Embedded Files
1. Desperado
2. Desperado: The Phoenix Firearm
3. Desperado: Back in the Saddle
DESPERADO
It is the end of winter I hope and sit by the coals of another fire coaxing the release of trapped sunlight from warm days gone by. It has been a long winter up here in the hollow and the winter chores are almost done. Soil samples are in, apple trees pruned, jerky made, and a final inventory of the larder has almost been completed. As a pleasant surprise, a bag of morels from last spring was discovered under the venison. With the food supply running low it will soon be time for us to conduct the toughest and most feared foraging; the trip to the grocery store.
“Forager” may only be a politically correct way of saying, “You eat like a Hobo” but I don’t think we are too different than the typical Big Woods family. I don’t know the percentages but I can safely say that we supplement our diet with wild and organic foods, significantly. As such, we are eager for milkweed shoots, mushrooms, leeks and roots. We are ready to plant the garden. What we don’t find or can’t raise, we trade for like honey, eggs and beef. Organic stuff isn’t always the most pretty and it isn’t the most convenient food to come by but in the end, it is the best tasting and best for us. Checking our “ugly” food supply reminds me that there is one last winter chore to do before spring…
For that chore, I stand in front of a well formed formation. The troops have all fallen in and are ready for inspection. I start with the squad leader and work my way down the line. At the front is one of my finest looking troops, a great shot and fine machine. It never misses, though often I do. It is a Remington 700, heavy barrel. It is beautiful and perfect; guaranteed to hit something with every shot. To the untrained eye, I may appear to miss a bull’s eye but what is lost in subtlety, is that the gun and I disagreed on the target. My bull’s eye was missed because the 700 decided to hit a more challenging target, like a speck of invisible dust three feet to the right of the target. As I move down the formation doing a careful inspection of every piece, I come to the end of the line. Wobbling there is my old double barrel. It has obviously just fallen into formation, late again. Probably just snuck in from the parking lot, stumbling, from another night of filthy infidelities and drunken debauchery, a speck of rust on its’ collar smelling of blood and sweat, cigarette hanging out of the side of its’ barrel. The double barrel is a rogue cannon, a disgrace to my arsenal, the “Desperado”. I pull out the cigarette, grind it with my boot but then, carefully, rub the rust on the despicable pile of metal and wood.
Despite the fact that it has been on some extreme Rumspringa since I've owned it; I have always taken pretty good care of this gun. I have patched it together for years. Not because I have any gunsmith skill but because it is so ugly, it is the only gun I’ve never been afraid of ruining. I’ve filed its bolt and latches, stripped its wood and replaced it with oil and bent its trigger spring by hand. All things I wouldn’t dare on the perfect looking chemically treated, machine cut, “pretty” guns. There is no doubt that if guns were grown that my double barrel would be wild or organic, a little ugly and off color but full of character and flavor.
I didn’t even buy the beat up thing; it was dumped on me by another hunter. I tolerated it only because I had to, I couldn’t afford another gun. The double barrel only hung around because it needed a place to pass out. I should knock this gun down to another hunter in need of a bachelor party coordinator or pasture sire. But beyond its questionable hygiene and lack of class, it has distasteful bird bias and knocks them down with impunity. That nasty trait has become an endearing quality that makes living with the crusty piece of junk bearable. This double barrel is too lazy to shoot another target than the one I or anyone else is aiming at.
So this winter during inspection, I remembered back when wild pheasant hunting I brought the old Desperado with me. On the last day, it almost missed the hunt. It barely got back in time from a night on the town. My double barrel had stolen a fellow hunter’s truck and disappeared all night. The hunting had been tough during the week and through it all, it wore on the old gun as the butt stock had become loose and could no longer be tightened to the barrel. This final day of the hunt was especially long and tough. The two halves of the double barrel were comically loose by the time the hunt drew to an end. But if I got it back to camp, I thought I could save it. I had some roofing tar and a hammer…
By the last leg of the hunt, just about everyone had limited out except me, who was without a dog. (Mine ran off to be a Seeing Eye dog, stating that he was, “Moving up to a better shot.”) As we pushed up a high creek bank and thicket, everyone was watching as we jumped the final hiding spot. The birds flew and I raised the old soldier but the shifting of my weight on the soft soiled bank, broke it loose. I started to fall as the cock birds flushed; my speed of acceleration down equaled their ascent. Strangely, in an unusual act of loyalty, my gun tried to save me but I knew there was something more important than my safety at stake, my pride. So, I called out to the gun, “No! Forget about me, get the bird!” As I threw the muzzle towards the sky, about when my body was parallel with the ground, a stick tripped the trigger. Other “pretty” guns would have tried to prevent being scratched but instead the old double fired. A cock bird the size of a scout helicopter crashed to the earth at the same time I did. Everyone who was waiting to laugh stood in an awed silence. The old gun came to rest on my chest, now in two pieces, feathers wafted over us. The old double barrel looked up at me and winked. I held the halves, nodded and commented, “I can’t believe you missed that invisible speck.”
Back in formation, I looked the old gun over. It had failed inspection again, miserably rusted, broken, scratched, and dented as it was. After its’ once over, I gave it a coat of oil, took it off its bed of laurels and put it, carefully, back into its case. Then I went back to finishing up checking my scabbed apples and ugly potatoes while remembering, “All that is gold does not glitter.”
See you along the stream
DESPERADO THE PHOENIX FIREARM
A few years ago, I wrote a story about a favorite gun of mine, an old 16 gauge double barrel I call “Desperado”. When last you heard of the gun it stood at the end of a lineup of all my guns for the annual cleaning and inspection. To help jog your memory about the character and quality of the old gun; I’ll share a few lines from that last story which describe it.
‘As I move down the formation doing a careful inspection of every piece, I come to the end of the line of guns. Wobbling there is my old double barrel. It has obviously just fallen into formation, late again. The old double barrel probably just snuck in from the parking lot, stumbling, from another night of filthy infidelities and drunken debauchery, a speck of rust on its’ collar and smelling of blood and sweat. A cigarette was hanging out of the side of its barrel, as it stood under a “NO SMOKING” sign. The double barrel is a rogue cannon, a disgrace to my arsenal, the “Desperado”. I pull out the cigarette, grind it with my boot but then, carefully, rub the rust on the despicable pile of metal and wood. Despite its outward appearance and questionable background, I have always taken pretty good care of this gun. I have patched it together for years. Not because I have any gunsmith skill but because it is so ugly.
It is the only gun I’ve never been afraid of ruining. I’ve filed its bolt and latches, stripped its wood and replaced it with oil and bent its trigger spring by hand. All things I wouldn’t dare on the perfect looking chemically treated, machine cut, “pretty” guns. There is no doubt that if guns were character and flavor this gun would be a battered veteran without any care except where the next fight would be.
I didn’t even buy the beat up thing; it was dumped on me by another hunter. I tolerated it only because I had to; I couldn’t afford another gun. The double barrel only hung around with me because it needed a place to pass out. I should knock this gun down to another hunter in need of a bachelor party coordinator or pasture sire. But beyond its questionable hygiene and lack of class, it has distasteful bird bias and knocks them down with impunity. That nasty trait has become an endearing quality that makes living with the crusty piece of junk bearable. This double barrel is too lazy to do anything but shoot anything else other than what I am aiming at.’
Unfortunately that story ended with the end of Desperado as a viable weapon. That story was about Desperado’s last hunt. During that trip, the butt stock broke off which rendered the old gun un-usable. That last hunt was in 2008. Since then Desperado has limped around my gun room, standing in corners, never really ready for or fully accepting retirement.
I’ve continued to bird hunt since but it has never been the same with other guns. I missed even more often than usual with some guns. Other shotguns complained that they were too fancy to fall over strip mine high walls with me while chasing grouse. Another, an uptight stickler for regulations and pomp, celebrated misses while yet another just blew the grouse apart so there was nothing left to eat, even scaring my dog away. Meanwhile other guns complained that the brush was too thick or it was too rainy, too snowy or it was too sober to allow me to pursue my sport like the times I had shared with Desperado. My Uncle even kept a picture of us on his mantle, beaming in a pile of birds, As we paused to look at it one fall he said, “You two were a lot more fun when you were together.”
Finally, realizing I could no longer afford to keep Desperado in whiskey, or replace him, I decided to fit him with a replacement stock. Not that refitting the gun was easy or quick with me; after all I’m just a country gunsmith, with a lot of de-emphasis on “smith”. I got ahold of a replacement block cut stock that generally fit most old models similar to the double and began cutting and carving. My son jumped in at times to partake in the misery; I mean memories, of handiwork. We made good progress but then we had another small disaster. The screw that holds the stock to the receiver was lost. Finding the specific unique screw that was machined in the 1930’s that would fit to that stock was easier than I thought; it only took a couple of years. Then by a Christmas miracle this December, I saw the exact screw we needed on line (the general rule of buying ancient gun parts on-line advertised for your model is you buy five and hope to force one to fit). However this time I bought one and it fit! Once I had all the parts again, we began carving in earnest to finish what we had started and had progressed slowly four years. Suddenly, after all this time, it looked like Desperado would be able to, once again, ride the late small game season, over throw Banana Republics, castrate crocodiles, break encyclopedia sales records and direct arc lights. For a nominal payment in the form of access to public ashtrays, whiskey and leave time.
Of course, when Nick and I finished carving, the old double barrel soldier was skeptical that it would work again. I tightened the screw, did some final trimming to get the trigger guard to fit tightly, picked up the gun and pointed it at an imaginary flush and the gun flowed like it was guided by magic after the invisible target as if it never missed a day. Desperado is a true professional. I set him back in the formation and after showing him how all the new stock fit and looked on him he kind of smirked and said, “It’s okay, I guess it’ll do, not that I needed a stock all this time anyway, I could have hunted just fine”. Then the old gun picked a cigar nub out of the garbage, put it in the corner of his barrel and lit it. He squinted at me through the new grey flowing wreath and said, “Of course, if I’m going to have a stock again, I’m going to need a tattoo.” So, there I sat for the next couple of hours with my prize no one else would want and carved an oak leaf on the side. Checkering will come later. Desperado took his place once again, ready for duty; between stints in the brig… Meanwhile grouse everywhere roost uneasy.
See you along the stream
DESPERADO: BACK IN THE SADDLE
Several times I have written about my ol’ 16 gauge shotgun, “Desperado”. The quick catch up story is that Desperado was a hand me down Springfield side by side that I fell in love with despite its ugly appearance and disdainful flaws from our first hunting trip together back in 1991. It was a great bird gun and companion. On a pheasant trip out west, circa 2009, the stock fell apart. Then my son, Nick, and I spent years finding replacement parts for it and scratching a new stock out of walnut.
Last winter we had finished the gun, or got it close enough to hunt with but the season was over. This season came and Nick considered using it on his youth pheasant hunt but didn’t. Then we had to finish out football season so we didn’t get back out for birds as the buck seasons arrived. Meanwhile, the old gun paced my gun room, just itching to get out and fire at something. Desperado feels out of place all clean, oiled and rust and carbon free in a case.
Finally, during the holidays we got to take him out on his first bird hunt in years. We did some grouse hunting. The gun felt great, the company was awesome but the birds did not cooperate. I still hadn’t shot at a bird with the gun in almost a decade as January started peeling days off its calendar.
Then came the weekend for the family gathering and obligatory trap shoot that goes with it; Desperado was going to finally get as dirty inside as its soul plus it loves some competition. When the big shoot began, the old gun was more than ready. It did take a while to find some 16 gauge shells; it appears the uncouth old gun’s return had even scared off 16 gauge bullets. We finally found some old shells in a pigeon barn that wanted out of their prison bad enough to even go on a suicide mission in Desperado.
Once we got to the shoot, at first I was a little dismayed. We weren’t hitting anything. I blamed me and he insisted that I was right. Clays kept going up and landing unmolested. I wondered if leaving the stock a little thicker had changed my cheek to stock weld too much and repositioned and that seemed to help.
Then one of my brothers offered me another gun and I accepted. I started hitting clays. It definitely was me. I went back to Desperado and adjusted and BAM! Clays began to disappear in the air. (I think Desperado got a little jealous). I mean those clays were pulverized. Despite boasting a modified barrel with a full choke backup on the second trigger, that double barrel never messed around. When we had a line there was no doubt which gun hit the clay. The clays didn’t just break they disappeared into a slight mist in the air.
Soon after, Nick wanted to try ‘Ol Desperado himself. He had never shot it, just heard its legends and helped carve the stock. Again clays disappeared over and over when his gun went off. It was definitely me; I could hear Desperado yelling that to me each time Nick pulled the trigger. Then Nick graciously offered the old war horse back to me and I accepted. Again, it began to hammer the clays, not only that but the old gun began to hammer me. The trigger guard started hammering my hand and wearing on my finger as I shot. Like a Samurai, I knew Desperado would have to draw blood and it did but it kept killing clays.
Then after a while it began to feel funny on my shoulder. A screw on the butt cap had worked loose, fallen out and now the butt plate was swinging freely as the gun continued to knock down clays. The old gun was back and true to form it had hammered its targets, its shooter and then itself. Desperado still had a soul. I put the Old Gun away and made plans to fix the stock later. Of course, it complained the whole time and is now bitter that it didn’t get to finish the day but I figure two hundred shells in one day out of a one hundred year old gun is enough.
See you along the stream
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