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- Jan 28, 2003
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My hunting mentor was a guy named Bob Ward. To say Bob was an avid hunter was a gross understatement. Bob lived breathed and loved hunting more than any man I've ever come across. Imagine Peter Capstick cross bred with Walter Bell and you are getting an idea of the amount of time and life this man put into hunting. In addition to being a world wide sport hunter with several grand slams to his name and collection of rare and hard to do African animals including a huge Bongo that Bob did a track, spot and stalk job on his own as the PH was down with malaria as incredible a hunting feat as exists in today's world IMO. Bob was also a professional hunter. Bob had been working on his full PH License in Rhodesia when his plans were cut short when the country fell and became Zimbabwe. Bob also ran a guide and outfitting service and a gun shop in Santa Fe NM. I had my first taste of guiding as young man in Bob's employ.
I have such vivid and formative memories of my time in the field with Bob I can picture them in my mind like they are happening as I write this. Bob was a true and tried .270 Weatherby man and only stooped to using a .375 H&H when it was required by law. Like many guys from his generation he shunned the .458 Win mag with a deep seated mistrust and hatred born from the early failures and subsequent mauling and deaths of more than a few professional and sport hunters in that rounds formative years.
In any case Bob was a one gun man for the most part and that gun was a weather worn, sun faded, bush battered old Mark V in .270 Weatherby. And with that rifle I have witnessed some of the most impressive displays of long range game shooting that any man could have the opportunity to observe. It was said that the rifle had been blessed with some powerful muti while living in the dark continent and I think that it must have indeed.
Now mind you that the shots I am about to describe were done well before the days of the laser range finder so I'll just say that they were a fair distance and not embellish the stories by even trying to guesstimate the range as we were probably off by quit a bit back in the ole "It looks about BLANK yards hold over hair a smidgen and let her loose" days.
The first shot was on an elk up in the Rio Costillo in Northern NM. We'd picked up fairly fresh elk track in a raging blizzard the year was 1982. Bob and I both had cow tags and had filled out our clients the day before. We dogged the tracked into the blowing snow, biting our faces and watering our eyes the tracks were blown over but the dung was still wet and the spore showed a large herd. After several hours we came to a huge deep canyon. Just before we topped and were able to see into the body of the canyon Bob whispered that the elk were going to be bedded out of the wind in here some place. He was right. After sneaking into position we dropped down behind an ancient dead fall ponderosa pine trunk and started glassing.
It did take long before we started picking up sorrel bodies and brown necks against the evergreens and white snow on the opposite side of the canyon. The distance to the furthest elk was far, it looked no bigger than an ant, the closest was at least three hundred yards and they were spread up the hill quit a ways. Bob told me to give him a minute while he found the lead cow. To this day I'm not sure how he picked her out but the did and she was one of the ones near the top of the opposite side and a long way away. Bob stated that he'd shot the lead cow and that would give me time to make my shot.
I watched the chosen elk through my Bushnell 2X7 scope mounted atop my M-77 in .270 Win. Bob rested the forend of his rifle on the trunk of the tree and stuffed his pack pack under the toe of his stalk. At the report the big old lead cow lunged forward with two desperate leaps, did a nose dive and started tumbling down the steep grade deader than yesterdays coffee. The rest of the herd slowly rose and watched the the old girl tumble down the hill standing there in confusion not knowing what to do without the guidance of their matriarch. I picked out a dry cow and missed her twice standing at about three hundred yards but connected on the third round.
The other one was several years later near Sierra Grande NM. Once again we'd cleared out our hunters with a day left for us to hunt pronghorn. I'd already filled my tag and was driving around enjoying the insanely azure blue New Mexico sky contrasted against the sea of yellow wild sunflowers that tend to always be in bloom during the early fall and Pronghorn season in the that part of NM.
We'd been meandering around the huge ranch all morning and had the day crept into the early afternoon when Bob spotted a bedded buck up in the sunflowers. Once again I don't know how he saw it with his bare eye as it took me a god three or four minutes to find it with binos as only it's head and horns were in view above the flowers he was bedded in. Bob put the spotting scope on him and decided that he needed to take this big old gnarly buck. I asked how we were going to close the gap as he was watching us. Bob informed me that he'd take him from here.
Bob stepped out of the truck got prone using his back pack for a rest and waited for the buck to stand. After some time the old warrior stood stretched and turned broadside. I was watching the buck through the spotting scope, at the report the buck simply disappeared into the flowers. The only evidence that he'd been there was a bit of hair floating up from the spot where he now lay dead. After several seconds the slight breeze brought back to our ears the soggy thwack of a solid hit.
I am not a super velocity freak or a long range game killer though I have taken some pokes in my day. But I've always wanted a .270 Weatherby simply because of the memories that round invokes from my formative hunting years. I actually bought Bob's Mark V from him about 6 months before he died. But bob had one serious failing and that was an incurable thirst for the drink. Bob had been down and out for some time and he'd kept his rifle in back of a pick up truck under a leaky old shell. I paid Bob for the rifle out of mercy and didn't mention it's deplorable shape rather I smiled and thanked my old friend like I'd just got a bargain on the Hope Diamond.
The rifle was a complete basket case the barrel was bulged pitted the action was rusted shut there was no hope for that old girl and she now hangs inert in my gun room as a reminder of those glorious days in the field.
In any case over the years I have been searching for the right .270 Weatherby. I am not a big Mark V fan they just don't float my boat. I have been looking for either a respectably executed Mauser conversion or a straight up sporter model-70 classic. Most of the Mausers I've found over the years were either brain dead expensive foo foo rifles or nightmare backyard projects. Winchester built a very few classic actioned M-70's back in the 90's in various Weatherby calibers but they are as rare as hens teeth and the .270 Wthby seems to be the rarest of them all.
Well one walked into my life this week. A brand new in the box one. One that had been stuck in a corner of a buddies gun room and forgotten for years. In fact the poor guy didn't even realize that it was not a regular old .270 but the hotter Weatherby version. After some begging he finally took mercy on me and sold it to me for what he paid for it new back in the 90's.
I am slapping a scope on the old girl next week and hopefully she shoots. And if she does her first taste of game will be a Rocky Mountain Goat this September. I'm thinking that she'll shoot just fine. I'm also thinking that I'm going to have one of the finest hunting guides who ever lived helping me out this fall. He already guided me to a long sought after rifle. Once again Bob I don't know how you do it but thanks all the same I'll take all the help I can get..
I have such vivid and formative memories of my time in the field with Bob I can picture them in my mind like they are happening as I write this. Bob was a true and tried .270 Weatherby man and only stooped to using a .375 H&H when it was required by law. Like many guys from his generation he shunned the .458 Win mag with a deep seated mistrust and hatred born from the early failures and subsequent mauling and deaths of more than a few professional and sport hunters in that rounds formative years.
In any case Bob was a one gun man for the most part and that gun was a weather worn, sun faded, bush battered old Mark V in .270 Weatherby. And with that rifle I have witnessed some of the most impressive displays of long range game shooting that any man could have the opportunity to observe. It was said that the rifle had been blessed with some powerful muti while living in the dark continent and I think that it must have indeed.
Now mind you that the shots I am about to describe were done well before the days of the laser range finder so I'll just say that they were a fair distance and not embellish the stories by even trying to guesstimate the range as we were probably off by quit a bit back in the ole "It looks about BLANK yards hold over hair a smidgen and let her loose" days.
The first shot was on an elk up in the Rio Costillo in Northern NM. We'd picked up fairly fresh elk track in a raging blizzard the year was 1982. Bob and I both had cow tags and had filled out our clients the day before. We dogged the tracked into the blowing snow, biting our faces and watering our eyes the tracks were blown over but the dung was still wet and the spore showed a large herd. After several hours we came to a huge deep canyon. Just before we topped and were able to see into the body of the canyon Bob whispered that the elk were going to be bedded out of the wind in here some place. He was right. After sneaking into position we dropped down behind an ancient dead fall ponderosa pine trunk and started glassing.
It did take long before we started picking up sorrel bodies and brown necks against the evergreens and white snow on the opposite side of the canyon. The distance to the furthest elk was far, it looked no bigger than an ant, the closest was at least three hundred yards and they were spread up the hill quit a ways. Bob told me to give him a minute while he found the lead cow. To this day I'm not sure how he picked her out but the did and she was one of the ones near the top of the opposite side and a long way away. Bob stated that he'd shot the lead cow and that would give me time to make my shot.
I watched the chosen elk through my Bushnell 2X7 scope mounted atop my M-77 in .270 Win. Bob rested the forend of his rifle on the trunk of the tree and stuffed his pack pack under the toe of his stalk. At the report the big old lead cow lunged forward with two desperate leaps, did a nose dive and started tumbling down the steep grade deader than yesterdays coffee. The rest of the herd slowly rose and watched the the old girl tumble down the hill standing there in confusion not knowing what to do without the guidance of their matriarch. I picked out a dry cow and missed her twice standing at about three hundred yards but connected on the third round.
The other one was several years later near Sierra Grande NM. Once again we'd cleared out our hunters with a day left for us to hunt pronghorn. I'd already filled my tag and was driving around enjoying the insanely azure blue New Mexico sky contrasted against the sea of yellow wild sunflowers that tend to always be in bloom during the early fall and Pronghorn season in the that part of NM.
We'd been meandering around the huge ranch all morning and had the day crept into the early afternoon when Bob spotted a bedded buck up in the sunflowers. Once again I don't know how he saw it with his bare eye as it took me a god three or four minutes to find it with binos as only it's head and horns were in view above the flowers he was bedded in. Bob put the spotting scope on him and decided that he needed to take this big old gnarly buck. I asked how we were going to close the gap as he was watching us. Bob informed me that he'd take him from here.
Bob stepped out of the truck got prone using his back pack for a rest and waited for the buck to stand. After some time the old warrior stood stretched and turned broadside. I was watching the buck through the spotting scope, at the report the buck simply disappeared into the flowers. The only evidence that he'd been there was a bit of hair floating up from the spot where he now lay dead. After several seconds the slight breeze brought back to our ears the soggy thwack of a solid hit.
I am not a super velocity freak or a long range game killer though I have taken some pokes in my day. But I've always wanted a .270 Weatherby simply because of the memories that round invokes from my formative hunting years. I actually bought Bob's Mark V from him about 6 months before he died. But bob had one serious failing and that was an incurable thirst for the drink. Bob had been down and out for some time and he'd kept his rifle in back of a pick up truck under a leaky old shell. I paid Bob for the rifle out of mercy and didn't mention it's deplorable shape rather I smiled and thanked my old friend like I'd just got a bargain on the Hope Diamond.
The rifle was a complete basket case the barrel was bulged pitted the action was rusted shut there was no hope for that old girl and she now hangs inert in my gun room as a reminder of those glorious days in the field.
In any case over the years I have been searching for the right .270 Weatherby. I am not a big Mark V fan they just don't float my boat. I have been looking for either a respectably executed Mauser conversion or a straight up sporter model-70 classic. Most of the Mausers I've found over the years were either brain dead expensive foo foo rifles or nightmare backyard projects. Winchester built a very few classic actioned M-70's back in the 90's in various Weatherby calibers but they are as rare as hens teeth and the .270 Wthby seems to be the rarest of them all.
Well one walked into my life this week. A brand new in the box one. One that had been stuck in a corner of a buddies gun room and forgotten for years. In fact the poor guy didn't even realize that it was not a regular old .270 but the hotter Weatherby version. After some begging he finally took mercy on me and sold it to me for what he paid for it new back in the 90's.
I am slapping a scope on the old girl next week and hopefully she shoots. And if she does her first taste of game will be a Rocky Mountain Goat this September. I'm thinking that she'll shoot just fine. I'm also thinking that I'm going to have one of the finest hunting guides who ever lived helping me out this fall. He already guided me to a long sought after rifle. Once again Bob I don't know how you do it but thanks all the same I'll take all the help I can get..
