doublegunshop.com - home Forums General Discussion DoubleGun BBS @ doublegunshop.com How many of you started with a .410??

I started shooting at around 12 with my Dad's Sears single shot .22. My grandfather died when my Dad was 16 and he bought it for him just before he died. As far as shotguns I started with my Dad's Winchester 97 16 gauge. The first guns that I bought was a Remington 572 BDL .22 when I was 14 and an Ithaca 37 12 gauge when I was 16. I bought the Ithaca at J.C. Penny's for $169.

My first "gun" of any type was a BSA .22 underlever air rifle with a Weaver 'scope; killed many a rickyard rat with that little beauty.

First shotgun was a Webley and Scott bolt action .410 single shot which I had to carry safely for most of one season before being given a cartridge. (aged 11).

It was a wholly positive experience; woodpigeon, rabbits and squirrels were the main crop but I had a few pheasants too. I still use one for a stroll round after a hedgerow rabbit.

Eug

I think I've seen that gun at a gun show

Yeah, I think I saw it and passed on it. It had been reblued, stock was refinished and had lost all collectability.

Rockdoc, I bet that 12 guage Win M37 made you wish your shoulder was "Steelbilt"! I've shot a few of those over the years--OUCH!

Mike, you wondered if that Model 37 kicked. The following is a short story I wrote four years ago about my very first experience shooting the gun.
Steve

My First Pheasant Hunt

I remember my first pheasant hunt as clearly as if it was yesterday. It was opening day on a cold bleak drizzly November morning in 1961, I was 14 years old, the shiny new single-shot 12 gauge Winchester 37 shotgun, an early Christmas present, was cradled in the crook of my right arm as I crossed the corn field, a blacktop road was located about a block to my left, the DuPage River two blocks to my right. As usual I was alone, my father used to hunt, before the War. I knew he used to hunt, because he had an old album of tattered black and white photos - one was of him and his friends standing in front of two rows of pheasants and rabbits, all laid out on the ground in front of them. They were all smiling, holding guns, Dad tall and thin was smoking a cigarette and looked very satisfied, almost smug, but this was before the War and things were different for him then. Dad had given me the shotgun as an early Christmas present, so I would have it in time for pheasant season, I was hoping he'd take me hunting that morning, but he'd been up late the night before watching TV with his best friend Bud Weiser. Bud was doing his best to help Dad forget the War. Though WW II had "officially" ended 16 years earlier, the war memories were still an all consuming part of Dad's life. That November morning, taking his son on his first pheasant hunt was the last thing on Dads mind, besides there was other more important matters coming up such as afternoon football on TV.


I had just crossed a drainage ditch and was heading across a corn field my shotgun held high my senses ready, the wet brown corn stalks and black organic-rich soggy soil giving off a wonderful earthy smell as I walked. I heard two shots fired in rapid succession directly across the field from me, and saw a cock pheasant flying straight towards me, low across the corn, his wings nearly brushing the corn tassels. The pheasant saw me as I saw him; he flared his wings to drop into the corn. I'd never fired a shotgun before, only BB guns and a single-shot 22 rifle, I raised my 12 gauge and took quick aim at the pheasant, cradling the guns fore stock loosely in my left hand, just as I'd taught myself to hold my 22 rifle when I plinked summer blackbirds. I was unprepared for the shotgun's recoil, the fore stock jumped from my hand, the receiver smacked backwards into my cheekbone, just below my right eye. I stood there stunned, pain searing my cheek, a nasty bruise developing below my right eye. I knew I'd hit the bird, feathers drifting down from where I'd last seen the pheasant gave mute testimony to my shots success. I stood dumbfounded for a minute, dazed from the shotgun blast, and then ran over to find the bird. As I picked up my prize I heard a loud angry "hey you, come here!" from one of two men standing next to a red pickup truck parked along the roadway. The man who yelled was dressed in blue coveralls and wore a plaid shirt, the other was dressed in a brown uniform. I didn't have a clue as to what they might want, it would have been easy to disappear with my bird into the corn, but they were adults and I was a kid, when an adult called you over, you went. I picked up the bird and warily walked over to the two men. The man in the plaid shirt angrily informed me that he owned the land and that I was illegally trespassing and hunting on his property. I was then introduced to the man in the brown uniform, and informed that he was the local game warden, on hand to see to that I was properly punished. For my part I didn't understand what the problem was, I'd hunted the same land for blackbirds all summer long and no one had ever complained, in fact that's how I knew the property was rich with pheasants. The farmer asked me how old I was and where was my father, I told him that I was 14 and that Dad was at home sleeping off the previous nights drinking. They looked at my shotgun and inquired when I'd gotten it, I said that it was an early Christmas present that I'd gotten yesterday, just in time for pheasant season. With that the farmer bent down and peered at the angry swollen bruise just below my right eye, looked over at the warden shook his head and sighed. The two men walked about 15 feet away and had a short huddled discussion. While they talked I considered my options, the corn field was right there and few people knew the river bottom as well as I did, escape would be easy. However, I'd already given them my name and address, flight was not an option. After what seem like forever, but was probably only a few minutes, both men came walking back. My guardian angel was smiling on me that day, the two sent me on my way, with my pheasant, but not before the game warden gave me a firm lecture about the legalities of hunting on private land without first asking permission.

Dad was so surprised when I walked into the house holding the pheasant high above my head that he actually put down his beer, I didn't tell him about my brush with the law. My mother helped me skin and clean the bird; mom had grown up on a potato farm in the Snake River plain of southern Idaho and was very knowledgeable about cooking wild game. Our family dined on pheasant that evening, my father exclaiming between bites that this had to be the best damned bird he'd ever eaten.

My Dad and I never did hunt together, though his general lack of interest in me never bothered me until years later when I had my own kids. It wasn't until 1998 when I watched the first half hour of Saving Private Ryan in tears that I began to understand the horrors of war that my Dad spent his adult life trying so hard to forget. Though he never spoke much about it, Dad had lived those horrors, there on Omaha beach, in Normandy. Dad died suddenly of a heart attack in 1983, I thank God he was able to meet my kids shortly before he died. Though Dad never paid me much mind, it made me happy and proud that he was obviously quite taken with my three year old son and seven year old daughter, something I knew from experience he was incapable of faking.

After I graduated from college I moved to Texas and began my career as a geologist. There wasn't pheasant hunting in the Houston area and I didn't enjoy duck hunting, so that temporarily ended my bird hunting. I now live in the Chicago area and still love the outdoors. As a parent I've tried my best to instill a love of nature in my children. With my career as a geologist, summer vacations for my kids typically meant long western road trips, with numerous stops at road cuts and rock outcrops (oh no! another road cut, please Dad don't stop again!). I'm well into gray haired mid-life now and my recreation has taken a more adventurous turn, instead of chasing skirts I chase outdoor thrills. Hunting, hiking and camping, usually with one or the other of my two kids, have become my mid-life passions. Oh ya, I enjoy pheasant hunting again too.

First shotgun was a Winchester 42 my dad bought from a co-worker in the early 50's for $25. The man had bought the gun for his wife. She
had fired 1/2 of a box of Peters 2 1/2" shells (from a full wooden crate) and announced that she in no way wanted anything to do with guns or hunting. Infuriated, he sold the gun (it was like new) and the remaining case of Peters shell still in the wooden crate to my father. I with the help of my brother managed to shoot up the case of shells and then graduated to 3" shells as we soon discovered the 'need' to magnumize the little gun. I regretably sold it off about 25yrs ago in a time of $$ need. It was only a field grade but what a nice little shotgun it was. It only needed a better shooter and hunter behind it to realize it's potential I'm sure. ....I still have that wooden shell crate under my bench...

Great story, Rockdoc! I guess we've all been kicked a few times by guns and the rest of life; important thing is to get right back on the pony.... I had a couple of brushes with game wardens in my youth, and they acted responsibly--more interested in building law abiding hunters than in enforcing "the letter of the law." More interested in gaining a kid's respect than getting a kid in trouble.

We only now are beginning to recognize that most of the wounds of war don't even show on the outside. NOBODY talked about those things when I was a kid. Almost all my adult neighbors had served in the Pacific, but you would never have known it to talk to them. My uncle spend four years in a Japanese prison camp, but the only time I ever saw any sign of it was one time when he was helping us run fence and he took off his shirt....

Started off with my mom's .410 that she used for rabbit hunting, my first shotgun was a 20 gauge stevens bolt action.
Would not think of starting someone off with a .410 so with my kids it was a youth 20 gauge 1200.

Great story RockDoc and one I can relate to both as a kid with a war vet dad and now my own two years in Nam. Luckly I did take my kids hunting and teach them to shoot but that was many years ago. When folks ask when were you in Viet Nam I also say Last Night.