and a couple of sandbags.
“I don’t think we’ll get anything from here,” I said, looking around. “We won’t see a lot of deer hanging out above the tree line and those clearings in the valley are a long ways away.”
Buddy shrugged. “True, but there’s a deer trail just up there where they cross the ridge,” he pointed. “And besides, why spend all day staring at one dark patch of woods when you can get a great view like this?” He gestured to the east, where the sun was still low and red in the sky. Autumn in upstate New York is no less spectacular than in neighboring New England. The foliage was past the peak of color in the Adirondacks, but the hillside was still dappled with splashes of brilliant red, orange and yellow. We savored the last remnants of the season for a moment, as an unspoken companion to the hunt.
After a bit, I unzipped the soft padded rifle case that Jeff had handed me and withdrew the Winchester. Buddy whistled. “She’s a beaut – does that have the pre-’64 feed?”
“The whole rifle is pre-’64,” I answered as I examined the weapon closely.
“Was that your Daddy’s gun?” Buddy asked, hesitating.
“Yes.”
“Well, son, you don’t have to use that. You can shoot my rifle,” Buddy said as he inserted a key into the brass lock on his hard-sided gun case. Buddy’s rifle was secured in custom-molded compartments in two sections, the barrel separated from the stock. He removed the stock first and then inserted the barrel. A flat lever clicked down when he twisted it in place. I whistled.
“That’s an H-S Precision Pro 2000, isn’t it?” I asked. Buddy nodded, grinning broadly like a proud father.
“Are you planning to shoot deer or elephant?” I said as Buddy handed me the elegant rifle.
Buddy chuckled. “Well, maybe someday I’ll head out West and take an elk.”
I gingerly handed the gray rifle back to him. “I’ll stick to something I can afford to touch.” I turned back to the Winchester, which was my father’s most prized possession. I love this Winchester more than your Mother, don’t forget that , the old man said to me without irony the first time he let me fire it. I unzipped a compartment at the bottom of the bag and was relieved to find a small waterproof case. There were forty round-nosed shells inside and I examined each one closely for signs of rust or corrosion, but they were immaculate.
“Those aren’t thirty-aught-six shells,” Buddy observed, spitting a thin stream of liquid into a bush.
“No, this gun is chambered for the .375 Holland & Holland Magnum. I don’t think Jeff knew that,” I replied as I searched the deep pockets of Jeff’s jacket for the box of ammunition he’d handed me in the car. They were 30-06 shells – useless in the Winchester.
I stripped down the rifle on the blanket and cleaned the grease my father had used to store the gun off carefully with mineral oil and a soft cloth. I partially reassembled it and mounted the new scope, but left out the bolt. Then I got up and paced out a hundred yards exactly. There was a tree at the hundred yard mark, and I pulled my Spyderco folding knife from a pocket and whittled an “X” at what I reckoned would be chest height for an average-sized buck. Returning to the
I smiled. “He means well. But I can smell his deodorant from here.”
“I think that boy’s gonna need a lot of luck and one developmentally-impaired deer if he’s gonna come home with anything today.”
Buddy led me up a steep slope and along a narrow trail that skirted the ridgeline. We found a spot about a mile from where we’d left Jeff and Jack, on the opposite side of the ridge in a small stand of trees with a broad view of the valley below and the mountain peak above. Buddy didn’t have a portable blind like Jeff, but he did have blankets and a couple of sandbags.
“I don’t think we’ll get anything from here,” I said, looking around. “We won’t see a lot of deer hanging out above the tree line and those clearings in the valley are a long ways away.”
Buddy shrugged. “True, but there’s a deer trail just up there where they cross the ridge,” he pointed. “And besides, why spend all day staring at one dark patch of woods when you can get a great view like this?” He gestured to the east, where the sun was still low and red in the sky. Autumn in upstate New York is no less spectacular than in neighboring New England. The foliage was past the peak of color in the Adirondacks, but the hillside was still dappled with splashes of brilliant red, orange and yellow. We savored the last remnants of the season for a moment, as an unspoken companion to the hunt.
After a bit, I unzipped the soft padded rifle case that Jeff had handed me and withdrew the Winchester. Buddy whistled. “She’s a beaut – does that have the pre-’64 feed?”
“The whole rifle is pre-’64,” I answered as I examined the weapon closely.
“Was that your Daddy’s gun?” Buddy asked, hesitating.
“Yes.”
“Well, son, you don’t have to use that. You can shoot my rifle,” Buddy said as he inserted a key into the brass lock on his hard-sided gun case. Buddy’s rifle was secured in custom-molded compartments in two sections, the barrel separated from the stock. He removed the stock first and then inserted the barrel. A flat lever clicked down when he twisted it in place. I whistled.
“That’s an H-S Precision Pro 2000, isn’t it?” I asked. Buddy nodded, grinning broadly like a proud father.
“Are you planning to shoot deer or elephant?” I said as Buddy handed me the elegant rifle.
Buddy chuckled. “Well, maybe someday I’ll head out West and take an elk.”
I gingerly handed the gray rifle back to him. “I’ll stick to something I can afford to touch.” I turned back to the Winchester, which was my father’s most prized possession. I love this Winchester more than your Mother, don’t forget that , the old man said to me without irony the first time he let me fire it. I unzipped a compartment at the bottom of the bag and was relieved to find a small waterproof case. There were forty round-nosed shells inside and I examined each one closely for signs of rust or corrosion, but they were immaculate.
“Those aren’t thirty-aught-six shells,” Buddy observed, spitting a thin stream of liquid into a bush.
“No, this gun is chambered for the .375 Holland & Holland Magnum. I don’t think Jeff knew that,” I replied as I searched the deep pockets of Jeff’s jacket for the box of ammunition he’d handed me in the car. They were 30-06 shells – useless in the Winchester.
I stripped down the rifle on the blanket and cleaned the grease my father had used to store the gun off carefully with mineral oil and a soft cloth. I partially reassembled it and mounted the new scope, but left out the bolt. Then I got up and paced out a hundred yards exactly. There was a tree at the hundred yard mark, and I pulled my Spyderco folding knife from a pocket and whittled an “X” at what I reckoned would be chest height for an average-sized buck. Returning to the
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