Showing posts with label Mossberg 835 Ulti Mag. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mossberg 835 Ulti Mag. Show all posts

Friday, October 11, 2019

A Savage Twist

The ongoing War Against the Weather (WAW) took a sudden and savage twist last night. Yes, we'd been lulled into a false sense of security by warm sunny skies, and no rain, what was that, skywater? It was like being in California but without the weird gun laws, the needles, the freaks and the mosques, an Indian Summer we thought would never end. Then Boom.

Around 19:00 a fierce, chill wind kicked in from the east, thunder began to rumble and the first drops of rain fell on the Compound. The opening salvo, a foretaste of things to come, and followed all too soon by barrage after barrage of increasingly elemental fury 'til the house shook with the roar of it.

Blue Eschaton took it all in stride and laid down on a Moslem rug in the living room while I watched the celestial fireworks through the glass of the front door, listening to rain lash against the wooden walls of the house. 

It was like being in Aberystwyth, except this is Texas and accordingly larger, wilder, more ominous. Will the Compound survive, I wondered, idly gazing at a handy shotgun propped up next to a couple of obviously useful fishing rods.

Good question, so I went out on the front porch and stood there, resolute, Ahab against the storm. "Thank God I'm armed," I muttered grimly while lightning arced across the sky and flags whipped in the wind.

This continued well into morning, while our Old Enemy the Weather launched assault after assault on the freedom loving people of North Central Texas. Were we defeated? No, we were not, the Compound stands to fight again another day.

And this message is for you, Irish Bob, Beto O'Rourke. You will never be President and you and your millionaire socialist friends will not succeed in taking our guns and erasing our faith. Freedom to bear arms and freedom of religion is written into the DNA of this country, not least Texas. Mess with that and take your choice.

Aggressively yours,


Friday, May 24, 2019

Proper Little Blast Off

It seemed right to go for a shoot today, so that's what we did. Loaded a 12 and a 20 into the rig along with a .22 plinker, and headed to the range via the Walmart ammo depot.

A Plinker

The kid hadn't shot in a year and wondered if he'd hit anything. My apothatic advice was, "Put the bead on the clay and shoot." Which he did and successfully smoked the clays like they were going out of fashion.

A Gun

Take that, misnomered "White Flyer." And again, the easy to shoot CZ SxS 20 was the gun of choice over the clunky 12. Still, pump action's fun enough, if only for being illegal in once great nations because criminals obey gun laws.

A Boy

A couple of value packs of 12 and 20 later and two boxes of clays sent to skeet heaven, we fell back to some plinking and shot plates, shotgun shells and assorted range debris 'til it was time to head home.

A Grill

And that was that, big shotgunnery fun. In other news, Theresa May's abdicated like the low-level, failed, Eurocrat, elite, NWO globalist she is, and Trump's pulled the Declass trigger. Let the dice fall.

Your Pal,


Tuesday, April 16, 2019

Guns & Flags

Another typical night at the Compound, cleaning shotguns, sharpening knives and ordering Confederate flags off the information superhighway. 

Yes, you can still buy them, oddly, and you don't even have to download a Tor browser and a company of undercover Feds to do so. But what flags?

Good question. The Bonnie Blue, obviously, and the First National. They come in "superknit nylon", 3'x5', and promise to set off the front porch in a patriotic, civic pride kind of way.

In related news, plans are afoot to create subdued Bonnie Blue velcro hook cap patches. Put 'em on your cap, your coat, wherever, totally up to you. Should be ready in a week or so.



Monday, April 15, 2019

Holy Monday Shoot

The sun shone, rising incandescent over the chicken operation, and you could hear Maria singing to her ravenous birds while peacocks shrieked. A good day to be alive in Texas, a good day to shoot. 

Compound Sun

CC swung by from the metrosprawl, he wanted to test out his Winchester 1200 pump and I wanted to see if the new extractors I'd pinned into a Mossberg 835 lived up to their name. So off we went to the range with a truckload of guns. Holy Monday style.


Long story short, the 1200 didn't really work. Sure, it started off well enough, then decided it didn't want to feed or shoot when you squeezed the trigger. CC, word to the wise, lose that weapon or hang it on the wall as a keepsake. 

The Mossberg worked well enough, though three shells out of 60(?) failed to extract, the last being shooter error. So maybe a bit more attention's needed in the armory department.

CC, Lose The 1200

Then it was time for 20s. CC knocked a few clays outta the sky with a single shot something from Brazil. I call it "Old Bolsanero," for some reason, and we moved thankfully onto a CZ. Just a lot of fun to shoot, quick, dead on, light and easy on the shoulder. Stylish too, if you like a SxS.

A Couple of 20s

And go figure, we both smoked a lot of clays, hurled into the air redneck style with a plastic thrower. I'd like a machine, to be honest, but saving for a new rig and lever guns takes priority. All in good time.

Check it Out, Tejas

I tell you, this last few months have been all about shotguns. Remedial for me and a reminder of the sheer enjoyment that's to be had from blasting away at flying targets. And I have to say, again, that I'm a total convert to the 20 and, for that matter, doubles. OK, late in the game, LSP, but whatever.

Your Old Pal. Don't be a Narcissist, LSP

Shotgunnery over it was .22 plinkerthon time and what's wrong with that? Nothing at all, and it keeps your aim in on a Holy Week budget. Great fun, courtesy of Ruger and Remington, but news started to filter through to the range. Notre Dame was on fire.


Serious business, it was time to head back to the Compound.

Gun rights,


Saturday, March 30, 2019

Build The Wall & Other Things

The Compound's fortunate in many ways, not least for having a sturdy wall. It's made of wood and topped off with a flexi-mesh system to keep out illegal chickens. I know, it sounds cruel, "think of the children!," but it's doing them a favor. 

You see, they fly over looking for a new life, then Blue Terminator kills them, and the poor birds get breasted and turn into jalapeno poppers. Who knows, maybe America's southern border will have a wall one day too. 

Then there's the statues. Do you remember them? All those Confederate statues which prevented people of color from escaping the oppression of systemic racism?

These obviously need to go and many have, leaving a gaping void in our civic landscape. This needs to be filled and quickly, but by what? The answer's clear, statues of a new hero, the Grand Commander, President Trump. In gold obviously, yes, real gold.

In other news, I was going to ride but it's raining and don't want  to slip and skid in the slushy mud of the Texan tundra. So it's time to clean guns instead.

Don't forget, all four of you readers, a clean gun is a happy gun.



Wednesday, November 8, 2017

Is This Wales?!?

No, it's not Wales, it's Texas and water was falling from the sky; Skywater, we call it, or "rain." It's falling now, in that persistent, steady way that makes Aberystwyth and Llandrindod Wells so appealing to holiday goers.

A Nonchalant Skywater Selfie

Of course here in the Lone Star State rain's a novelty to be enjoyed and the experts in off-grid, DIY preparedness tell us that enough falls to keep a homestead in water for a year. 

Shotgun's In Bits

You have to collect it in cisterns and then, when civilization falls, you can drink and wash like a Water Lord. We don't have cisterns at the Compound, foolishly, though there are plenty of guns and I took advantage of the rain to clean a few. 

Filthy Little Beast

It was relaxing to oil up the machinery of the things while listening to the soothing sound of skywater and I thought of the various adventures I'd had with them. Hunting the noble unicorn, for example. That made me want to get out in the field with a shotgun and blast away in the rain.

No, This Isn't Aberystwyth

Instead, I climbed in the rig and collected the Cadet from school. He's doing well, keep those As coming, kid.

Gun Rights,


Tuesday, October 24, 2017

Coyote Moon

We hunkered down quietly at a clear point in the brush and listened to the Texan dusk. No cars, trains or people, just the undulating sound of locusts, crickets and cicadas gradually filling the soon to be night air. And there it was, the first howl.

No, not the fearsome White Wolf but its prey, a coyote. The howl was joined by a chorus of other howls, yips and barks; an eerie, unearthly, wild sound as the pack went into action in the nearby woods.

A White Wolf

In the absence of wolves, so the experts tell us, coyotes have multiplied beyond reason and become a menace, like laws on a DC statute book. Some people, especially in greater Los Angeles, foolishly feed them and then wonder in baffled consternation when the hungry creatures make off with their children.

Get A New Shotgun LSP

Here in Texas that doesn't happen and people hunt them but we were just in it for the sound of the wild dogs baying at the moon. Still, I had a shotgun close to hand in case a target of opportunity presented itself.

After a time the howls quieted down and the coyotes moved off. We did too, through the thick brush, heading for the truck and burgers at the Compound.

It's good to get out for an armed stroll in the country air as the moon rises, and the dogs remind you that the wilderness isn't that far away.

God bless,


Thursday, December 8, 2016


My mental alarm got me up just before 0500 and then the physical alarm kicked in, not to be outdone by my not-so-smart-phone, buzzing with textual insistence above the din of the cheap made in China plastic clock. 

At this point you have two options. Turn the racket off and go back to sleep, in which case your position's likely to get overrun, or turn the din off, answer Putin's texts, get up, and advance to contact. I chose the latter option and one gassed up rig later I was on my way to a duck blind, somewhere in Texas.

I got there pretty much on time, after driving through the narrow, winding, pitch black rural roads of the Lone Star State, and walked across a field through fierce cold wind to the blind. Red light, camo, and a group of guys with guns in the enclosed metal space.

It brought me back to the army, the smell and the sight of it, along with the building adrenaline of putting those guns to work any time soon in the predawn. I liked that, I liked the strong black coffee that came with it, too.

Then, just before first light, calling began and several flocks of ducks flew over, fast overhead and out of range. Up! Front! A group of birds appeared like magic out of the half-light in front of the blind. A split second of action, the explosion and muzzle flash  of the guns, and it was over. 

I shot poorly but several birds were down and we waited for more. No joy. Perhaps the stiff chill wind and choppy water of the lake persuaded the ducks to look for a calmer place to land. Maybe an incoming cold front had altered their flight plan. Who knows.

What we do know is that it was worth getting up early and getting out in the field. Big fun. It might even make sense to bivvy up overnight and be in position to shoot the next day, which would save the drive but make for a cold evening. We'll see.

So, a good morning was had by all and then it was back to the Compound to regroup and the next evolution, visiting the sick. But that, readers, is another story.

Don't be a pathetic comsymp lib, LSP

Don't be a pathetic comsymp lib, get in the blind.

Gun rights,


Saturday, September 3, 2016

Mission Accomplished

Farsighted readers of this country life mind blog may remember that today started off with a plan. Viz. Put rod, reel and gun in the rig and head out for action, and that's what happened.

First stop, the Big Pond, hook up for Bass and cast off. I used a pink worm, I don't know why, it just seemed right. Perhaps I thought the sluggish-heat-of-the-afternoon-fish would be stirred up by the shocking pink plastic of the thing.

Whatever the case, it worked, and before too long out came a very decent Bass. Good result, they want the pink worm, so keep it coming. Sure enough, I didn't have to wait long before the hook was set and the line was playing out again. In a big way. 

It felt, in my mind, like a Leviathan Bass or a big Catfish, so imagine my surprise when I finally reeled in a turtle, a big one. Both it and the Bass lived to fight again another day.

Then it was time for dove and I joined some of the team, who were merrily shooting down an avian acrobat the size of a Condor. No kidding, it was a huge dove and that got my hopes up. I've entered the Land of the Giant Dove (LGD), I thought to myself. But it was a false peak, the birds weren't flying, though it was fun to look out on the bucolic paradise of Olde Texas in eager expectation.

After an hour or so of that, everyone fell back to HQ for a grillout and fun and you know what? That's what it was, a lot of fun in the countryside, and there's nothing wrong with that, at all.

Your Old Friend,


Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Are You Ready For The Country?

Good question. Maybe you are, maybe you're not, but one thing's certain, the hat most certainly is. Speaking of which, no one's attempted to vandalize or remove this statue.

Sensible townsfolk.

All for the Cause,