Eric's story about, "Getting Reacquainted With An Old Friend" in the Articles Section of the forum, really got me to thinking about an "Old Friend" that I hadn't seen in a couple of decades, and it's probably been 35 years or more, since we'd been hunting together. I'm talking about my Winchester Model 43 in .22 Hornet.

At one time we were inseparable. Our favorite thing to do, was to go up to the Carrizo Plain, and war on the Jack Rabbits. I could not believe how destructive that little bullet was when it connected with br'er hare. I especially liked the loud WHACK, at the moment of impact. Watching a head shot Jack doing the funky chicken, was always a hoot too. But alas, we eventually drifted apart. After reading Eric's story, I knew that I needed to reconnect with her, and relive some of our fun memories.

I decided to look her up, and put a hunt together. A hunt, just like the ones we use to go on in the good old days. It was really easy to track her down, because she was buried in the back of my closet. She didn't even rate a spot in the safe. She was relegated to a single gun, gun case, and a cheap one at that.

She had become the victim of newer, faster, prettier, more powerful, flatter shooting, more explosive, etc., etc. It wasn't intentional at all. It just happened.

She was the first center fire gun I had ever owned. I got her in 1964 for ten bucks, and it was love at first sight. The real shocker for me at the time though, was that a box of ammo was about $7.00 for 50 rounds. I could only afford about one box a month.

At one time the U.S. Air Force used the .22 Hornet in a special over-under survival weapon. I'd found out, that a local Gun Shop named Martin B. Retting had acquired a bunch of it that the Government was selling off as surplus. At $3.00 a box, I could double my monthly shooting. Eventually though they ran out, and it was back to the high dollar stuff. I was totally bummed.

I had stopped into my neighborhood Gun Shop, to get a box of the high dollar stuff for that weekend, when the owner said to me that he hoped that I was saving my brass. I told him that I hadn't been, and why would I want to?

What he told me next was literally a life changing event for me. He told me that I could reload those empty cases and shoot them again, and again. I was simply amazed. I had never even heard of reloading before.

That comment, would ultimately lead to a hobby that has spanned more than four decades, and many years later, would compel me to start my own business, catering to other poor souls with the same affliction.

He set me up with a Lyman Tong Tool to reload .22 Hornet ammo. This was just too cool. I love learning about new stuff, and this was the perfect new thing, at just the right time. He also sold me the Lyman Reloading Manual.

I studied that thing like nothing I had ever studied before in my life. He also sold me a can of IMR 4227, a box of Sierra 45gr Hornet bullets, and some CCI Primers. I can still remember, like it was yesterday, opening that box of Sierra bullets, and having my breath taken away by how shiny, and amazing they looked. Even today, I still get that feeling every time I crack open a new box of V-Max's, or Ballistic Tips.

I got my first ammo loaded up, and went out to the boonies to try them out. I was scared to death that when I fired them off I was going to blow up myself, and the gun. I remember ducking down behind the back of my car and holding the rifle in my right hand, sticking it around the right side of the car and pulling the trigger. It went off with a loud BANG, but the gun didn't blow up, and I still had all of my fingers. I was hooked. I realized later that I should have done it left handed, what with me being right handed and all.

Winchester introduced the Hornet ammunition in 1930. It was two more years before they had a gun available to shoot it in. They introduced the Model 43 in 1949. It was known as the "Poor Man's Model 70". It was chambered for the .218 Bee, .22 Hornet, .25-20 WCF, and the .32-20. She has a 24" barrel, and a box type magazine. From 1949, until it was discontinued in 1957, Winchester manufactured 67,617 guns in all calibers.

As best I can tell, mine was manufactured around 1950. She is now 56 years old. I got her out a couple of days ago, and got her ready for our vintage hunt. She's plain but elegant, simple but refined. She's wearing a nice 40 year old sling, a somewhat vintage Leupold 7.5X AO scope. When's the last time anybody has seen one of those.? It's so old that it has started to turn a plum color.

I have a partial box of Winchester, "Super Speed" 46gr hollow point ammunition that's 50 plus years old. I decided that , in the interest of keeping things vintage, we would hunt with that, and see if it still shoots and kills like it did in 1964.

The guy driving this outfit is even more vintage than the ammo, so I think we're ready to go. I stopped at a spot away from the area that I intended to hunt to get her sighted in. I put my target frame out at 75 yards, which is as far away as I can get at this particular location. My aim point was a green 3/4" dot. I was shooting from a portable shooting stand that's made from an old military tripod, with a platform on top.

With a 6 o'clock hold on the sticker, the first shot was a little high and left. The second and third shots cut the first. This is with 50+ year old ammo. I only have 33 rounds, so I can't burn much ammo sighting in. I adjusted the scope 2 clicks to the right, and four clicks down. I decided to let the squirrels tell me if she's on.

We get to the hunt area, I put in my foam ear plugs, and we start our sneak. The first squirrel we get is hunkered down on the top of a log about 80 yards away. I stopped, slowly put the rifle on my bipod, and looked through the scope. This was one fat pig of a squirrel. Since it was about an 80 yard shot, I held right on. At the shot, that 50+ year old hollow point seriously grabbed the fat dood's attention, and he lets go of the log in a stellar, and animated fashion.

At the report, out of the corner of my eye, I saw another squirrel dive under a stump at about the same distance, but over to my left. I swung around about 30 degrees, and waited. In less than a minute, I have a head and shoulders sticking up from behind the stump. I put the crosshair level with the top of the stump, and squeeze. At the shot, I see a large piece of the squirrel's head launch out into the grass.

OUTSTANDING, We've already got two volunteers for the days photo-op. We're hunting a draw that has a small creek running in the bottom of it, and lots of stumps and dead fall on both sides. Basically squirrel central. Before long I've got 6 squirrels on my stringer, and head back to my truck. The Model 43 is holding her own, and we're having a blast. I'm loving this, and the old girl can still get it done, just like the good old days.

I drop off the stringer, grab a fresh one, and head up another draw going in the opposite direction. I'm about 50 yards or so up the draw, when I see a squirrel run 15 feet up the side of an old Oak Tree and stop. It's hanging onto the bark, and is perfectly silhouetted against the green grass on the hillside behind it. I love these shots. I'm guessing that it's about 65 yards. I put the crosshair under its shoulder, and squeeze. The 46gr hollow point scoots out there and about blows his butt in half. He winds up a good twenty feet from the tree.

A little further up the draw I spot a squirrel's head looking at us from a knothole in the side of an old hollow Oak Tree that hasn't fallen down yet. I know that I won't be able to recover this one, but I can't resist a shot at a squirrel's head sticking out of a knothole. It was only about sixty yards, and we got nothing but net. The knothole burped out a little cloud of oak wood dust, squirrel teeth, and hair. SWEEEEET!

In between shots, the Winchester 43 and I were reminiscing about all of the good times we'd had in the past. I still remember the first pigeon that we hit with a hollow point. That thing looked like it had swallowed a stick of dynamite. There may still be feathers blowing in the wind somewhere from that shot.

The day was starting to wind down, and I wanted to get some pictures so we headed back to my rig. I took her photo with some of our new found friends, and when we were through I told her what a great time I'd had, and wondered if she might like to go out again next week? I said that we still had nineteen rounds of ammo left, and I knew of another spot that she might like. She said sure, why not.

I'm glad that we got back together. We're both getting a little long in the tooth, and it's been quite awhile, but we still know how to have fun together. She's quite the Lady, and a blast to be around.

Take an old friend hunting once in a while. The rewards are great, and the memories last a life time. - CT

I had heard rumors off and on for years, about an organization somewhere in Nevada, that specialized in ground squirrel shooting. Supposedly, they mostly hunted in Northern Nevada.

I was never able to come up with much in the way of concrete information about these guys, until one day when I was at the big Pomona Gun Show at the LA County Fair Grounds.

I was wandering through building 4, when some pictures of ground squirrels hanging from the back of a booth caught my attention. I was a couple of aisles away, so I worked my way across the room, and over to the booth.

The fellow manning the booth had a bunch of Sierra varmint caliber bullets for sale at pretty good prices, so I bought a few boxes. It was then that I noticed that he had some literature out for an organization known as the, "Amalgamated, Squirrel, Shooters, Western, Intermountain, Pest, Extermination, Society". Lovingly known as, the A.S.S.W.I.P.E.S.. Headquartered at the time, out of Gardinerville Nevada. Thus explaining the squirrel pictures.

With my irreverent, tongue in cheek, and somewhat warped sense of humor, I knew that I had to become a member. I seem to be drawn to things politically incorrect. A.S.S.W.I.P.E.S., the perfect thing to rub some anti-hunting liberal noses in.

I don't remember the exact amount, but I think a one year membership was about twenty bucks. Sign me up. I found out that one of the benefits of being a card carrying A.S.S.W.I.P.E., was that you got an invitation to participate in the annual, "Northern Nevada Squirrel Whack". For my twenty bucks, I would've been happy just being able to call myself a card carrying A.S.S.W.I.P.E., but to get to shoot squirrels too... what a bargain.

I received a memo in April, explaining that, this years shoot was scheduled for the third week in May. It laid out some ground rules, and made several recommendations for first timers. One was to be sure that you had a CB radio in your vehicle so that you could stay in communication with everyone else. The other was to bring lots of ammo. Three to four thousand rounds was recommended, depending on the length of your stay. SAY WHAT?

I thought they were pulling my leg. I'd been shooting ground squirrels in So. Cal. for twenty five years, and a two hundred round weekend was a seriously good shoot. I decided that they weren't going to get to snooker ME. I knew that if I showed up with that kind of ammo, they would point and laugh at the new guy and make fun. "What'd you think you were going to do, fight world war III?" Nope not me. I ain't falling for it.

The memo also stated that shots could range from ten feet, to as far away as 250 yards and everything in-between. Also, to plan for Jack Rabbits in the late afternoon. Hmm, what to take?

I have a matched set of Sako heavy barreled single shot varminters. One in 22 PPC, and the other in 6MM PPC. I decided to take them both. I also decided to take my .22-250 40XB, as well as a .220 Swift built on a Wichita single shot action.

I took two hundred rounds for each of the PPC's, and one hundred rounds each for the Swift, and .22-250. For the really short range stuff I took my .22 Ruger MK1 , heavy barrel pistol, equipped with a Leupold 2X handgun scope. I figured 500 rounds should be plenty for that. All told 1100 rounds. I'm thinking that should be more than enough.

It's about a ten hour drive from my place to Winnemucca Nevada, but it went by really fast. I got me a room, some dinner, and crashed. I was up bright and early the next morning to make the hour drive to the designated point of departure. The sun was out, and it was going to be a warm day. When I get there, about twenty five other A.S.S.W.I.P.E.S. had already arrived. One couple is towing a big red wagon behind their Chevy Suburban. On the side of it, painted in large letters, are the words A.S.S.W.I.P.E.S. WAR WAGON. They would climb up in it, and shoot down on the squirrels. These folks were real serious about this squirrel blasting thing. I'm really liking these guys already. I go through the meet and greet, everybody is really great, and very excited to get started.

There is another first timer there as well. Her name is Sheila, and she's a free lance Outdoor Writer. We decided to hunt together. We pile all of her stuff into my truck, and we all convoy out to the killing fields. The area we're going to hunt, is made up of several very large, and interlocking alfalfa farms. We meet the farm owners, get some do's and don'ts, do a radio check, get our directions, and away we go.

Everybody scatters to the wind. Sheila and I head down the road to the area that we were told to start with. As we're driving along the dirt service road, we see an occasional squirrel run across the road and go into the alfalfa and others that were coming out of the alfalfa and going into the sage that bordered all of the fields. This looks like it has all of the markings of a good time, but I ain't seein any reason for four thousand rounds of ammo.

One problem though, was that you couldn't see the squirrels once they were into the alfalfa. They were only about 5/8ths as big as the California Digger Squirrels that I was use to hunting. We come to the end of the fence line, and the road makes a 90 degree turn to the right. I make the turn and it's, HOLY CRAP!!!! ARE YOU KIDDING ME!!!

THERE ARE SQUIRRELS EVERYWHERE. There are hundreds of squirrels in view, and hundreds more where they came from. I had never seen anything like this before, and I have never seen anything like it since. These were more like lemmings, than ground squirrels. The ground was literally crawling with them.

We decided to stop right there, turn the truck sideways in the road and have at them over the hood. Sheila is shooting a couple of .223s, and Federal Factory ammo. The plan is for one of us to spot while the other shoots, and we'll trade off every ten shots. I have a moving pad that I throw over the hood so that we don't burn our arms.

We get the sandbags set up, and away we go. She kills 10 just as fast as she can chamber a round, line up the shot, and squeeze the trigger. In about two minutes it's my turn. I do the same thing, and it's her turn again. This goes on for about twenty minutes, and we decide that we need to get out a second rifle each, so the first ones can cool down a bit. I'm thinking to myself, "I'm hammering the crap out of the barrels on these rifles with this fast rate of fire". My brain responds with, "TO HELL WITH THE BARRELS, PASS THE AMMUNITION". Dead squirrels are laying everywhere.

The squirrels have laid waste to the alfalfa from the edge of the field on in about thirty yards, so we have a pretty good field of fire. There are hundreds of them going back and forth from the sage to the alfalfa and back. There are obviously thousands of squirrels in the area. It was a real frenzy. A feeding frenzy in front of the guns, and a shooting frenzy in back of the guns. For just a brief moment, my mind flashed on the "Memo" about bring lots of ammo. In no time, I had gone through a hundred rounds each of 6MM, and 22 PPC ammo.

At first we killed the first squirrel we got the crosshairs on, swinging to the next one just as fast as we could chamber another round. Then we started to get a bit more selective. We only shot the squirrels coming out of the field, because they had a gut full of sloppy wet alfalfa, and blew up way better than the ones going in.

Then we started going for doubles and triples. These guys gave a new meaning to the word cannibalistic. We noticed that they would bunch up around the dead ones, and start gorging themselves on fresh meat. Doubles and triples became common place. Given a choice they would rather eat red meat, than veggies. Then the game became one of only killing them in the road. The carcasses really started to pile up, and of course the squirrels that stopped to nibble got added to the pile. We've not even broken for lunch, and I've put a serious dent in my PPC ammo. Sheila is in great shape though, because she has cases of ammo that Federal had sent her. She's an excellent shot, and is racking up an impressive pile of squirrels. I flash again on the "Memo".

There are squirrels squeaking at us from holes ten, fifteen, twenty feet away from my truck. I make an executive decision to switch to my .22 handgun. I'm shooting CCI Mini Mag hollow points. I have five of the hundred round packs with me. I stick all of them into my back pockets, leave Sheila to her own devices, and head out into the field. I'm going to work on a part that's out of her line of fire. I've only brought two mags for the pistol. Big mistake, I should've brought all eight. The shooting is fast and furious. I'm burning through my rim fire ammo like crazy. I'm only gone about an hour and have gone through two hundred rounds. It was taking me more time to load the mags than it was to empty them. Nothing else existed in the world but me and the squirrels. Shoot one, and three more would pop up. Shoot them, and there's six more. Missed one? So what! Swing on the next one and kill it. They were everywhere. It just didn't stop. It was insane. Kinda like a video game.

I looked back at the truck, and Sheila is waving to me to come back. When I get there she say's the folks have announced over the CB that we're all going to meet at one of the ranch houses for lunch. I didn't really want to stop shooting.

Lunch was fun. Everyone was having the same kind of shoot that we were. It was crazy. Back to the killing fields. I decided to continue to hunt with my .22 handgun. In no time at all I'm down to my last hundred rounds of rim fire ammo, and it's only the first day. I go back to the truck, and fire up the CB. Breaker, Breaker, hey guys, I'm getting kinda low on .22lr ammo, anybody got some they might want to sell? No response. I fiddle with the squelch, and try again. Breaker, Breaker, anybody got some 22lr ammo they would like to sell. Nothing. Hmm, I'm thinking maybe I'm out of range or something when somebody keys their mic. and says. "Hey dingleberry, did you read the memo"? Yeah I read the memo. "Nuff said", click.

Ok, now I'm like a heroin junkie, I'm panicked. I need an ammo fix real bad, and real soon. I told Sheila that I needed to go into town, and that I'd drop her back at her truck. We get her stuff back into her rig, and I'm on my way. It's about an hours drive into Winnemucca from where I am. That is, if you do the speed limit. I made it in forty minutes. I had noticed a small Gun Shop in a strip mall when I first got into town. I headed directly for it. I bought all of the .22lr ammo he had on the shelf, and that amounted to just about thirty five hundred rounds. He said that a bunch of guys, a couple days earlier, had just about cleaned him out. It was a hodgepodge of brands and bullet styles but I didn't care. It would all shoot quarter minute of squirrel at twenty five yards, and that's all that mattered to me. Don't ask me what I paid for it. I don't want to talk about it.

"ON THE ROAD AGAIN", I made it back in time for a couple more hours of shooting. I was exhausted, and exhilarated all at the same time. Over the next few days, I only shot the rim fire. My thumb was killing me from holding down the little button on the Ruger magazines hundreds of times, as I loaded them. The the tip of my left thumb was getting shreaded by the sharp magazine lips, but nothing could get me to stop shooting squirrels. About then, I would have paid a hundred bucks for a thumb saver.

About half way through the third day, somebody jumps on the CB, and wants to know if anybody has any .22lr ammo they want to sell? I immediately jumped on and said, "Hey dingleberry, did you read the memo"? There are a few minutes of silence, and he comes back up and says, "Hey guys I'm going to make an ammo run into Winnemucca, anybody want me to pick some up for you? I jumped back on and said, "Don't bother, he's all out". He comes back with, "How do you know"? I said, Because some "dingleberry" from LA bought it all, " BWAAA, HAAA, HAAA, HAAAAA!!!

Late in the afternoon of the fourth day, I fired my last shot. I was out of rim fire ammo and didn't really care. As the results of our efforts started to show, the pace of the shooting had started to slow. Four days in the heat, sun, and wind had taken it's toll, and I was pooped. A good kind of pooped though. The kind of pooped that only other A.S.S.W.I.P.E.S. would understand.

I said goodbye to Sheila, she had decided to stay one more day. I got on the CB and thanked everyone still there for a great time. I pointed my 4Runner south, and hit the dusty trail back to LA.

It was the most intense shooting experience that I have ever had. It was four days of pure mayhem. Thousands upon thousands, of squirrels were exterminated. I was both exhausted, and exhilarated all at the same time. I was in sensory overload. I left there thinking that if I NEVER, EVER, see or shoot another ground squirrel in my life, it will be FINE BY ME!!

My Ruger pistol weighs 3.5 pounds with scope. I figure that by bringing that thing up to eye level for every shot, I had lifted the equivalent of five tons over a four day period, 3.5 pounds at a time. My arms felt like they were going to fall off, but it was a good kind of pain. I never fired another center fire round after the first morning.

About four hours into the drive home my mind started to re-think this whole thing about never, ever, seeing and/or shooting another ground squirrel in my life. But, like any junkie, I knew that I could quit anytime I wanted. By the time I got home, I had made plans to grab a bunch of .22lr ammo, a few more guns, and go back up with my son. Two days later we were back on the road to the killing fields of Nevada. I won't get into that story, because it's pretty much a repeat of this one. But, let's just say that we had a blast. Both literally, and figuratively.

What an incredibly exciting shooting experience. I never really knew JUST HOW MUCH FUN BEING AN A.S.S.W.I.P.E. could be. I do know one thing for sure though. It was everything it was cracked up to be, and then some. - CT

My hunting buddy and I had gotten the bug to try our hand at this predator calling thing. I don't remember the exact year, but it had to be in the late sixties or so.

I was a regular at our local gun emporium, and one of the guys working there had become a mentor of sorts. He would answer my many questions, and make suggestions for stuff that he thought would help me accomplish whatever it was I wanted to do at the time. Of course it always cost me some money to get the stuff that he was suggesting.

I mentioned to him, that my buddy and I wanted to try our hand at this predator calling thing, and what did he suggest in the way of stuff to get us started? Well, his face lit up, and he said that he loved predator calling, and that he would be happy to take us with him, and show us the ropes. Well, I'm pumped because it just doesn't get any better than this.

We made plans to go on a hunt with him in two weeks. Man were we excited. I loaded up a couple a hundred rounds for my Remington 700 BDL, .222 Rem Mag, and my buddy did the same for his Remington 700 ADL .222 Rem. We had visions of huge piles of dead predators. Hey we'd never done this before, and we were greener than goose squirt in the spring.

We discussed whether we should maybe skin em out, and save the hides. Maybe try and sell them to some store in Beverly Hills that would make some really bitchin, and expensive coats and stuff out of em. We decided that there were probably going to be way to many carcasses to deal with on this first trip, but maybe we'd do that on the next trip, because we'd be experts by then, and we'd really be selective, and only shoot the really nice looking ones, and get rich.

We talked about fields of fire, ( my buddy's a former Force Recon Marine), and what we'd do if we got over run. We decided that we should probably each carry a handgun too. Just in case.

Well about three days before the Saturday that we were supposed to go on this great predator whacking adventure, my gun shop mentor guy calls me, and says he can't make it, but he'll let us use his stuff, and he'll even give us a map of where to go. We were a little disappointed, but we decided to give it a try on our own. I mean how hard can it be? Not only that, since he wouldn't be there, it just meant more shooting for us. We wondered if we should maybe load some more ammo.

He said that he used a battery operated record player with a 45 rpm record, that mimicked the sounds of a rabbit getting the crap chewed out of it by a wily coyote. He said that we should be on our toes, because it really brought the critters a runnin. He said that he'd leave it in a box on his back porch, and that we could pick it up on our way out of town.

The place that he gave us a map to, was about a two hour drive north of Los Angeles, where we lived. We left my house at 0330 hours, made a quick stop to pick up the record player, and we were on our way.

We get to the hunt area right at the crack of dawn. He had given me some pointers on what to do. So we hide the truck, and walk quietly down the road a couple a hundred yards to an area that we decide will be our first stand. The real reason we decided to call from that spot, was because the damned record player was heavy, and we decided that we had humped it about far enough. We were dealing with a bunch of dumb animals anyway, and how hard can it be?

We decide to place the record player so the sound from it will go directly down the road. That way the hoards of critters will come running right up the middle of the road. I'm thinking that it's almost unfair. I decided to pull up both my shirt and jacket collar's, because the cool wind is blowing against the back of my neck, and I don't want to get a chill.

We double check our equipment. Full loads in our rifles, with easy access to more ammo when we need it. Just in case we get overrun, our handguns are loaded and ready.

I slip out into the road with the record player and dig the record out from the lid, I put it on the turn table, drop the tonearm, hit the power/volume control, turn it up about half way, and dash back to where my buddy is sitting. Every one of our senses is on max alert.

I'm wondering if we'll need to pull some of the dead critters out of the road and into the brush, so they won't scare off any late arrivals, when this thing starts in with, SCREEEECH, SQUAAAAALLLL, SCREAAAMMM, SNOOOORTTT, WHEEEZ, SCREEECH. We both flinched when it started up, and it's about all I can do to not start laughing out loud. I must have turned it up way past half volume, because it is REALLY, REALLY loud.

BUT THEN!!!!!! WE ALMOST CRAPPED OURSELVES BECAUSE, about 20 seconds into the screaming and squalling, somebody yells out, HELLO!!!! I'M JOHNNY STEWART, AND YOU ARE LISTENING TO MY RECORD ABOUT PREDATOR CALLING. BY THE TIME YOU HAVE FINISHED LISTENING TO THIS RECORD, YOU TOO WILL BE AN EXPERT PREDATOR CALLER. After our nerves calmed down some, we both kinda sheepishly, and instinctively, looked around to see if anybody was watching. We then, pretty much decided that there probably weren't any predators around there anyhow, since the record had been playing for at least 20 seconds before the "INCIDENT", and neither one of us had seen so much as one critter. I wonder if FoxPro would consider offering a similar feature? HOW HARD CAN IT BE?

Oh, I forgot to mention that there were two records in the lid, but leave it to me to grab the wrong one. Murphy was alive and well back then too. - CT

There are a few firsts in life, that a guy just never forgets. His first car...the first ever kiss from his first ever girlfriend...his very first piece of..................property, and in my case, my first varmint rifle, and the first varmint I took with it.

Now you've gotta remember that I didn't know as much about this stuff back then as I do now. If I had, I would've made some very different choices.

I'm not sure how, but I think this all got started with reading articles in Outdoor Magazines about varmint hunting. Somewhere along the way, I got the bug to become a varmint hunter.

It took me quite some time to save up enough money for the rifle that I wanted, and I kept going back and forth between getting a lever action, or a pump action. Hey, I said, that if I knew then what I know now, I would've made a few different choices. I finally settled on the lever gun. Mostly because it was a few bucks less.

Optics were never even a consideration because it was a real stretch for me financially to even buy the gun and some ammo. I would be doin my varmint hunting over open sights. At least at first.

I had to special order the rifle, because my local gun emporium at the time, didn't stock the one I wanted.

It finally came in, and I was very pleased and impressed. To my eyes, the fit and finish were flawless. The stock was beautiful, and the metal work was perfect. I could hardly wait for the weekend, and a chance to sight her in.

Saturday finally rolled around, and I got a chance to put a few rounds through her bore. Wow! What a nice shooter. The sound and feel of the action, as I jacked that first round into her chamber, was exciting. She was shooting a little low and left, but a few clicks of windage and elevation, and we were dead on.

In my travels around the area, I had found a location where there was a lot of critter scat. This would be my place of choice to set up for my first ever varmint hunt. I knew that my quarry mostly hunted at night, and that I'd have to hunt over bait, and from a blind.

I would also need some way to illuminate the critter when I thought it was on the bait. I built my blind so as to have an unobstructed view of the limb to which the bait would be tied. I easily solved the illumination issue by taping a flashlight to the side of the barrel and magazine tube, just in front of the fore end piece. From there, my hand could easily reach the on/off switch.

LET THE GAMES BEGIN! I tied the bait to a branch that would give me a clear shot. I excitedly slipped into my blind, and wondered if I'd have any takers. I jacked a round into the chamber, and sat back to wait. I tried to sit absolutely motionless, with my breathing very shallow, and quiet. The air was dead calm. I was straining to hear even the slightest sound that would tell me something was approaching the bait.

I started thinking about the shot I'd have to make, and knowing that at the distance I was dealing with, I'd have to hold a little high to allow for some drop. I sure didn't want to miss low. I couldn't believe how quiet it had gotten.

I had been in the blind about 30 minutes, and hadn't heard a sound. Hmm, maybe I'd picked the wrong place at the wrong time. I was thinking about leaving, and trying another time, when a slight sound caught my attention. Just a light rustle at first. Then louder and closer. It was coming in from my right, and sounded like it was headed right for the bait. My heart started to race, and my hands quivered slightly.

C'mon guy, get a hold of yourself. The anticipation was killing me, but I forced myself to be patient. I could tell by the rustling sound of leaves, that he was on the bait. It was hard to do, but I forced myself to wait a little longer. I wanted to be sure he was thoroughly engrossed in gorging himself on the bait, before I hit the light.

SHOW TIME! My thumb slid up to the on/off switch. As I slowly brought the rifle up to my shoulder, I put my cheek on the comb of the stock and hit the switch. What a sight. This bad boy was fully illuminated. He looks right into the light, and I can see his teeth as he chews on a chunk of the bait. I was surprised to see how big and shiny his eyes looked.

I put the front sight just behind his shoulder, held a tad high, and squeezed. I wasn't even aware of the gun going off, but I could tell he was hit, and hit hard. The shot knocked him off the limb the bait was tied to. He hit the ground hard and rolled on his back. There were a few out of sync, involuntary jerks and kicks, then he lay still. I realized that I'd been holding my breath, and it was ok to breath now.

I kept the light trained on him the entire time. I could see a trickle of blood running down his side from the entrance wound. I thought I'd wait a few minutes before approaching, just to be sure he was really dead. I jacked another round into the chamber just in case.

After a bit, I decided it was safe to slip out of my blind, venture closer, and take a look at my first ever varmint trophy. I didn't want this bad boy to jump up and run off on me, so I put another round into him at close range. I reached out, and poked him with the muzzle of my rifle. Not so much as a quiver.

As I'm looking down at my first ever varmint, I'm thinking about all of the effort and sweat I had put into earning the money that enabled me to buy my varmint rifle. The success of this hunt had made all of the hard work worthwhile. Waiting for the rifle, scouting for a suitable hunt area, planning for the hunt, building my blind, and the shot that collected my first ever varmint, was an incredible experience.

I stood in the quiet darkness for a minute, savoring my success. I then turned around, and flipped the switch on the wall that turned the lights on in the basement. I looked at my Daisy Red Ryder BB gun, and knew I was one lucky 12 year old, and the rifle in my hands, was one mean killin machine. It was worth every penny of the $11.00 that it had cost me. As far as I was concerned, the field mouse that lay stretched out on the basement floor, might as well have been an African Leopard. In my mind it was.

I looked over my setup to see if I might change anything for next time. I decided, if it ain't broke don't fix it. I knew that the big woodpile in the basement had quite a few field mice living in it, and should be a target rich environment. I had broken off a small branch from our cherry tree, and stuck it into the side of the woodpile. Any interested mouse would have to venture out onto the limb, and into my line of fire, to get to the big piece of cheese that was tied to the end of it. The plan worked to perfection.

Something that was really cool, and I had not expected to see, was the flight of the BB as it arched across the basement, and connected with br'er mouse. The beam of the flashlight lit up the trailing edge of the shiny BB as it twinkled all the way across the room, and right into br'er mouse's boiler room.

One of the coolest sounds ever, is the sound BBs make as they are being poured into the tubular magazine of a Daisy Red Ryder BB gun. That sound is a sure sign that the next varmint hunt is about to begin.

My Daisy Red Ryder was a constant companion for several years. Together, we collected many more trophy field mice out of that woodpile. The adventures I had with that little gun taught me a lot about nature, the out-of-doors, hunting, and myself. That little rifle started me on a 40 plus year journey into the wonderful world of varmint hunters, varmint rifles, and varmint hunting.

That exciting journey is still underway today, and I can hardly wait to get up to the ranch next week, and be 12 years old again. Thank you Daisy. Life is good. - CT

I had gone out to the desert one day with my Ruger M77, 220 Swift, to liberate some of the ground squirrels, but when I got there, the wind was blowing about 30 mph. Well crappola! I decide that since I had come all that way, I would head over the Fairmont Inn, and grab me some lunch.

The Fairmont Inn was out in the middle of nowhere, and run by an old guy and his wife. They lived in the back, and sold burgers, fried chicken, and such out of the front. It was literally the only place to eat for miles around. I had been there many times over the years.

I walk in and grab me a stool at the counter. The lady asks me what brings me out there on such a windy day. I said that I had come out to shoot ground squirrels, but it was way too windy, and they weren't out.

Also sitting at the counter, a half dozen seats to my left is this older guy, sipping on a beer. He turns to me and says, "so you like shootin squirrels eh?"

I told him oh yeah, and that I had been doing it for many years. He says that he has a Turkey Ranch, and he sure could use some help, because he is being over run with ground squirrels, and they are getting fat as pigs eating the turkey's food. I just hate it when a total stranger volunteers information like that. YEAH RIGHT!

He said he was a little concerned that shooting around the turkey's might spook em, and also what about the equipment getting damaged from ricochets etc.

Man, my pea brain is working over time now, trying to figure out a way to take advantage of this opportunity.

Suddenly the light bulb screws in a couple a more turns, and lights up with an idea. Well, How about if I shoot em with an air gun? He looks at me like I'm an idiot, and says, "No BB gun is going to kill these things".

I told him that I wasn't talking about a BB gun. That I was talking about Feinwerkbau pellet guns, and that they would no doubt kill em.

Anyway I got his number, and he gave me permission to come out to the ranch and see what I could do with my "BB" guns. He left shaking his head, and I know he's thinking, gonna kill em with a "BB" gun, yeah right.

One of the rifles is a Feinwerkbau F-124 spring airgun, that pushed a 177 pellet at about 850 fps. The other one is a Feinwerkbau 300, Match Grade, totally recoiless airgun, that pushes a pellet at about 650 fps. It's a sporterized version of their Olympic Competition Model of the time. The accuracy is one hole at 10 meters. It would literally put 5 pellets, one on top of the other at 10 meters. At 20 meters it was starting to open up a bit. I wouldn't shoot a squirrel past that range. They both have 3X9 airgun scopes on them.

I get out to his ranch for my first visit, and it was something to see. He had two different areas for the turkeys. One was in a large building for the chicks, and the other was a large screened in, and mesh covered pen outside for the more mature birds. We are talking really large enclosures, and thousands of birds.

The squirrels had dug burrows all around and under the foundation of the building, and under every fence post around the outdoor pen. Talk about a target rich environment. There were squirrels everywhere, and the best was yet to come. I thought I was going to wet my pants. tongue.gif

The real kicker here, was the automatic feeders, that gave food to the turkeys in the outdoor pen. They were on timers, and when those things came on it was like a dinner bell to the squirrels. They came pouring out of every hole , headed right for the conveyer belts, and started feeding themselves right along side the turkeys.

Man, I can get them going and coming. It was like a shooting gallery. I quickly switched from the F-124, to the F-300 recoiless, so that I could see the pellet impact the squirrels. I found out right away that head shots were the only way to go. With body shots they would make it down a nearby hole. With the head shots, they either just dropped in their tracks, or did the fish out of water routine. laugh.gif

That first day I killed over two hundred, and when I showed him a couple three trash bags full of squirrels, he was speechless. Then he gets a big grin on his face, and wants to know if I can come back the next day.

I couldn't, but I was there every Saturday for a couple of months. Killed well over two thousand squirrels with my "BB" gun.

It got to the point where it became a spectator sport for him and one of his helpers. They would pull up a couple of folding chairs in the shade of the building, and watch me doin my thing.

Every time one of the squirrels would do the trout out of water routine, he would just shake his head, and flash me a thumbs up and this huge grin.

He really liked the shots where the squirrels head was just sticking out of a hole, and I would put a pellet just in front of its ear, or through the eye. It would drop out of sight in the hole, but a few seconds later, as the back legs of a head shot squirrel started kicking like crazy, it would re-appear, do some endos and a couple of back flips, then lay on the ground in front of the burrow, and with a couple of cranks of its tail, wave goodbye.

Man, I would have paid him to let me shoot there. It was definitely a once in a lifetime deal. What a hoot.

I still have those two airguns, and I know of a canyon on the ranch where 15 or 20 yard shots are pretty common. I think I'll break out the airguns next time, and go for a stroll.

I get so wound up in shooting my varmint rifles, that I forget how much fun the airguns can be. - CT

I use to take an annual pilgrimage to Wyoming to shoot prairie dogs. It's a long haul from LA to eastern Wyoming, so over the years I had located some other places along the way to stop and blow-up a few weed mules.

I had a place outside of Green River that had some white tailed prairie dogs on it, and made for a good days shoot. Now, the white tailed dog towns of western Wyoming are far less densely populated, than the black tailed dog towns of eastern Wyoming, and it's more of a hunt than a shoot.

When approaching the town, you were up on a plateau, but the town itself was down in a basin, a hundred feet or so below the rim of the plateau. These guys were a little skitish, so over the years I had learned to park back from the rim, and low crawl up to the edge, and shoot down on them, taking them by surprise.

Well this particular time, I low crawl up to the rim behind some sage brush, with one of my swifts, and when I get there, I can see quite a few dogs. This is going to be good. However, most of them are looking in the direction away from me. I look out there, and I see a pronghorn doe running around, and acting sort of strange.

I put my binoculars on her, and now I can see that she is going one on one with a coyote. After watching this for a little bit, it becomes obvious that the doe is trying to keep the yote away from something. I knew immediately, that she probably had a fawn or two on the ground around there somewhere.

Now, this is probably messing with natural selection and everything, but I decided to stack the deck just a little bit in favor of that doe. I put my rangefinder on the yote, and get a reading of just over 250 yards. The swift is sighted in dead on at 200. He turns broadside to me, and I put the crosshairs just behind his shoulder, and squeeze. MAIL CALL!! At the shot the yote dropped like a sack of spuds. 55gr Ballistic Tips be good, real good.

The pronghorn doe ran off a little ways, and looked in my direction, then down at the yote, and back in my direction. I hightailed it for my truck. The prairie dogs would just have wait a bit for their turn.

I get down to where the yote is laying, and it is real obvious that he has had a major drivetrain failure. There are tranny parts and steering pump fluid all over the place. The doe is now somewhat concerned about my intentions, and keeps trying to draw me away from the area. I spent a little time looking around, and sure enough, she has a fawn tucked away in the sage and grass.

I don't know, but at the time it just seemed like the right thing to do. It was pretty neat getting to see the fawn up close and personal.

I spent the rest of the day painting prairie dog murals on the sage brush. If you know what I mean. - CT