Note: A preview from my upcoming autobiography, Life’s Too Short to Smoke Cheap Cigars (Or to Drink Cheap Whiskey.)
In the Beginning…
One of my earlier memories of the shooting sports involved a story related by my uncle, who described a hunting outing taken in the late 1920s with his buddy from a neighboring farm. My uncle had just obtained an old single-barrel muzzle-loading shotgun for nothing, as he had found it under the floor of a chicken coop he had been hired to tear down.
Not the actual muzzle-loader, but much the same.
After missing a few shots, my uncle and his buddy began to wonder if they were loading the ancient piece properly. Grandpa had advised them on how to load the piece, as he had used a few front-stuffers in his own time, but boys will be boys, and after a while began to doubt the old man’s advice.
“You know,” my uncle said, holding up the little powder measure Grandpa had made them, “if one of these is good, two or three ought to be better, right? Maybe she’ll shoot a little farther.” His buddy agreed, so they reloaded the old boom-stick with a good healthy triple helping of powder.
Moments later, as they were walking down the road, a jackrabbit startled out of the ditch. My uncle raised the old gun, thumbed back the hammer, pulled the trigger…
…and woke up a few moments later in the ditch on the other side of the road, his shoulder hurting. The old gun lay in the middle of the road, and his buddy was bent over, in the middle of a huge cloud of black-powder smoke, hands over his ears. My uncle realized that his ears were ringing, and they continued to do so, as he always told it, for several days.
They stuck to loading the old gun in accordance with instructions after that.
I should have learned from that tale, but as time went on and I started messing around with various firearms myself, it became apparent that my skull was a little thicker than was good for me.
“Collectibles.”
These days I have a distinct preference for old Winchesters and Belgian Brownings. One of the centerpieces of my collection is a Winchester Model 12 Black Diamond trap gun, made in 1940, with a 32” barrel choked so tight that the pellets have to queue up and patiently wait their turns to leave the muzzle in single file. But back in the day, when I had not yet learned the difference between “collectible” and “old”, that lack of distinction led to some interesting incidents.
And by “interesting” I mean “possibly threatening to life and limb.”
Case in point: When I was about sixteen, an acquaintance of mine who was working as a carpenter called me one summer afternoon. “We’re putting a new roof on a house down here in Calmar,” he told me, “and I found an old shotgun hidden in the rafters. I was wondering if you wanted it.”
“Sure!” I replied, not worrying myself about what kind of shotgun it was or what condition it was in – after all, what self-respecting Allamakee County teenaged boy ever turned down a free gun?
It didn’t occur to me to ask why my roof-fixing buddy didn’t want it.
Overcome by curiosity, I hopped in the truck and drove to Calmar that afternoon. When I arrived on the work site, I was handed a remarkable old piece. It was a 12-gauge side-by-side double, carrying the Springfield/Stevens name, an old model that was one of the forerunners of the Stevens 511 double.
Not the actual double, but much the same (except barrel length)
What made this one interesting was that the barrels had been hacksawed off at about twelve inches, making it not only probably unpleasant to shoot but illegal as hell. I didn’t worry over much about that, though, when measuring it against a free firearm; I removed the fore-end and the barrels, stashed the illegal barrels in the toolbox, tossed the receiver and fore-end in the seat of the truck and took off for home.
I toyed with the idea of seeking a new set of barrels to make the old gun 1) legal and b) useful, but in those pre-Internet days, that meant either driving to Des Moines twice a year for gun shows, writing a lot of letters or spending some long-distance calling coin for parts companies. My early efforts were unsuccessful, so one boring Saturday night, my old pal Dave and I decided that what the hell, we’d take the old piece for a test drive.
Part of the mounting mechanism on the fore end was broken, so we had to disassemble the old gun and use a narrow-bladed screwdriver to cock it, but with that done, we reassembled the gun. We decided to drive down to a local area down by the Cedar River known as “The Pits” to test-fire, and since the piece was something that wouldn’t have been out of place in John Dillinger’s arsenal, we hid it under the seat of the truck for the drive down.
On the edge of one big gravel pit there were a stack of old tires. We headed there; this wasn’t our first experience with old guns. For the first two shots, we stuck the old piece in a tire and pulled the triggers with a string from about thirty feet away. There was a satisfying BOOM from both barrels, and the gun/tire skipped back about five feet on the sandy ground with each shot.
We inspected the gun. “Looks OK,” Dave opined, examining the gun in the headlights of the truck. “I think you should try shooting it.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably OK just those two shots in the tire.” I hefted the piece; I couldn’t help to notice that, if shouldered, the abbreviated piece would have both muzzles uncomfortably close to my young and handsome (well, young, anyway) face – and this was in a more innocent time, when we generally didn’t bother with hearing or eye protection.
The debate continued for some time, but thanks to teenaged machismo, the outcome was never truly in doubt. Dave tossed an old beer can out into the light from the truck headlights, I dunked a couple of high-brass shells of uncertain origin into the old gun, shouldered it and let both barrels fly.
WHAM! WHAM!
To call the recoil and muzzle blast unpleasant was a gross understatement. My ears rang for days, and later, at home, when I looked in the bathroom mirror, I was fairly certain there was powder stippling on my face. I ended up tossing the sawed-off barrels in the river and sold the receiver and fore end to a gunsmith friend for twenty bucks.
That wasn’t the end of the story.
The Ditch Witch
But as it turned out, the experience gave Dave an idea. One afternoon, he showed up at the house with an old 12-gauge H&R Topper single shot. “Got it at a garage sale in town,” he told me, “for forty bucks.” I knew Dave had a reasonably new 870 Remington pump-gun for hunting, so was a little curious about the Topper.
Many of us, mind you, started our careers with very similar single-shot pieces. While their simplicity made them easy to operate and prevented inexperienced kids from, as the Old Man used to put it, “going banging around,” they did have one disadvantage: their weight. Being basically a piece of pipe stuck on a minimal receiver and a stock generally made of relatively light birch or other cheap hardwood, a 12-gauge single could easily weigh less than six pounds. That light weight made carrying easy, especially for a kid, but shooting? With high-brass hunting loads? Unpleasant, at best.
But Dave’s idea was to double down on that. We took the old Topper into the workshop and, after carefully scouting around to determine the Old Man wasn’t about to walk in on us – turned out he and Mom and gone to town – we took a hacksaw to the Topper’s barrel, cutting it off at the legal minimum of eighteen inches. We used one of Dad’s big files to smooth off the muzzle and even recovered the bead from the amputated segment, drilled and tapped a new hole and reinstalled the sight; country kids do manage to learn all sorts of useful skills, and the Old Man kept a well-stocked tool chest.
Dave called it the Ditch Witch. I’m not saying we shot rabbits or pheasants out of the window of the truck – that would have been illegal – but if we would have done so, we’d have had the perfect gun for it. The Ditch Witch was manageable – just – with low-brass trap and skeet loads. We didn’t try anything else, knowing all too well what the likely result would be.
And So, This Happened…
Late-season pheasants tend to flush wild, requiring tight chokes and ammo with some reach. The last few weeks of the season generally found us stuffing our game coats with 12-gauge 3” Magnum shells with #4 shot, to give us that reach. After all, in those long-ago days of boastful youth, we operated on the principle of “if some is good, more is better” in almost all things, and that practice at times provided some harsh lessons.
While our big, heavy Remington and Mossberg pumps handled the big 3” magnums with no real trouble, Dave always packed along some light trap loads for the Ditch Witch, in deference to its weight – a tad short of five pounds. As the Ditch Witch generally traveled stuffed under a truck seat, the shells were always at hand in the glove box.
Returning one frigid December afternoon from the cornfields down around Winthrop, where we had managed to bring to bag nothing but rabbits, Dave suddenly stopped his old car along the edge of the gravel road. “Look up there,” he said, pointing. “Right side of the road. On that fence line.”
There were four big rooster pheasants, walking slowly along the fence, on the side opposite the road.
Now folks that aren’t familiar with wildlife don’t always get that most critters that live in populated areas are pretty familiar with cars and trucks, generally regarding them as part of their local landscape. Still, they know that when a car or truck stops, humans generally emerge, and they know humans can be dangerous. Dave proposed to take advantage of that.
“Grab the Ditch Witch,” he suggested. “I’ll drive up there kind of slow, and when we’re just opposite them, I’ll slam on the brakes. You roll out and see if you can slam one or two of them.”
“Got it,” I replied quickly. I dug under the seat and grabbed the old pipe. And, clearly not thinking too hard about the task at hand, I reached in the pocket of my hunting coat and extracted two 12-gauge shells. It is possible to get off two shots pretty quickly with a single; the trick is to hold the second shell between index and middle finger of your non-firing hand, and when the first shot is fired, eject, dunk in new round, and re-commence operations.
I opened the Ditch Witch and dropped in a round. Dave idled his old Ford up the road. The roosters stopped and watched the car approaching.
I hadn’t looked at the shell I dropped in the chamber.
As we approached, the pheasants began to show signs of alarm. “Now!” Dave yelled.
I slammed the Ditch Witch closed, rolled out the car door into the snow-filled ditch. I came up on one knee, spitting snow, and sighted on one rooster that was legging it for greener pastures. I thumbed back the hammer and pulled the trigger.
WHAM!
As the gun slammed into my shoulder with piledriver force, a little voice in the back of my head reminded me of the contents of my hunting coat’s shell loops – big, nasty three-inch Magnums stuffed with almost two ounces of copper-plated #4 shot.
The Ditch Witch recoiled sky-high. I almost lost my grip on the gun, which may have been a better result, as the little piece slammed backwards – the hammer took a bite out of my cheek, and the hard plastic buttplate left a nasty bruise on my shoulder.
I sat down hard. My ears were ringing. I could dimly hear Dave’s voice, calling to me, sounding like he was at the bottom of a rain barrel: “Are you OK? You dumbass, did you use one of your magnum rounds?”
I shook my head. The rooster lay a short distance away. I got up, staggered over to it; the bird was damn near shot from between its wings. It had only been about twenty feet away. What was left was inedible. We left it there for the foxes.
After a couple of missteps caused by what was likely a low-order concussion, I managed to get back in Dave’s car. I was done for the day. It was a couple of weeks before I could move my right arm or hear anything less than a shout. Dave kept the Ditch Witch for several years after that, but henceforth we were very, very careful as to what loads went into it.
These Days
The actual by-gosh Son of Ditch Witch.
Most of you know my preferences in guns these days. Unlike in my younger years, I now have a fair amount of disposable income to toss at my hobby and have already described my distinct preference for old Winchester Model 12s and Belgian Brownings. I also value what’s left of my vision and hearing, not to mention my grizzled old mug, and take steps to protect them.
But practicality sometimes has to win out. Tucked away in a corner of my gun safe, waiting for trips into the more remote areas of Alaska, is another old H&R Topper 12 gauge single-shot, with the barrel lopped off at 18”. I have tested it, and it fits nicely under the seat of the truck.
Yes, it’s Ditch Witch 2, Son of Ditch Witch. I’m not saying I’d shoot rabbits or grouse out of the window of the truck – that would be illegal – but if I were to do so, I’d have the perfect gun for it. Maybe someday some survival situation may just require such an action, after all.
And sometimes “maybe” is reason enough.
…we operated on the principle of “if some is good, more is better”
A near-universal for youth worldwide, I’d wager.
Oh, that was my dad. I don’t think he ever got over that.
I still haven’t shot the over/under I picked up last fall.
I have been getting into target shooting more and more lately. I can shoot airgun 10m in my basement (barely) and recently picked up an older Mossberg 144. Although my old hunting partner wants me to go trap shooting with him lately. So, we will see about that!
Oh, and as far as shooting a Topper goes, we had one at Boy Scout camp when I was in junior high. I had already shot a shotgun by then, but at least one of the other kids I knew well hadn’t, so we told him that if you hold it about 1/4″ from your shoulder, the kick wasn’t so bad.
Much hilarity ensued.
when he turned around and kicked your ass?
I talked recently about my brother’s Beretta M3 Auto-Pump.
A running trick was to hand someone that gun with 5 rounds in it, 4 skeet loads and having the 3rd or 4th one be a 3″ slug or +P+ buckshot.
“bang, bang, bang, BOOM, ow, ow, “you Sunavabitch!”… lots of laughing and smart ass comments, pause, pause, bang.”
We did this to my old man, and he about spun half way around. We’re probably lucky he didn’t accidentally shoot us.
Oddly, now my rotator cuff hurts.
I learned about recoil when I was a kid shooting a Winchester Lever-action (I have no idea what model, that information is lost to the mists of time) chambered in either .44 Mag or .44-40. That rifle taught me to tuck that butt in tight to my shoulder.
Taking a .22LR rifle for trap shooting would be an… interesting experience.
(I know that is not what you were talking about, but the idea amused me)
There used to be a contraption to put a small skeet thrower on the front of .22s and use rat shot rounds on them. I wanna say a Targo? Something like that.
Well, I’ve gotten home.
I’m a tad grumpy, and have to figure out the aroma that’s invaded my house in my absense.
You should have buried the bodies Before you left, RTFM!
I have to cook lunch, but my house is 85F inside.
Damn summer.
Your neighbors start by using your trash cans and now they’ve taken to burying their bodies in your yard? How rude.
I’ll sort it out.
Now if only I could stop the pain in my left leg.
I had the pleasure of talking to some people from Alaska this weekend. They are definitely a different breed. One told me he wanted to move there as a kid because he saw it in National Geographic. I asked if it met his expectations, and he said it was even better than he thought it would be. Another guy lost both his legs above the knee in an accident, and he owns a snowmobile/ATV rental company. This winter he did an 1800 mile snowmobile race, in temperatures that never got above zero. Another guy has one leg, but used to be one of those ice road truckers (not on the show).
I would imagine you are fitting in just fine.
It’s exceeded our expectations, too.
My dad had a double that looks a LOT like that picture. Now that he’s gone full lefty, I’ll have to ask him about the whereabouts of that gun…
Wouldn’t want its powerful emanations to overcome him and cause a death spree.
You’ll have to stage an intervention, then. He clearly shouldn’t be cohabitating with an evil death-stick.
Just spent a few hours in the garage playing with my wood. I couldn’t believe how hard it was. If anyone is into that kind of thing, here are a couple pictures:
https://ibb.co/Jzxc8j2
https://ibb.co/37X6mQN
Ribald humor aside, I’m making legs for a “Roman workbench”. Those are white oak planks, and it was actual exercise to pare those down like that (I currently don’t have a lathe). It certainly makes you appreciate how people in the old days built furniture and even entire houses with nothing but hand tools.
Roy Underhill #FTW!
Also, Almanzo Wilder’s father.
Draw knife. That and a spoke shave were the tools of the trade.
I definitely need a draw knife.
I started by sawing along the grain as close as I could, knocking some bigger chunks off with a chisel, then coming in with a small spokeshave.
I do plan on building a foot-powered lathe at some point though.
Repurpose an old sewing machine? Or something of completely of your own build?
That said, there are tons of old wood lathes, around here at least, and it wouldn’t be too hard to attach one to an old sewing machine treadle. It would be a cool project.
Interesting idea – may have to look into that!
I do have an old vacuum sitting around waiting to be thrown away – I wonder if I could take the motor out of that and use it to drive the lathe.
Spring pole lathe
Back in college, when I was even more of a moron than I am now, I fired a buddies’ Thompson-Center Contender, in .45-70, with one hand, bullseye style.
The gun went flying out of my hand like it had been launched from a catapult. Fortunately it survived with only a cracked grip, and I survived with only a sprained thumb.
At least you knew the likely outcome of that ahead of time.
One of my pet range peeves is seeing some young, moron give his girlfriend some Eargesplitten Loudenboomer Magnum for her first time shooting anything, then laughing like Beavis and Butthead when the poor girl has the crap kicked out of her by the gun. Those guys should be beaten repeatedly over the head with the gun in question, preferably to the point of unconsciousness.
^^^ Agreed. I took a girl shooting at a range once and I had her shoot an AR-15. She was scared of it cause it was black and big and had a thing that goes up (man..these euphemisms) but after she squeezed off one round, we had to get more ammo. She was a fun little thing too. Liked hockey, learned to like guns and was a bartender at a bikini bar.
I’ve taught a few people to shoot, and always have started them with a .22 rifle, but the AR-15 platform is so easy to shoot well that it’s a great choice, too.
My boys they started with a .22 rifle. So far their favorite is the shotgun and the Winchester Model 92 .357. I prefer rifles over pistols but put a 1911 in my hand and I am a kid in a candy shop.
My noob gun is a .22LR AR with a silencer and mini red dot. I’ve had kids as young as six, shooting it competently. It’s great fun.
Oh yea. Great way to get someone to fear and dislike guns forever.
Holla. Either unconsciousness, or the gun breaking.
Sometimes all is not what it seems, though. I was at a semi-public range a while back, and a guy showed up with his girl. Dude pulls out a 6″ S&W 686 (large-frame .357 Magnum revolver) and hands it to her. I was thinking, “Look at this asshole,” and she thumb-cocks the piece and squeezes off a round, and the gun goes, ‘Pop!’ and recoils about half an inch.
Light began to dawn.
I went over and introduced myself, and they both turned out to be pretty cool folks. Apparently the girl wanted to try shooting a pistol, the guy didn’t have any .22s, so he found some super-light .38 wadcutters and loaded them in the largest and heaviest pistol he had. Smart guy.
I let them shoot my silenced AR, and they had a good time with that.
Mrs. Animal uses light .38 wadcutter loads for practice in her .357 Security Six. That’s a great little gun for anyone with small hands, by the way; smallest grip frame of any double-action .357 I’m aware of. But yes, a light .38 wadcutter load is like shooting a .22 revolver with shorts. Plus they use very little powder, the slugs are cheap, so I load a bunch of them and she can shoot to her heart’s content.
The same shitheads that bring their ELMs to the indoor range.
Good article, as usual, Animal.
ELMs
Exceedingly Loud Masturbation sounds?
Eargesplitten Loudenboomer Magnum
But that works, too.
That describes Desert Eagles pretty well.
One of the things that saddened me was in Le Femme Nakita (french movie) she uses a .32 s&w olympic target pistol. Really accurate, low recoil. In the US version, the give her a Desert Eagle.
How fucking lame.
You actually got it backwards. In the original French version of La Femme Nikita, Anne Parillaud used a .357 Magnum Desert Eagle MkI in the restaurant gunfight.
In the 1993 remake, Point of No Return, Bridget Fonda uses a Hammerli 280 .22LR Olympic sport pistol.
You mean letting your girlfriend double tap a SW 500 is a bad idea?
Those guys should be beaten repeatedly over the head with the gun in question, preferably to the point of unconsciousness.
Is it possible to actually beat the stupid out of someone? Let’s find out.
Thanks Animal, the stories are made for old guys, we lived those days
I had that Topper, my dad traded a wood cased radio for it, got it when I was 12 years old. Mine was chambered 2 3/4 inch ammo, no way it would have closed on a 3 incher. That little gem kicked the P out of a skinny 12 year old. Killed my first flying grouse with that gun My dad was instigator on some of our follies.
I remember when I was very young, shooting a .410 single-shot borrowed from an uncle. Don’t remember how young I was exactly, but I’d been shooting .22s for a while. This one was one of the guns with the plastic “Tenite” stocks. Made it even lighter than if it had been stocked with wood, but in a .410, what difference?
As you say, we lived those days. Good times.
Fast forward, 1955, got a double 16 gauge for graduation, Stevens 311 but mine was a Wards or Gamble’s or Sears generic, with a ”tenite” stock. That baby kicked, I sold it 20 years later for $65 when I need money for groceries.
I’ve given a lot of guns away but only sold a couple, sometimes only as the middle man. Loan someone money but hold the gun until it was paid for. Still got more to give away, time is running out.
I can provide a loving home.
Top line at Google News:
Guatemala’s prez blames Biden for border crisis as protesters tell Kamala Harris ‘Trump won’
Hard to understand how an anti-administration headline made it to the top of the Dem-operated propaganda machine.
As Pat Buchanan put it, Kamala was just down there to find out why all those Guatemalans wanted to trek 1,000 miles across desert to come to a country founded by and for white supremacists.
She told them to not come – that it was more dangerous than staying in Guatemala.
I’m thinking she probably didn’t convince anyone.
My day so far: Went out to leave for work and found my car had a dead battery. Again. In the pouring rain. The front of the car was directly under a leak in the garage gutters. Got it jumped and got to work. Did all my gotta do’s. Now I can’t reach a live human in the dealer’s service department.
And the cicadas just came out in force at my office. A co-worker who lives near me says they showed up at her house yesterday.
Man, that sucks. Sorry about your battery, but glad you got it working again.
I might be the only one, but I love the cicada sounds. It’s a nostalgia thing.
I swear, I remember cicadas every year when I was a kid in North Texas. Not some kind of sun-blotting horde, but there were some every summer.
Same in NE Iowa. No overwhelming hordes, but every summer there were some.
There are a bunch of them in my house right now.
No, wait. That’s just the tinnitus.
Nevermind.
Same in KC and SE Kansas.
Hot late summer afternoons, the dog days.
We have em here in Nevada, but been absent for a year or so. Though, they are predicting they are snoozing for a bit longer. Might be cause we had a misfire on summer temps.
So ya, not so sure all the fuss. I guess shear numbers?
I remember the whippoorwills every summer when I was a kid, but haven’t heard them in ages.
And mourning doves.
They drove the dogs nuts, as the dogs would always want to attack them but the birds could just fly off.
I had a dog out for a walk this morning to beat the heat, and just as we got back to the house he saw a turtle, which drove him nuts.
I don’t think my cat would attempt to catch a mourning dove.
I’ve seen enough mourning dove heads and viscera to know that it’s a kitty delight whenever they can sneak up on one.
This is the 17-year Brood X, I believe they’re called. I doubt you’d enjoy having them fly at you while you’re trying to get to your car.
No, no. Just the sounds they make.
If one gets caught in my hair, will you come help me get it out? ?
Are they worse than a June bug getting caught in your hair?
If you can wait that long, I don’t think it bothers you that much.
Kinky.
Just walked out of my office to go home. The sound isn’t soothing. It’s deafening.
51 years ago, I would have been 8 or 9 and Brood X would have been . . . brooding? I don’t remember anything unusual about cicadas that year. But its been a long time.
I think it’s an east coast/ Midwest thing. I remember the last time they were out. It was loud!
Its been quiet here so far, but you’re telling me its time ?
THEY’RE EMERGING ?
Yup. At least in M’burg & E’wood.
Gun related meme
https://i.redd.it/uydxvhbv5v371.jpg
Cringe
https://old.reddit.com/r/pics/comments/nubx3p/i_made_a_biker_style_covid19_vaccination_patch/
OFFS.
A few hundred years ago, if they put a skull and crossbones on a grave, it meant the person died of a communicable disease, and you should not disturb the grave.
I’m not sure the person appreciates the irony of their choice of symbols.
Surprised that wasn’t on Etsy.
He apparently did put it on Etsy, but the link got removed.
*hit self in head repeatedly*
DONT READ THE COMMENTS! DONT READ THE COMMENTS!
Don’t read the comments.
Most of Reddit is a leftist cesspool.
Fun with guns. My old 12 gauge was a JC Higgins – a Sears copy of a Remington, I believe. Heavy as hell, and with a good rubber shoulder guard and Sports’ Authority’s cheap as hell birdshot, you could shoot all day without the injuries you sustained, Animal.
OT: I really don’t know who to root for in this scenario. I’m thinking Orville Redenbacher.
One of the first thing we were taught during hunter safety was too look out for old shot guns.
In particular to avoid old barrels that were forged from more than one piece of steel. Newer ammo could cause them to blow apart.
Damascus barrels i think they were called.
-1 Damascus barrel
The gunsmith at a shop I used to go to had a blowed up shotgun hanging over the counter. I wonder if that’s what it was.
My lovely old Tolley sidelock double has Damascus barrels, but it’s lined and nitro-proofed. Due to its short chambers (2 1/2″) I’m pretty much limited to light loads in any case.
Mostly, in the scouts, they taught us to make sure there was no obstruction of any sort.
The instructor for our shotgun merit badge had example barrels, one of which had split open because of a spider nest in the barrel.
I went to my first gun show on Saturday. Really fun. I picked up a Winchester SXP.
*points to avatar*
Just got an update on a building we are renovating:
Yes, this building has been occupied prior to the reno.
As long as asbestos and lead are sealed/painted over, it isn’t any issue, but as soon as you start cutting into it, then you have to do full abatement.