who lives in the northeast corner of the state, almost 200 miles from me. It’s good whitetail and turkey country, even a bear is seen occasionally, and it’s polluted with woodchucks. That’s why in early fall I was up there. ’Chucks would be hibernating soon, but any we saw should be a good size. “That’s a crazy looking gun,” TR said caustically when I showed him my new rifle. “I hope it’s a Big Six of some sort. Bradford County whistlers take a lot of killing.” TR is not the most diplomatic person I’ve ever known, and he has an unexplainable sublime faith in his 6mm Rem- ington because of one weird shot he happened to make with it a couple of summers ago. We had glassed a feeding ’chuck at maybe 500 yards and TR said, “It’s my shot and I’m going to kill that critter.”
I just said, “Huh” in what I hoped was a derisive tone.
He ignored me, set up his rest and cracked one off. The ’chuck collapsed.
“Told you,” he said nonchalantly. Through my binocular I’d seen the bullet hit a stone di- rectly in line with the ’chuck but far short, and by chance the howling ricochet continued on to center that unlucky ’chuck. “You missed,” I said. “You hit 50 yards short. You must have seen your bullet hit that stone.”
All ’chuck hunters know they spend far more time using a binocular then shooting, so it pays to get a good one. This Swarovski 10x50 is unbeatable.
“Oh, I saw it. But I killed the ’chuck, didn’t I?” “That doesn’t count, it was a pure accident, nobody…” “Lissen, I shot at that ’chuck, my bullet hit him and the ’chuck is dead. What more do you want? Just because your little old .22 bullet would have blown up like a grenade on that flat rock, don’t complain to me. I’ve told you for years you oughta use a 6mm.”
I stared at him for ten seconds, but I knew there was
no use in further argument. Under normal circumstances it’s impossible to win an argument with TR, so now with a dead ’chuck lying up there after he shot at it, I was simply in a no-win situation. And from his viewpoint, he had a logical argument, I guess.
But that was then. Now we were in the big field behind his home, glassing a slope that rose to a tree line a quarter mile away, and I’d just killed one.
“You sure we should be shooting here?” I asked. “Crit- ters this close to the house are kinda pets, aren’t they?” “I kinda thought my grandson would take care of them,” TR said, “But his dad hasn’t brought him around for quite awhile, so just keep shooting.” “It’s your turn.”
“Nah, you had a four-hour trip just to get here and you probably won’t be back til deer season, so keep shooting. See if that popgun will kill any more or if your last shot was just a fluke. I’ve seen a big one around here occasionally, but I doubt if a .22-250 is enough gun for him.” “Oh, I think it’ll do the job.” “We’ll see.”
And we did. In the next half hour, three ’chucks ap- peared, two of average size at almost the same time and the third awhile later. They weren’t unusually far, 250 or so, and three shots did it. Instantly.
Why not take a break once in a while? After all, pulling a 2 lb. trigger is hard work!
Page 34 Spring 2013
“I’ll be go-to-hell,” TR said. “Not even his tail twitched. With that little .22. How’d you do that?” I grinned. “I just pulled the trigger harder.”
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