The crosshairs were dancing all over the grassy field. “I need to settle down”, I thought to myself. In the scope’s field of view was a buck with the biggest rack I’ve ever seen while holding a loaded rifle.
Seconds earlier I saw two does run from behind a slight rise in the field. They didn’t seem too happy. I quickly relocated my shooting stick to a more useful position. Yup, just as I expected this big buck comes cruising around that rise. His head near the ground, he starts harassing the does. They are all just a few yards from a very thick and very wet swamp. “OK rifle, let’s get this done. The buck starts to slow down. The crosshairs start looking like they are gonna cooperate. He was a ways away, (later determined to be 145 yards) but not far enough to worry about any holdover. I am sitting on a five gallon bucket inside one of those pop up camouflage blinds. My first time in one, and I was glad to be out of the wind. Suddenly everything looks right….the buck is facing me with his head lowered and downslope. I squeezed the trigger. I swear that 700 Mountain Rifle in .280 can cause a disruption in the space/time continuum. The buck is dead on the ground before I feel the recoil. Handloaded 140 Sierra Game Kings with H 380 powder. A secret recipe I got from an old codger who worked in the Remington Custom shop when I purchased the rifle. (I was an employee at the time). I’m guessing that bullet zips right along near its upper range, but is also super accurate and super effective.
This happened at 3:50 in the afternoon of opening day (2021) just a few weeks ago. I was thinking about it as I drove home from work. I gave my wife a call to tell her my ETA. Twenty minutes later I pulled in the driveway and glanced at the Christmas tree glimmering in the window. We didn’t bother getting a real tree this year ( my wife hauled the one from the attic and set it up) as our favorite place was closed due to supply chain issues (ugh, really? Even the damn trees were affected by the virus. But, the fake one looked very nice and I saved myself the cost of the tree, which I found out was almost double this year.
I walked into the kitchen and there waiting for me in its usual ceramic lowball was a scotch old fashioned. “You sounded like you could use one”, Wifey said.
“Ha, you know me too well”.
She even got a fire going in the big fireplace. It was cocktail hour, that somewhat choreographed ritual that we sometimes participate in after a long week. I was informed that she was going to cook a small venison roast from my opening day success. Yay, things are definitely looking up.
So there I sat in my lair, sipping on the world’s best old fashioned, warming myself by the fire. Figuring I had a little time to kill I flipped on the TV and caught the opening sequence to Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone. Oh goody, I LOVE these old shows. I was hooked after the first minute. After 15 minutes I realized I was watching pure genius. Who was the actor portraying the main character, I wondered. He looked vaguely familiar. I had seen him before. This was filmed in 1959, six years before I was born. The drink was gone, the show was over. I hope they roll the credits and don’t cut to a commercial. Ed Wynn… that’s the guy. Name didn’t sound familiar. Down the rabbit hole I go. A few quick articles on the internet and I have the basic story. Vaudeville, radio, TV, film, both comedy and drama. His son was Keenan Wynn. I always liked Keenan Wynn, go figure. Walt Disney was one of his pall bearers, that should tell ya something. On his grave is Dear God: Thanks… - Ed Wynn. Hmm, very cool.
Preparation for tonight’s dinner being mostly done, Wifey decides to join me by the fire.
“Hey, if you want a Vesper, I’ll join ya.”
“What gin ya gonna use Hon?”
“Plymouth.” She says.
“Certainly.” Says I.
That delightful sound of a cocktail shaker jingles into the living room from the kitchen, a better tune than any of those old worn out Christmas songs that incessantly stream out of the radio at this time of year. Haven’t any of the DJs heard of Mariah Carey or Harry Connick Jr.?
My better half walks in holding the drinks. We clink and I said, “Here’s to Ed, rabbit holes and the .280.”
She sees my eyes twinkle while she rolls hers.
Her reply?
“And a very Merry Christmas, Mr Scrooge, in keeping with the situation.”
The recovered .280 Game King, after passing through a good length of the spinal column weighed 79 grains. The roast, reversed seared and deglazed with cranberry wine sauce, was out of this world. I have a good idea what I want my tombstone to say……
Seconds earlier I saw two does run from behind a slight rise in the field. They didn’t seem too happy. I quickly relocated my shooting stick to a more useful position. Yup, just as I expected this big buck comes cruising around that rise. His head near the ground, he starts harassing the does. They are all just a few yards from a very thick and very wet swamp. “OK rifle, let’s get this done. The buck starts to slow down. The crosshairs start looking like they are gonna cooperate. He was a ways away, (later determined to be 145 yards) but not far enough to worry about any holdover. I am sitting on a five gallon bucket inside one of those pop up camouflage blinds. My first time in one, and I was glad to be out of the wind. Suddenly everything looks right….the buck is facing me with his head lowered and downslope. I squeezed the trigger. I swear that 700 Mountain Rifle in .280 can cause a disruption in the space/time continuum. The buck is dead on the ground before I feel the recoil. Handloaded 140 Sierra Game Kings with H 380 powder. A secret recipe I got from an old codger who worked in the Remington Custom shop when I purchased the rifle. (I was an employee at the time). I’m guessing that bullet zips right along near its upper range, but is also super accurate and super effective.
This happened at 3:50 in the afternoon of opening day (2021) just a few weeks ago. I was thinking about it as I drove home from work. I gave my wife a call to tell her my ETA. Twenty minutes later I pulled in the driveway and glanced at the Christmas tree glimmering in the window. We didn’t bother getting a real tree this year ( my wife hauled the one from the attic and set it up) as our favorite place was closed due to supply chain issues (ugh, really? Even the damn trees were affected by the virus. But, the fake one looked very nice and I saved myself the cost of the tree, which I found out was almost double this year.
I walked into the kitchen and there waiting for me in its usual ceramic lowball was a scotch old fashioned. “You sounded like you could use one”, Wifey said.
“Ha, you know me too well”.
She even got a fire going in the big fireplace. It was cocktail hour, that somewhat choreographed ritual that we sometimes participate in after a long week. I was informed that she was going to cook a small venison roast from my opening day success. Yay, things are definitely looking up.
So there I sat in my lair, sipping on the world’s best old fashioned, warming myself by the fire. Figuring I had a little time to kill I flipped on the TV and caught the opening sequence to Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone. Oh goody, I LOVE these old shows. I was hooked after the first minute. After 15 minutes I realized I was watching pure genius. Who was the actor portraying the main character, I wondered. He looked vaguely familiar. I had seen him before. This was filmed in 1959, six years before I was born. The drink was gone, the show was over. I hope they roll the credits and don’t cut to a commercial. Ed Wynn… that’s the guy. Name didn’t sound familiar. Down the rabbit hole I go. A few quick articles on the internet and I have the basic story. Vaudeville, radio, TV, film, both comedy and drama. His son was Keenan Wynn. I always liked Keenan Wynn, go figure. Walt Disney was one of his pall bearers, that should tell ya something. On his grave is Dear God: Thanks… - Ed Wynn. Hmm, very cool.
Preparation for tonight’s dinner being mostly done, Wifey decides to join me by the fire.
“Hey, if you want a Vesper, I’ll join ya.”
“What gin ya gonna use Hon?”
“Plymouth.” She says.
“Certainly.” Says I.
That delightful sound of a cocktail shaker jingles into the living room from the kitchen, a better tune than any of those old worn out Christmas songs that incessantly stream out of the radio at this time of year. Haven’t any of the DJs heard of Mariah Carey or Harry Connick Jr.?
My better half walks in holding the drinks. We clink and I said, “Here’s to Ed, rabbit holes and the .280.”
She sees my eyes twinkle while she rolls hers.
Her reply?
“And a very Merry Christmas, Mr Scrooge, in keeping with the situation.”
The recovered .280 Game King, after passing through a good length of the spinal column weighed 79 grains. The roast, reversed seared and deglazed with cranberry wine sauce, was out of this world. I have a good idea what I want my tombstone to say……
