Once upon a time there was a PTSD loaded, very highly decorated Vietnam vet, who owned a funky little gun shop in a dusty little mountain town, overlooking the Mojave Desert.
During prohibition’s "Roaring 1920’s", this was a destination for people leaving, civilization and crossing a county line into an unincorporated area with little enforcement for illegal alcohol drinking, gambling and rumored prostitution.
Driving around you could still see the rotted remnants of several of these old “Dance Hall Roadhouses” where such doings were done.
This little town, which had a hard beginning, did however have a window during which it could have stepped forward and improved its status greatly. Just above it at higher elevation, there was lots of pretty forested public land and people began coming up there in goodly numbers and building much better homes.
Unfortunately, something happened which prevented that upscale shift from happening.
I cannot begin to recall how many firearms I bought sold and traded in that funky little gun shop where rules and regs were ignored as much as followed. For example, the owner would allow regular customers to just walk out with a firearm for a trial run. Take it to the nearby USFS shooting area, shoot it, and keep it for several days, without booking it out, totally violating rules.
Two attractive firearms kept going out for these trial runs but always came back to the shop. One was a simply drop dead gorgeous Ithaca SKB side by side 20 gauge shotgun with 3 inch chambers.
The problem I concluded was that the comb was too high, This shotgun was made in Japan, possibly for Japanese who have a much flatter face than Caucasians.
I half bought it, half traded it for a 1911 45 ACP I knew the owner had a weakness for.
I then ruined any collector value it had by having a stock worker drop the comb and do an excellent job of refinishing it, but still, it was obviously no longer original. That said after having this custom work was done, birds just dropped out of the sky for me. I even did a double on two impossibly large mountain quail.
The other firearm was a South American cavalry carbine in 7x57 complete with a saddle ring. The barrel was only 18.5 “long and the action was one of the best of military Mausers,,,,but when anyone took it out for a trial run it shot like hell. It grouped like diarrhea. So back it came. I did some research, got out my cleaning rod, and checked it’s twist. It was for the longest heaviest bullets like the 175 grain round nose. They were shooting lighter bullets in factory ammo, that might have had a slow burning powder.
Filled with confidence after loading/shooting some heavy long bullets, I sent it out to have it drilled and tapped for the finest vintage aperture sights. Also, it just lended itself to a fine stock remodel, which I did myself. It came out looking so KOOL I had the military trigger smoothed out and when I got it back from the gunsmith and installed the peep sights, I could shoot a 1”group at 100 yards with my then young great eyes, using the 175 grain round nosed bullets.
Later, I bought some lead core 190 grain 7mm Barnes Original bullets and went to sectional density heaven, especially shooting big black Russian wild boar during the summer in tall barely on grain ranches.
Complete with rattlesnakes, I felt like I was doing my own version of “Death in the Tall Grass” by the African hunter/writer Peter Capstick.
I named this rifle the “Wolverine” after shooting a really big black boar in thick cover. I was crawling in on my hands and knees.
I never thought I would sell it, but two things happened. First, my eyes got old and I had too many iron sighted rifles.
Next, the man who owned the gun shop wanted to buy it back after seeing all the work I had done. He had bought some remote land in Idaho’s grizzly country, and decided that my little rifle was the perfect handy Grizz insurance.
Like so many Vietnam Combat vets, he wanted to “Go Bush”. He did two deep recon tours.
He was getting more and more paranoid about cities and being around people. I sold him that little rifle back, which with a fast-burning powder and those 190 grain bullets really shined.
Then he moved away.
Over 28 years, he and I did become good friends. We hunted deer together and never in my hunters’ life had I seen anyone so “Bush Aware”. He clearly saw things that were invisible to me.
So one day not long ago, after not speaking with him for ten years, I managed through old connections to get his phone number in remote Idaho.
I called, he answered, I immediately recognized his voice, identified myself and said his name.
Quiet,,,then,,,”You have the wrong number, nobody by that name lives here, do not call back!”
For some, that war never ended.
I hope that gutsy little 7x57 kept him safe.
DB
During prohibition’s "Roaring 1920’s", this was a destination for people leaving, civilization and crossing a county line into an unincorporated area with little enforcement for illegal alcohol drinking, gambling and rumored prostitution.
Driving around you could still see the rotted remnants of several of these old “Dance Hall Roadhouses” where such doings were done.
This little town, which had a hard beginning, did however have a window during which it could have stepped forward and improved its status greatly. Just above it at higher elevation, there was lots of pretty forested public land and people began coming up there in goodly numbers and building much better homes.
Unfortunately, something happened which prevented that upscale shift from happening.
I cannot begin to recall how many firearms I bought sold and traded in that funky little gun shop where rules and regs were ignored as much as followed. For example, the owner would allow regular customers to just walk out with a firearm for a trial run. Take it to the nearby USFS shooting area, shoot it, and keep it for several days, without booking it out, totally violating rules.
Two attractive firearms kept going out for these trial runs but always came back to the shop. One was a simply drop dead gorgeous Ithaca SKB side by side 20 gauge shotgun with 3 inch chambers.
The problem I concluded was that the comb was too high, This shotgun was made in Japan, possibly for Japanese who have a much flatter face than Caucasians.
I half bought it, half traded it for a 1911 45 ACP I knew the owner had a weakness for.
I then ruined any collector value it had by having a stock worker drop the comb and do an excellent job of refinishing it, but still, it was obviously no longer original. That said after having this custom work was done, birds just dropped out of the sky for me. I even did a double on two impossibly large mountain quail.
The other firearm was a South American cavalry carbine in 7x57 complete with a saddle ring. The barrel was only 18.5 “long and the action was one of the best of military Mausers,,,,but when anyone took it out for a trial run it shot like hell. It grouped like diarrhea. So back it came. I did some research, got out my cleaning rod, and checked it’s twist. It was for the longest heaviest bullets like the 175 grain round nose. They were shooting lighter bullets in factory ammo, that might have had a slow burning powder.
Filled with confidence after loading/shooting some heavy long bullets, I sent it out to have it drilled and tapped for the finest vintage aperture sights. Also, it just lended itself to a fine stock remodel, which I did myself. It came out looking so KOOL I had the military trigger smoothed out and when I got it back from the gunsmith and installed the peep sights, I could shoot a 1”group at 100 yards with my then young great eyes, using the 175 grain round nosed bullets.
Later, I bought some lead core 190 grain 7mm Barnes Original bullets and went to sectional density heaven, especially shooting big black Russian wild boar during the summer in tall barely on grain ranches.
Complete with rattlesnakes, I felt like I was doing my own version of “Death in the Tall Grass” by the African hunter/writer Peter Capstick.
I named this rifle the “Wolverine” after shooting a really big black boar in thick cover. I was crawling in on my hands and knees.
I never thought I would sell it, but two things happened. First, my eyes got old and I had too many iron sighted rifles.
Next, the man who owned the gun shop wanted to buy it back after seeing all the work I had done. He had bought some remote land in Idaho’s grizzly country, and decided that my little rifle was the perfect handy Grizz insurance.
Like so many Vietnam Combat vets, he wanted to “Go Bush”. He did two deep recon tours.
He was getting more and more paranoid about cities and being around people. I sold him that little rifle back, which with a fast-burning powder and those 190 grain bullets really shined.
Then he moved away.
Over 28 years, he and I did become good friends. We hunted deer together and never in my hunters’ life had I seen anyone so “Bush Aware”. He clearly saw things that were invisible to me.
So one day not long ago, after not speaking with him for ten years, I managed through old connections to get his phone number in remote Idaho.
I called, he answered, I immediately recognized his voice, identified myself and said his name.
Quiet,,,then,,,”You have the wrong number, nobody by that name lives here, do not call back!”
For some, that war never ended.
I hope that gutsy little 7x57 kept him safe.
DB
