Bent Ramrod
04-10-2008, 02:17 AM
Well, after only two practice sessions with the Italian Sharps .45-2.6" Rifle, one to get a few representative groups and 300 yard sight settings and one to get 400, 500 and 600-yard sight settings, I attended the Bakersfield Muzzle Loaders' "Quigley Shoot" up in Kelso Valley. This was a bunch of various shaped steel targets at distances from 300 to slightly over 600 yards, hung at various angles and elevations to the shooting line up a windy canyon. Shooting was sitting off cross sticks, five shots at each target except the last one.
I had all kinds of trouble with the sighters (many fired at the wrong targets while the spotters looked in vain for dust splashes around the right ones) and the first couple of Record shots on the 300-yard Diamond. I barely could see it in the sights, and I hit it only once in three shots. Then somebody shot through the chain holding the plate up, and I drove the Shoot coordinator up there to help him rehang the thing.
This delayed the festivities long enough so our second relay caught a rare calm spell (i.e., breeze mild and blowing in only one or two directions at once) and I managed to hit it at least once more. After that, I seemed to get a second wind, got better with the use of the cross sticks and finding that little bubble of air in the level on the front sight. The Pig target was easier to see though farther away; that got hit with some regularity. I was in the second relay, which seemed to draw better conditions all along until the last target on which we got two shots. By then it was blowing so hard that spotting scopes were toppling, ammo boxes were overturning and the spotters' chairs were blowing away. Only one guy hit the 5 bonus point Quigley "bucket," I couldn't even see it in the sights, and my two shots netted nothing.
However, when the number of hits was totaled up, the Shoot coordinator and I were tied for first; since he'd won it twice already, he let me have the honor. (A shootoff would have settled my hash in one shot.) The trophy is a metal bucket with "Quigley" and a buffalo skull on it, which I get to put my name on and keep for a year. Also a buffalo skull medal with a ribbon to hang around my neck. There were at least 15 shooters out there, five or six with Trapdoor Springfields, and these did very well, even with the standard triggers and military sights. There were a couple or three Remington Rolling Blocks, original and Italian, one Browning High Wall and the rest were all Sharps replicas of one nationality or another. The shooters were all great people who made a stranger most of them had seen for the first time feel welcome.
That Pedersoli Sharps I was using was a totally different experience than the various ancient black-powder rifles I've collected and tried to get to shoot with the original propellant. It certainly forgave a multitude of sins on my part. I was amazed at how easy it was to manage, and how consistent the accuracy was. I'd be doing good to hit a two foot target at 600 yards with a modern rifle. Here, for a few shots anyway, I was holding off slightly and up slightly, and then back slightly and down slightly as the wind switched and swirled around, no time to adjust the sights for conditions before they changed again. I'd finally figure there was nothing else I could do to improve things and fire on my best guess. There'd be a breathless few seconds, then just as I was figuring I'd missed, the target would jerk, somebody would yell "Hit!" and if the wind hadn't shut down my electronic earmuffs, I'd hear the bullet hit the target. And I'd think "Wow, did I really steer it through the wind like that?" I got enough hits that way to at least be able to delude myself that I was a premier judge of wind, but maybe it was just the Paul Jones boolit from the borrowed mould that was wind-proof and duffer-proof.
There's something very soul-satisfying to have the gun go off, see the smoke clear, come back out of recoil, wait a few more seconds, and then see the target jerk and swing, and then a couple seconds later hear the "clanngg!!" come back from a third of a mile away. I've definitely got to do more of this kind of thing.
I had all kinds of trouble with the sighters (many fired at the wrong targets while the spotters looked in vain for dust splashes around the right ones) and the first couple of Record shots on the 300-yard Diamond. I barely could see it in the sights, and I hit it only once in three shots. Then somebody shot through the chain holding the plate up, and I drove the Shoot coordinator up there to help him rehang the thing.
This delayed the festivities long enough so our second relay caught a rare calm spell (i.e., breeze mild and blowing in only one or two directions at once) and I managed to hit it at least once more. After that, I seemed to get a second wind, got better with the use of the cross sticks and finding that little bubble of air in the level on the front sight. The Pig target was easier to see though farther away; that got hit with some regularity. I was in the second relay, which seemed to draw better conditions all along until the last target on which we got two shots. By then it was blowing so hard that spotting scopes were toppling, ammo boxes were overturning and the spotters' chairs were blowing away. Only one guy hit the 5 bonus point Quigley "bucket," I couldn't even see it in the sights, and my two shots netted nothing.
However, when the number of hits was totaled up, the Shoot coordinator and I were tied for first; since he'd won it twice already, he let me have the honor. (A shootoff would have settled my hash in one shot.) The trophy is a metal bucket with "Quigley" and a buffalo skull on it, which I get to put my name on and keep for a year. Also a buffalo skull medal with a ribbon to hang around my neck. There were at least 15 shooters out there, five or six with Trapdoor Springfields, and these did very well, even with the standard triggers and military sights. There were a couple or three Remington Rolling Blocks, original and Italian, one Browning High Wall and the rest were all Sharps replicas of one nationality or another. The shooters were all great people who made a stranger most of them had seen for the first time feel welcome.
That Pedersoli Sharps I was using was a totally different experience than the various ancient black-powder rifles I've collected and tried to get to shoot with the original propellant. It certainly forgave a multitude of sins on my part. I was amazed at how easy it was to manage, and how consistent the accuracy was. I'd be doing good to hit a two foot target at 600 yards with a modern rifle. Here, for a few shots anyway, I was holding off slightly and up slightly, and then back slightly and down slightly as the wind switched and swirled around, no time to adjust the sights for conditions before they changed again. I'd finally figure there was nothing else I could do to improve things and fire on my best guess. There'd be a breathless few seconds, then just as I was figuring I'd missed, the target would jerk, somebody would yell "Hit!" and if the wind hadn't shut down my electronic earmuffs, I'd hear the bullet hit the target. And I'd think "Wow, did I really steer it through the wind like that?" I got enough hits that way to at least be able to delude myself that I was a premier judge of wind, but maybe it was just the Paul Jones boolit from the borrowed mould that was wind-proof and duffer-proof.
There's something very soul-satisfying to have the gun go off, see the smoke clear, come back out of recoil, wait a few more seconds, and then see the target jerk and swing, and then a couple seconds later hear the "clanngg!!" come back from a third of a mile away. I've definitely got to do more of this kind of thing.