I associate _____with shotguns.
- Thread starter sm
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jamesb
Member
The smell and feel of the wood and steel. It brings back memories of my grandfather, who taught me how to shoot and hunt. I have moved on to better cleaners and lubes but my Auto-5 still gets cleaned and lubed the same way and with what he used, to perserve the smell and feel when it comes out of the case. It is my link to my past.
sm
member
Having to retrieve my own bird.
Seems semi-worthless dawg decided to go chase a wabbit...*Yep*
Seems semi-worthless dawg decided to go chase a wabbit...*Yep*
TrapperReady
Member
- Joined
- Jan 29, 2003
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- 2,732
Steve - SWD doesn't much go for rabbits. Chipmunks, however, are a whole different story. A few years ago he and I were out chasing grouse and he spied a chipmunk on a hollow log. He raced over and lunged at the varmint, which just jumped into a hole and plopped down inside the log (really a tree-trunk from one that had fallen). He spent probably 10 minutes racing from end to end of that log, trying to get the chipmunk, which was running from end to end inside. I just sat down and watched, chuckling quietly to myself the whole time.
Fat Boy
Member
As a high schooler, walking with Dad through the milo stubble, and being surprised by 2 whitetails as they jumped from where they had bedded the night before, not 40 feet from me, and run off with the flags flying....
Watching Mom drop a rabbit with her .410 bolt action "Department Store" shotgun...
Driving miles and miles, to walk for what seems like miles and miles, and then experiencing that thrill as a ringneck pheasant breaks cover and climbs into the sky...so busy admiring the bird I forget to shoot...
Boy I could go on and on...
This is a GREAT thread....thank you all for the great memories I have had while reading!
Watching Mom drop a rabbit with her .410 bolt action "Department Store" shotgun...
Driving miles and miles, to walk for what seems like miles and miles, and then experiencing that thrill as a ringneck pheasant breaks cover and climbs into the sky...so busy admiring the bird I forget to shoot...
Boy I could go on and on...
This is a GREAT thread....thank you all for the great memories I have had while reading!
Brian Dale
Member
Walking, and walking, and walking....
...and walking...
...and walking...
...after Sage Grouse.
Mmmmmm, Delicious!
...and walking...
...and walking...
...after Sage Grouse.
Mmmmmm, Delicious!
sm
member
Beagles
Wabbit hunting with beagles is not really about actually hunting, shooting or putting wabbit in the pot.
It is about watching and listening to beagles, just one totes a shotgun to make all this look as if you are hunting wabbits.
These dawgs are so funny! Really great dawgs, smart, still too much fun!
Old boy had some new pups, first time out to hunt, and doing so in the snow.
Always one "kid" that does not mind.
This little pup, he was smaller, and at first did not want to leave momma.
"Get away from me you mis-behavin brat, and do what you are bred for, wabbits" - Momma
*sniff* *sniff*
little fella got his feelings hurt, taking a few steps, looking back at momma and he is looking so pitiful...
So he slowly heads over to sulk and jumps this deer.
He took off running back to momma...
"Get away from me, you idiot, that is not a wabbit, that is a deer!"
I have not loaded my single shot shotgun, I am having too much fun watching these Beagles, and especially this litter fella.
We had decided to hunt in the snow, and use only single shots for the adults, and let the kids use what they had. Just a really neat hunt and we adults did not care about shooting, instead it was all for the the kids.
I wonder over to a ditch, this little pup looking up at me, his new friend, who had peppermint.
(Well, little fella got his feelings hurt, he needed a treat)
This rabbit zips toward us, and into the hole of the snow into that ditch.
We can hear the rabbit running back and forth....
This little fella running back and forth, he was catching on , either that or getting run over by a rabbit inside that snow bank...
Back and forth...back and forth...I had tears from laughing about what all was going inside that snow bank.
Rabbit pops out...and off he goes with folks shooting once and slapping triggers again, trying to rack forearms, on single shots...
Little Beagle, poor fella, still in the snow bank...his tone changed to being a scared kid and whining, lost and not knowing what to do.
Just busted a hole in the bank and his little head popped out.
Momma marched over, snatched him by the collar and
"You embarrassed me in front of all these people! How come you cannot straighten up and act right..."
Momma fussed at this kid...
Momma went onto to do her thing with the other kids.
Poor fella, done got lost, got his butt chewed out...
Took a break and I was messing with this poor little fella.
We just hit it off...
He perked up, jumped down from the tail gate! And just went into full bore seasoned Beagle Wabbit dawg.
I mean he is the smallest and tail gate height is a long way down...
I am running to keep up, he spied two wabbits, and I got both .
He come back all walking tall , head up, chest out...right proud of himself.
"Look momma what I did".
He turned out to be the best wabbit dawg of the bunch...
He and I were best buds...
Wabbit hunting with beagles is not really about actually hunting, shooting or putting wabbit in the pot.
It is about watching and listening to beagles, just one totes a shotgun to make all this look as if you are hunting wabbits.
These dawgs are so funny! Really great dawgs, smart, still too much fun!
Old boy had some new pups, first time out to hunt, and doing so in the snow.
Always one "kid" that does not mind.
This little pup, he was smaller, and at first did not want to leave momma.
"Get away from me you mis-behavin brat, and do what you are bred for, wabbits" - Momma
*sniff* *sniff*
little fella got his feelings hurt, taking a few steps, looking back at momma and he is looking so pitiful...
So he slowly heads over to sulk and jumps this deer.
He took off running back to momma...
"Get away from me, you idiot, that is not a wabbit, that is a deer!"
I have not loaded my single shot shotgun, I am having too much fun watching these Beagles, and especially this litter fella.
We had decided to hunt in the snow, and use only single shots for the adults, and let the kids use what they had. Just a really neat hunt and we adults did not care about shooting, instead it was all for the the kids.
I wonder over to a ditch, this little pup looking up at me, his new friend, who had peppermint.
(Well, little fella got his feelings hurt, he needed a treat)
This rabbit zips toward us, and into the hole of the snow into that ditch.
We can hear the rabbit running back and forth....
This little fella running back and forth, he was catching on , either that or getting run over by a rabbit inside that snow bank...
Back and forth...back and forth...I had tears from laughing about what all was going inside that snow bank.
Rabbit pops out...and off he goes with folks shooting once and slapping triggers again, trying to rack forearms, on single shots...
Little Beagle, poor fella, still in the snow bank...his tone changed to being a scared kid and whining, lost and not knowing what to do.
Just busted a hole in the bank and his little head popped out.
Momma marched over, snatched him by the collar and
"You embarrassed me in front of all these people! How come you cannot straighten up and act right..."
Momma fussed at this kid...
Momma went onto to do her thing with the other kids.
Poor fella, done got lost, got his butt chewed out...
Took a break and I was messing with this poor little fella.
We just hit it off...
He perked up, jumped down from the tail gate! And just went into full bore seasoned Beagle Wabbit dawg.
I mean he is the smallest and tail gate height is a long way down...
I am running to keep up, he spied two wabbits, and I got both .
He come back all walking tall , head up, chest out...right proud of himself.
"Look momma what I did".
He turned out to be the best wabbit dawg of the bunch...
He and I were best buds...
hankdatank1362
Member
I wub beagles...
627PCFan
Member
The splash of falling geese
I associate some of my finest memories with shotguns.
Watching the grin of delight on a 70 year old woman when she broke her first target. Until that day she'd never fired a gun before. I showed her how.
Being there when a man with serious health challenges and one of the most decent people I know broke 25 straight at skeet for the first time.
Seeing a pheasant flush hard. Four shooters including me firing and all of us missing. The four of us laughing while the dog looking on in disgust.
The pleasure of seeing two clouds of black dust in the sky where two clay targets once flew.
A 90 year old man tottering out to the shooting line to shoot trap and for a few moments being young again.
Just a few memories. All of them good.
Watching the grin of delight on a 70 year old woman when she broke her first target. Until that day she'd never fired a gun before. I showed her how.
Being there when a man with serious health challenges and one of the most decent people I know broke 25 straight at skeet for the first time.
Seeing a pheasant flush hard. Four shooters including me firing and all of us missing. The four of us laughing while the dog looking on in disgust.
The pleasure of seeing two clouds of black dust in the sky where two clay targets once flew.
A 90 year old man tottering out to the shooting line to shoot trap and for a few moments being young again.
Just a few memories. All of them good.
sm
member
PJR,
You remind of another...
That little kid holding grandpa's hand as they head out to a field, with little balloons or some clays on a box, and getting to shoot that gun grandpa shot, with grandpa's help, and the kid being given that gun.
You remind of another...
That little kid holding grandpa's hand as they head out to a field, with little balloons or some clays on a box, and getting to shoot that gun grandpa shot, with grandpa's help, and the kid being given that gun.
BridgeWalker
Member
Standing alone in the warm rain of early fall.
Walking up to the clubhouse to confront five or six old guys, all grinning because I'd broken more clays than last time.
Scrounging for hulls against the day I get a reloader.
That smell.
That weird little square cut up bruise on my shoulder. Dangit, wore the wrong bra again.
Filling my jeans pockets to bursting with shells because I forgot my pouch. Again.
Walking up to the clubhouse to confront five or six old guys, all grinning because I'd broken more clays than last time.
Scrounging for hulls against the day I get a reloader.
That smell.
That weird little square cut up bruise on my shoulder. Dangit, wore the wrong bra again.
Filling my jeans pockets to bursting with shells because I forgot my pouch. Again.
rantingredneck
Member
The smell of my aunt's house in the morning as country ham and biscuits were being cooked for me, my dad and uncle as we readied ourselves for the cold Tennesee mornings stomping through the rabbit fields.
The smell of my dad's old hunting coat. No telling when it ever got washed. Don't think I ever saw it in the laundry.
The crunch of frost on the grass under my boots as I headed out into the cold.
My uncles old farm, now gone, developed.
Dad and uncle, now both gone. But far from forgotten.
The smell of my dad's old hunting coat. No telling when it ever got washed. Don't think I ever saw it in the laundry.
The crunch of frost on the grass under my boots as I headed out into the cold.
My uncles old farm, now gone, developed.
Dad and uncle, now both gone. But far from forgotten.
ReadyontheRight
Member
A nice walk in the woods before the snow flies and after the world has turned brown. Just a hint of summer left in the air.
Regolith
Member
-The smell of sagebrush, burnt gun powder, and tobacco smoke (my father smokes like a chimney)
I associate _____with shotguns.
Dad and Pops (Grand-dad)
16ga.
SxS.
20ga.
O/U.
Viennas and crackers.
Pork n' beans and crackers.
Sardines and crackers.
Tailgate lunches...with crackers.
Good dogs.
Bad dogs.
Lying dogs.
Davis.
Fox.
Winchester.
Quail.
Grouse.
Most of all, GOOD TIMES is what I think about.
Dad and Pops (Grand-dad)
16ga.
SxS.
20ga.
O/U.
Viennas and crackers.
Pork n' beans and crackers.
Sardines and crackers.
Tailgate lunches...with crackers.
Good dogs.
Bad dogs.
Lying dogs.
Davis.
Fox.
Winchester.
Quail.
Grouse.
Most of all, GOOD TIMES is what I think about.
Early morning, dark and chill.
The crunch of frozen grass underfoot.
The sudden swish of brush uncoiling as a cottontail bolted.
Hearing the thunder of those pumpguns as they unloaded at running rabbits. My big brothers Randy and Robert calling my father "daddy". The first time I "let go" of all my planning and calculation, and just swung and nailed a running rabbit. The smell of gunpowder. It was good. It was all good.
My dad passed away in 2004. I don't recall the last time we all hunted together- I wish I could. I'm not sure if I would have known how much it meant, at the time, so long ago, before Robert joined the Air Force and Randy moved out.
I remember the exciting skitter of squirrels across leaves and over branches. I recall the day I killed seven squirrels with my Topper, Jr. It was light and swung smoothly. It kicked like the dickens. I was so proud of my patience, sitting under the big oaks all by myself, and of my skill in taking those long shots. I know my father was, too.
Every time we went hunting, my brothers would talk about the first time my father hunted with that little H&R. The Alabama-Auburn game was on, and they said dad shot a rabbit every time Alabama scored. They also said he took multiple running shots at rabbits with that single-shot.
I believe it.
I watched my father walk to the edge of bowling lane once, after "all night" bowling with our church. I was maybe 11.
"Hey, Johnny, watch this," he said. He set the ball down on the lane, spun it, and walked away to join the others filing out of the bowling alley. That ball slowwwwwwwly spun down towards the pins. It wandered out to the edge, and hung just above the gutter for maybe twenty seconds before continuing, ever-so-slowly, to move towards the pins. It seemed like five minutes later when the ball finally hit.
Strike.
I was the only one left to see it. That was my dad.
I miss you.
Maybe someday, I'll have kids.
The crunch of frozen grass underfoot.
The sudden swish of brush uncoiling as a cottontail bolted.
Hearing the thunder of those pumpguns as they unloaded at running rabbits. My big brothers Randy and Robert calling my father "daddy". The first time I "let go" of all my planning and calculation, and just swung and nailed a running rabbit. The smell of gunpowder. It was good. It was all good.
My dad passed away in 2004. I don't recall the last time we all hunted together- I wish I could. I'm not sure if I would have known how much it meant, at the time, so long ago, before Robert joined the Air Force and Randy moved out.
I remember the exciting skitter of squirrels across leaves and over branches. I recall the day I killed seven squirrels with my Topper, Jr. It was light and swung smoothly. It kicked like the dickens. I was so proud of my patience, sitting under the big oaks all by myself, and of my skill in taking those long shots. I know my father was, too.
Every time we went hunting, my brothers would talk about the first time my father hunted with that little H&R. The Alabama-Auburn game was on, and they said dad shot a rabbit every time Alabama scored. They also said he took multiple running shots at rabbits with that single-shot.
I believe it.
I watched my father walk to the edge of bowling lane once, after "all night" bowling with our church. I was maybe 11.
"Hey, Johnny, watch this," he said. He set the ball down on the lane, spun it, and walked away to join the others filing out of the bowling alley. That ball slowwwwwwwly spun down towards the pins. It wandered out to the edge, and hung just above the gutter for maybe twenty seconds before continuing, ever-so-slowly, to move towards the pins. It seemed like five minutes later when the ball finally hit.
Strike.
I was the only one left to see it. That was my dad.
I miss you.
Maybe someday, I'll have kids.
White Horseradish
Member
The smell of fear in the air on September 12th, when my mom told my stepdad "We need a gun, just in case" and sent him to the gun shop. He came back with a Brazilian break-barrel and a beatup no-name pump.
Never had an 1100. Did crack a nail and bled a bunch while not paying attention and sticking a finger into a Rem 11.
Never had an 1100. Did crack a nail and bled a bunch while not paying attention and sticking a finger into a Rem 11.
Owen
Moderator Emeritus
When I think of shotguns, I think of hunting pheasant with my dad. I was to young to hunt, but we went out every Saturday morning.
I remember the smell of his cigarettes in the truck. I remember the grass, hoary with frost crunching underfoot. I remember these...I don't know what they were, but I remember threading my way though humps of grass that were knee high. I remember picking burrs from my corduroys on the way to the convenience store to get sandwhiches.
I remember the old men at the range treating me like an adult when I was all of 13, giving me tips I didn't understand.
I remember the Swedish guy. Whenever we shot shot trap He'd try to be on the station next to me, and he'd let me shoot his Browning (GTI?) When we ended up on opposite ends of the line, he'd skip his turn to help me.
I remember, Nate, the old black man with club feet, helping me with his .410 at the turkey shoot.
I remember going to Hoffman's in Newington. My dad bought a Winchester 121, and bought me a Marlin 15Y, my first gun.
I remember getting yelled at for throwing gravel at my brother Matt, (God rest his Soul, he deserved better than he got.), while my dad was shooting a round of Trap.
I remember the smell of his cigarettes in the truck. I remember the grass, hoary with frost crunching underfoot. I remember these...I don't know what they were, but I remember threading my way though humps of grass that were knee high. I remember picking burrs from my corduroys on the way to the convenience store to get sandwhiches.
I remember the old men at the range treating me like an adult when I was all of 13, giving me tips I didn't understand.
I remember the Swedish guy. Whenever we shot shot trap He'd try to be on the station next to me, and he'd let me shoot his Browning (GTI?) When we ended up on opposite ends of the line, he'd skip his turn to help me.
I remember, Nate, the old black man with club feet, helping me with his .410 at the turkey shoot.
I remember going to Hoffman's in Newington. My dad bought a Winchester 121, and bought me a Marlin 15Y, my first gun.
I remember getting yelled at for throwing gravel at my brother Matt, (God rest his Soul, he deserved better than he got.), while my dad was shooting a round of Trap.
marksman13
Member
I think about the time a couple months ago when my one armed neighbor shot 25 straight to my 24.
I think about how he'll probably do it again on Saturday after we spend the morning trying to kill a few wiley old crows. And truth be told, I hope he does. Not for his sake. He doesn't care one way or the other, but for mine. It does me good to see this wounded vet blasting away like the rest of us, better than the rest of us. He, and I suppose the shotguns we shoot, remind me of everything that is America, the joy, the freedom, the no quit attitude of America's past.
Shooting a shotgun makes me feel alive. It makes me feel American and Southern. It makes me proud. And sometimes, when nobody is looking, my eyes well with the pride that comes from being an American doing what Americans love to do. Good post, SM. Good post.
I think about how he'll probably do it again on Saturday after we spend the morning trying to kill a few wiley old crows. And truth be told, I hope he does. Not for his sake. He doesn't care one way or the other, but for mine. It does me good to see this wounded vet blasting away like the rest of us, better than the rest of us. He, and I suppose the shotguns we shoot, remind me of everything that is America, the joy, the freedom, the no quit attitude of America's past.
Shooting a shotgun makes me feel alive. It makes me feel American and Southern. It makes me proud. And sometimes, when nobody is looking, my eyes well with the pride that comes from being an American doing what Americans love to do. Good post, SM. Good post.
sm
member
Quail
- My buddy Dave a 'Nam Vet , widower raising a little girl, and the explosion of quail at her tiny feet. She is excited, and jumps back and falls her butt and is pointing the quail with little fingers.
-Dave and that girl big enough to shoot, and the explosion of quail and smoothly quickly mounts gun to face, slaps trigger and fells, and slaps trigger to fell two...
-Dave passes, and we are out where we shot coveys, and we scatter ashes, and fire a salute with his old gun
-The gal is now a young widow, and raising a little girl herself, and she too falls on her butt at the explosion of quail and her eyes are Dave's and little fingers point at the quail with a big old smile...
-"Dave, where are the covey's bro' we got your granddaughter big enough to shoot..."
"Daddy, she has your gun, your eyes, now where are the covey's..."
The ground explodes, granddaughter picks one, fells it, picks a second and fells it...
"Grandpa said over this-a-way" and her mom and I just hold each and let tears come.
Granddaughter comes to join and the circle is unbroken...
Miss you bro' , damn we busted some quail and raised some hell didn't we?
- My buddy Dave a 'Nam Vet , widower raising a little girl, and the explosion of quail at her tiny feet. She is excited, and jumps back and falls her butt and is pointing the quail with little fingers.
-Dave and that girl big enough to shoot, and the explosion of quail and smoothly quickly mounts gun to face, slaps trigger and fells, and slaps trigger to fell two...
-Dave passes, and we are out where we shot coveys, and we scatter ashes, and fire a salute with his old gun
-The gal is now a young widow, and raising a little girl herself, and she too falls on her butt at the explosion of quail and her eyes are Dave's and little fingers point at the quail with a big old smile...
-"Dave, where are the covey's bro' we got your granddaughter big enough to shoot..."
"Daddy, she has your gun, your eyes, now where are the covey's..."
The ground explodes, granddaughter picks one, fells it, picks a second and fells it...
"Grandpa said over this-a-way" and her mom and I just hold each and let tears come.
Granddaughter comes to join and the circle is unbroken...
Miss you bro' , damn we busted some quail and raised some hell didn't we?
- Status
