A Blast from the Past

Jerry Mosley sent me a story about shooting my 270 deer rifle for the first time when we were teenagers. I think everyone will enjoy it. I certainly did. I still have that rifle. It has been gathering dust in my closet for the past 20 years. Now the only shooting of animals that I do is with my camera. I wish that I could do more. Our grand daughter Kate enjoys going to the golf course with her dad and grandpa Worthy. She loves to look for balls and pick up broken tees and riding on the gof cart. What she loves most is seeing the deer and turkeys that frequent the course. She asked her dad the other day if people shoot deer and when her dad said that they do she asked him " but why? I really like deer." He said it dampened any thoughts he had for ever going hunting again. Well I hope you enjoy the pictures and the story from Jerry. He has written some more stories of our adventures together that I will post on a future blog.

THE FIRST TIME I SHOT A HIGH POWER RIFLE
OR THE GREAT PEACHY MASSACRE
By Gerald F. Mosley

There are times that mark a rite of passage in a boy’s life. One of these is the first time he shoulders a high powered rifle and squeezes off a round that rings his head like a striker in a cathedral bell and whacks his shoulder with a force sufficient to remind him of what he holds in his hands.

I was in high school the first time the opportunity came to me. My life-long buddy and cohort in crime had acquired a Remington model 700 bolt action 270 caliber rifle and was intent on slaying beasts for his family’s larder. Worthy Glover was not one to be trifled with when it came to outdoorsmanship and the like. He was a natural artist and his gift and talent produce many fine sketches and drawings of animals in the wild found in the vicinity of our native home in the northern Black Hills of South Dakota.

One Fall afternoon we decided to accompany Worthy to watch him get some target practice prior to the upcoming hunt. We, Wesley Petersen, Worthy, and I, jumped in the black and white Nash Rambler. We had scraped together three dollars and some cents to buy a tank full of gas and we proceeded to head out into the wilds.

The Rambler was the main work vehicle for Worthy’s father Tommy Glover and was equipped with a public address sound system. On the roof of the car on a modified luggage rack was a pair of large metal loud-speakers powered by an amplifier which was itself powered by a electrical inverter that converted the 6 volts from the engine to the power necessary to run the amplifier. In addition there was a record playing turntable that could be used to pipe music through the loud-speakers on the roof and thereby set the hills and canyons with the resounding melodies of the Association, the Kingston Trio, The Beatles, The New Christy Minstrels, and when Worthy’s dad was advertising, various country western and bluegrass tunes interspersed with “Plan to attend the Trial of Jack McCall in historic downtown Deadwood............. Your trip to the Black Hills would be incomplete without your attending the Trial of Jack McCall!” coming from the microphone in the driver’s hands. Or “Plan to attend the Black Hills Passion Play in Spearfish!”

Well, we three gassed up the Rambler and headed out of town toward Trojan by way of Grizzly Gulch. Worthy’s 270 carefully sequestered in its gun case, a box of ammo, and the four wheeled boom box blaring tunes. The day was a splendid autumn day. The leaves were turning and the smell of Fall was invigorating in the chill air. We drove up the road in Grizzly Gulch and turned around again looking for a spot safe to shoot the rifle. After coming upon the remains of a garbage dump or at least a place where the locals had decided was a dumping place. We stopped and got out, shut off the music to save the battery in the car, and removed the rifle in its scabbard.

Worthy and Wes, and I rummaged around in the dump looking for a likely target and Worthy stumbled upon a two quart Mason jar of home canned peaches with the sealed lid bulging ominously. This he set in plain sight on a rock at the far end of the dump. We then retired to a vantage point at least a hundred and fifty feet away. Worthy carefully removed the 270 from the case and put some cartridges in the clip. He took a moment to inspect the rifle and handed it to Wes. Wesley took the rifle and chambered a round and drew a bead on the distant jar of peaches. He took a look downrange and pulled the trigger. The concussion was deafening. None of us had ear plugs. The report echoed up and down the gulch until it became a dull roar in the distance. Wes had flinched. The jar of peaches remained untouched.

Then it was my turn. Wes passed the rifle to me. We had agreed that each of us would be allowed one shot only. I gingerly took the rifle muzzle pointed safely in the air. With my ears still ringing from the previous attempt I chambered another round. Worthy coached me and advised that I set the butt of the rifle deep into my right shoulder or I would live to regret it. I took him at his word. I placed my finger on the trigger and sighted on the jar of peaches mocking me in the distance. It was him or me. The moment of decision had arrived. It was the first time I had ever shouldered a high powered rifle. I took a deep breath, exhaled, took another breath and slowly released it as I pulled back on the trigger. The rifle leapt in my hands and again the roar echoed through the hills. My head hurt, my shoulder hurt, my ears hurt, and the jar of peaches stood mockingly on its rock perch defying us to slay it. Then it was Worthy’s turn.

The rifle was passed. The third round was chambered. Steady aim was taken. The shot rang out. As we watched in amazement, on the far side of the dump a volcano erupted. Not dirt this time, not lava, but a 20 foot cloud of mist and fragments appeared rising in the distance. The wind down range was causing the mist to drift in our direction. Soon the autumn air more fragrant than it had already been as it was now perfumed with the aroma of home canned peaches, overwhelmingly perfumed with the smell!

The jar no longer existed. In its place were the bright orange blood stains of the slain peaches. No longer able to stand in its defiance, we had prevailed victorious. Our metal tested, we had overcome.
There was nothing left to do. We packed up the 270. I seem to recall a couple more test shots, but the clip was now empty so we put on a new record, piped it through the speakers on the roof and drove into the sunset. “Good, good, good, good vibrations!”