Filthy

Just look at this filthy little beast. Some people think, mistakenly, that they don't have to clean their lowly .22s. Then they wonder why the dam thing doesn't work.

 

Same goes for shotguns. Perhaps you've been on a shoot where someone's gun doesn't work because he couldn't be bothered to clean it. That in mind, I set to this morning.

Chop, chop, that SXS barrel isn't going to clean itself!

And the same applied to a couple of old pumps. Speaking of which, I like the Mossberg Ulti Mag, what a workhorse. Mind you, I might have to replace the extractors as they're getting on a bit. Not hard to do but a bit of pain.

So there you have it, all clean and ready to go unless a tragic boating accident gets in the way.

#2A,

LSP

Climate Change Shoot

One of the weird things about the climate is that it changes, no matter how much tax you pay or don't pay our elite rulers. Take Texas. 

Texas famously doesn't pay the weather tax and it's been raining for the last two days, it's been cold too. Go figure, thwart the Illuminati at your peril, but what happened? It stopped raining. That meant shoot.

We loaded up the rig with shotguns and pistols and headed out to the range. Wrap up warm? No, don't bother, the climate's changed and now it's hot and sunny. Wear your Wellington boots though because the range isn't far off a swamp. 

Right out of the gate Junior LSP was smoking clays with a Mossberg 835 Ultimag 12. Good work, kid. I followed on and shot pathetically. Dismal fail. 

But congrats young 'un and congrats 12. I thought the Mossberg was broken and needed a new set of extractors but no, the old beast was right on the money. Word to the wise, clean your weapons.

Next up, CZ's handy Bobwhite SxS 20. Great little gun and we knocked the orange clay adversary out of the sky like screaming Focke Wulfs going down over the Oder. 45s followed, a Glock 21 and a Beretta PX4 Storm.

Here's the the thing. I bought the Beretta years ago when I was pretty much a novice at pistols, apart from a brief exeat with Her Majesty's finest Brownings, which were as rubbish as I was. We made a team, the pistols couldn't hit anything and neither could I.

Whatever and fast forward, I shot thousands of rounds through the jolly PX$ Storm and there it was. Then, thanks to White Wolf Mine Consultancy Plc. I invested in a Glock 21. Same caliber, better gun.

Don't get me wrong, the Beretta's fine, it works, and I like the ergonomics of the grip, but the Glock's better. 

It's simpler, with less parts. It sits lower in the hand. It's sights are better. It's more substantial. Its magazines carry 13 rounds compared to the Storm's lacklustre 9 or 10. The Storm seems lightweight and toylike in comparison, imo.

Whatever, both guns were right on and the kid shot like a champ, plates swinging away like fury. I was impressed.

Then it was time to head for home in the light of a setting Texan sun, mission accomplished. Had we paid our Illuminati rulers some kind of tax for the privilege? 

No, we had not. Had the climate changed? Yes it had. 

Love,

LSP

Mojo Rising

Life presents us with a series of options, or choices. For example, your knees buckle, you lose your shoe and you can come clean and say you're a sick old elitist drunk, or you can lie. Your choice. Again, you can sit at home whining like a sad old deplorable, or you can get out in the field. I chose the latter option and went out in search of dove.

We set up on the tailgate, in partial shade, and waited for the birds to come swooping down on the Mojo and associated decoys. A few came in, shots were fired and a couple of birds went down, though more got away.

"Once again," said GWB sagely, "this has been about learning. I've learned that I have to go to the skeet range." I agreed, "And I've discovered that if you actually aim at a bird you have a better chance of shooting it." Dove hunting wisdom.

Then, as dusk was falling, two of the feathered rockets dived down on the Mojo with a kind of persistent fury, attacking it with beak and claw in the light of the setting sun. It was like The Birds but more frightening, because it was real. I lined up a shot on the avian predators and... nothing! No round in the chamber, good work, LSP, and by the time my beat up pump had pumped they were gone.

Don't worry, birds, there'll be a return match.

Shoot the gun,

LSP

Rimfire Warrior

Some people use the Tracking Point aiming system, which unerringly guides your shot onto the target via technology that's well nigh indistinguishable from magic. Others use iron sights and a fixed 4 power scope. I went down the latter route today.

Note Mossberg Truck Gun

It rained this morning as I was walking the dog after Mattins. That's right, it rained, for a whole minute, maybe a few seconds more. Uplifted and refreshed, I loaded up the truck with a couple of rimfires, an old JC Higgins, 22 LR, and a Ruger American, 17 HMR. Blue Ballistics got to come along too.

No Libs On The Bench

I faced off against enemy plastic water containers and some old Marlboro Light boxes, opening up off-hand at 30, 50, 75 and 100 yards with the .22. Once I got the hold sorted out the opposition went down swiftly enough, and I won't pretend that I didn't enjoy watching the water targets exploding. Take that, water enemy.

The Ruger American .17 HMR Works

The .17 was more fun, but a greater challenge. Because of the optic, you're looking for greater accuracy and not happy unless you get it. Well maybe not. It's still awesome to see a gallon water jug sail into the air after being hit by the superfast, if supertiny, .17 HMR, regardless of shot placement.

Get In The Truck, You Savage.

But what about the dog? He loved the shooting, and barked, jumped, leaped and romped in midfield, then he found his way to the source of the joy, the shooting bench. He was relegated to the truck after that.

The Water Enemy

So what was learned? Shooting rimfire is a lot of fun, no doubt about it, and it's comparatively cheap, too. The Ruger American is also a great rifle for the price, accurate as you like and then some; I'll be getting their .22 LR wood stocked variant as soon as I've saved up the vast sum of $350.

And as always,  the song remains the same, get out and shoot.

LSP

Get Out In The Field

Don't be a sluggard. Get up early and hunt some dove; you never know, you might even get some birds.

The Beach

Well, they weren't flying this morning as the sun was coming up over the fields, but I did shoot at one as it flew over The Beach.

The bird seemed to go down in a tree, which was surrounded by impenetrable thorns, so I couldn't get at it. Then again, the avian acrobat could've dodged the shot and flown off into the sunrise.

As always, great to get out in the field.

Mind how you go,

LSP

Blinded By The Sun

Monday seemed as good a day as any to wake up ridiculously early and head off to the woods by the range. So that's what I did. I took a shotgun, of course, and got there as the sun was rising. What would I find in the woods?

Bobcats? Coyotes? Squirrels? Rabbits? A marauding hog? Well, you never know and as it turns out, none of these things crossed my path. What I saw instead were lots of Woodpeckers, who were busy kicking up a racket, and a big hawk that took off majestically from the top of an old oak.

Undaunted, I cranked off a few shots at a branch that was sticking out of the water of a trashy natural tank that's called The Beach.

How Very Awesome

After the firefight, which I won, I drove to Karen's Authentic Mexican Food in Itasca and bought two Bean & Brisket burritos.

Then I ate those twin pillars of orthodoxy, on the porch.

LSP

Just Get Out and Hunt Dove!

I finished Evening Prayer,1928 BCP, thank you very much, and glanced over at a shotgun. Nothing special, just a 12 gauge Mossberg pump. That was enough. "I know," I thought to myself, "I'll go out dove hunting." And that's what I did.

Where's the Dove?

But I didn't go to the usual spot because I didn't want to shoot out the field, so I checked out another place and went  in search of birds.

Spirit of the Moon

An hour or so later I'd flushed a few from the brush, taken a couple of shots, and missed. So I hunkered down in a treeline and waited for the dove to fly. Nothing doing. Buzzards? Yes. If I'd been on a buzzard hunt I'd have reached my bag limit in minutes, which would doubtless be a fine thing, but no dove.

Texas is Alright

Still, it was simply good to be out in the field, senses heightened by the hunt and alive to the sounds, sight and smell of the Texan country. And that's alright.

Dove, listen up. This isn't over.

LSP