Molly
03-03-2007, 09:37 PM
There's those of us who never make mistakes, but I'm sure not one of them. I've had a lot of firearms experiences that - in hindsight - are funny, but mostly made me feel stupid or embarrased at the time. I thought I'd share one with you, and see if anyone out there is man enough to own up to his own blunders and flounderings. So here goes:
My stupidest / most embarrassing firearms moment was actually a series of misadventures due to a combination of youthful enthusiasm and a dearth of both information and parental supervision. Bear with me a moment while I establish the context:
My father taught me to shoot at a very young age. One of my earliest memories is looking up to the muzzle of a Mossberg .22 standing on the back porch beside me. Dad and I were shooting at some pop bottle caps on a bank behind the house - or rather we were competing to see who could come the closest to his cap without hitting it. I don’t remember learning to shoot.
My first gun was a .22 (S, L, LR) rifle for small game, entertainment, and for annoying crows - and to keep me away from my dad’s deer rifles. As I recall, a box of Remington 22’s sold for thirty five cents at a little general store about an hours walk away. And that price wasn’t easily come by either!
The crows in those days were no less intelligent than they are today, and it didn’t take long for them to learn the significance of my presence, nor the limits that the rainbow trajectory of 22 rimfires placed on the danger radius. They seemed to delight in cussing me from just out of range. I decided to surprise them.
I pulled the bullet from two 22 LR shells, pushed one of them up the bore far enough that I could dribble a double charge behind it, and very carefully inserted one of the primed cases in front of the bolt. In retrospect, I don’t think this increased the danger to crows very much, as the loss of accuracy from the loading procedure probably more than compensated for any slight improvement in trajectory. However, it made a most satisfying “bang”. But it left me with an unused bullet and a perfectly good case that I couldn’t see wasting, so I went to town and bought a can of FFFFg.
One of the paperback books I read extolled the (mostly fictional) adventures of Dan’l Boon - a distant relative, BTW. In it, a savage in a distant tree was making things rough on the defenders of the fort until ol’ Dan’l put a heavy charge (‘four fingers worth’) of powder in old Betsy and brought the distant sniper down. The author explained that the unusual measurement showed that the amount of powder was sufficient to fill the bore to the same height / length as four fingers laid across the breech. And thus did I learn the right way to measure gunpowder. I figured that if it was good enough for ol’ Dan, it were good ‘nough fer me!
Well, I decided to be cautious: I’d heard that some folks had been hurt when their guns didn’t take to reloads, so I only used THREE fingers worth in my 22. And it sorta worked, but I’d never seen so much fouling in my life! But I knew how to fix it, because I read everything I could get my hands on, particularly if it was about guns. And one of the things that I’d read was that fouling from black powder could be almost eliminated if you put a little smokeless powder behind it. And all I had to do to get the smokeless was to tear down another 22LR shell ….
Well, that rifle must not have been too good, ‘cause the stock cracked on the very next shot. But no real harm was done, because the rifle itself was worn clear out anyhow: The clip was buried in the dirt, and I’d lost the extractor somehow.
So I needed another rifle. And a summers worth of manual labor for a neighbor was prepaid when he gave me a really nice little .222 Remington and about a box and a half of factory ammo. Man! Those cases were HUGE. With all that power, those darn crows were in deep doo-doo now!
I don’t recall if I actually took any crows with it, but I do know that the ammo didn’t last too long, and I had to buy more. And I STILL remember going into financial shock upon learning that .222 Remington shells cost a good deal more than 22 Remington shells. Fortunately (?), the proprietor of the store took the trouble to explain something about modern reloading, and gave me a pamphlet from someone (Lyman, I believe) that showed how it was done. Seems all there was to it was to replace the primer, powder and bullet you’d shot away earlier.
Well, I had plenty of bullets and powder, so all I bought was a package of primers. Hurrying home, it didn’t take long to drive the old primer out with a pin, and to seat a replacement with the assistance of a gently wielded carpenter’s hammer. (Don’t laugh ... it actually worked!
For a supply of powder suitable for 22’s, I had all those left-over 22 shells that I didn’t need since my old rifle had worn out … and the same would supply bullets …. After all, 22 bullets were 22 bullets, and 22 powder was 22 powder. But having been duly impressed with the effects of trying to add more powder behind a 22 bullet, I decided to play it extra careful and use less powder this time. So I only filled the case about half full of salvaged powder from the 22LR ammo before I gently pushed one of the slugs into the neck with a pair of pliers. The same pliers served to crimp it lightly in place. Man, was it ever pretty, and was I ever proud! I took my rifle out back of the house and loaded it up.
I have been seldom accused of great intellectual brilliance. Sometimes I need to repeat an experience quite a few times before I really understand it and learn something. But that was not true of this particular instance. When I pulled the trigger, I learned an astonishing number of things in a time interval equally astonishing for its brevity.
I learned the value of ear and eye protection, from which I have never since strayed. I learned that there are considerations involved in gunpowder selection besides bore diameter. I learned that the pressure developed by a given round cannot be adequately predicted by the depth of the powder alone. And I learned that a little knowledge can indeed be a dangerous thing.
Well, that was all long ago and far away, and it happened to an eager, but ignorant, moon-shining, barefoot hillbilly kid who has since improved somewhat (I hope). Having been suitably impressed with the failure of pure logic unassisted by knowledge, I’ve accumulated a rather sizable library that fills most of my den from floor to ceiling. I have ammo cans of different bullet molds, I have file cabinets of different types of gunpowder, my reloading gear is probably worth more than my guns, and I haven’t inventoried my guns for quite a while. It’s just amazing how they can accumulate over 45 or 50 years: They’re like dust bunnies under the bed. One minute there is little or none, but just let a decade or two go by, and the place is thick with ‘em. But I only need a few more, and I’m about done.
Along the way, shooting has brought me into contact with some of the nicest folks I know - and not too many of the others. It’s been a trip!
Molly
My stupidest / most embarrassing firearms moment was actually a series of misadventures due to a combination of youthful enthusiasm and a dearth of both information and parental supervision. Bear with me a moment while I establish the context:
My father taught me to shoot at a very young age. One of my earliest memories is looking up to the muzzle of a Mossberg .22 standing on the back porch beside me. Dad and I were shooting at some pop bottle caps on a bank behind the house - or rather we were competing to see who could come the closest to his cap without hitting it. I don’t remember learning to shoot.
My first gun was a .22 (S, L, LR) rifle for small game, entertainment, and for annoying crows - and to keep me away from my dad’s deer rifles. As I recall, a box of Remington 22’s sold for thirty five cents at a little general store about an hours walk away. And that price wasn’t easily come by either!
The crows in those days were no less intelligent than they are today, and it didn’t take long for them to learn the significance of my presence, nor the limits that the rainbow trajectory of 22 rimfires placed on the danger radius. They seemed to delight in cussing me from just out of range. I decided to surprise them.
I pulled the bullet from two 22 LR shells, pushed one of them up the bore far enough that I could dribble a double charge behind it, and very carefully inserted one of the primed cases in front of the bolt. In retrospect, I don’t think this increased the danger to crows very much, as the loss of accuracy from the loading procedure probably more than compensated for any slight improvement in trajectory. However, it made a most satisfying “bang”. But it left me with an unused bullet and a perfectly good case that I couldn’t see wasting, so I went to town and bought a can of FFFFg.
One of the paperback books I read extolled the (mostly fictional) adventures of Dan’l Boon - a distant relative, BTW. In it, a savage in a distant tree was making things rough on the defenders of the fort until ol’ Dan’l put a heavy charge (‘four fingers worth’) of powder in old Betsy and brought the distant sniper down. The author explained that the unusual measurement showed that the amount of powder was sufficient to fill the bore to the same height / length as four fingers laid across the breech. And thus did I learn the right way to measure gunpowder. I figured that if it was good enough for ol’ Dan, it were good ‘nough fer me!
Well, I decided to be cautious: I’d heard that some folks had been hurt when their guns didn’t take to reloads, so I only used THREE fingers worth in my 22. And it sorta worked, but I’d never seen so much fouling in my life! But I knew how to fix it, because I read everything I could get my hands on, particularly if it was about guns. And one of the things that I’d read was that fouling from black powder could be almost eliminated if you put a little smokeless powder behind it. And all I had to do to get the smokeless was to tear down another 22LR shell ….
Well, that rifle must not have been too good, ‘cause the stock cracked on the very next shot. But no real harm was done, because the rifle itself was worn clear out anyhow: The clip was buried in the dirt, and I’d lost the extractor somehow.
So I needed another rifle. And a summers worth of manual labor for a neighbor was prepaid when he gave me a really nice little .222 Remington and about a box and a half of factory ammo. Man! Those cases were HUGE. With all that power, those darn crows were in deep doo-doo now!
I don’t recall if I actually took any crows with it, but I do know that the ammo didn’t last too long, and I had to buy more. And I STILL remember going into financial shock upon learning that .222 Remington shells cost a good deal more than 22 Remington shells. Fortunately (?), the proprietor of the store took the trouble to explain something about modern reloading, and gave me a pamphlet from someone (Lyman, I believe) that showed how it was done. Seems all there was to it was to replace the primer, powder and bullet you’d shot away earlier.
Well, I had plenty of bullets and powder, so all I bought was a package of primers. Hurrying home, it didn’t take long to drive the old primer out with a pin, and to seat a replacement with the assistance of a gently wielded carpenter’s hammer. (Don’t laugh ... it actually worked!
For a supply of powder suitable for 22’s, I had all those left-over 22 shells that I didn’t need since my old rifle had worn out … and the same would supply bullets …. After all, 22 bullets were 22 bullets, and 22 powder was 22 powder. But having been duly impressed with the effects of trying to add more powder behind a 22 bullet, I decided to play it extra careful and use less powder this time. So I only filled the case about half full of salvaged powder from the 22LR ammo before I gently pushed one of the slugs into the neck with a pair of pliers. The same pliers served to crimp it lightly in place. Man, was it ever pretty, and was I ever proud! I took my rifle out back of the house and loaded it up.
I have been seldom accused of great intellectual brilliance. Sometimes I need to repeat an experience quite a few times before I really understand it and learn something. But that was not true of this particular instance. When I pulled the trigger, I learned an astonishing number of things in a time interval equally astonishing for its brevity.
I learned the value of ear and eye protection, from which I have never since strayed. I learned that there are considerations involved in gunpowder selection besides bore diameter. I learned that the pressure developed by a given round cannot be adequately predicted by the depth of the powder alone. And I learned that a little knowledge can indeed be a dangerous thing.
Well, that was all long ago and far away, and it happened to an eager, but ignorant, moon-shining, barefoot hillbilly kid who has since improved somewhat (I hope). Having been suitably impressed with the failure of pure logic unassisted by knowledge, I’ve accumulated a rather sizable library that fills most of my den from floor to ceiling. I have ammo cans of different bullet molds, I have file cabinets of different types of gunpowder, my reloading gear is probably worth more than my guns, and I haven’t inventoried my guns for quite a while. It’s just amazing how they can accumulate over 45 or 50 years: They’re like dust bunnies under the bed. One minute there is little or none, but just let a decade or two go by, and the place is thick with ‘em. But I only need a few more, and I’m about done.
Along the way, shooting has brought me into contact with some of the nicest folks I know - and not too many of the others. It’s been a trip!
Molly