PRAIRIE ARMS

The .270 Winchester

(All photos can be enlarged by clickiing on the
image with the cursor.)


Woodbine turning Autumn colors in the garden.

Late summer turns her weary head, early Autumn arrives and the sportsman's thoughts and eyes turn to the sky, the prairies and the woods. When the constellation of Orion, the hunter rises in the evening starscape and wanderlust grows strong in limb and heart, the preparations begin.




Deborah, Nate and Sprocket outside, next to the smoker.


Outside in the BBQ/smoking/gardening/flyfishing/reloading shed, a transition begins. Garden tools and flyfishing gear are put to the side and hunting tools come out. I take an inventory of reloading supplies and equipment for rifles, pistols and handguns. This year I find that I am low on rifle ammunition for the venerable .270 Win. and out come the scales, powder measure, press and dies, along with the powder, primers, bullets, sized and polished brass casings.



The workbench, set up for rifle/pistol reloading.


When I bought my Smith and Wesson Model "1500" some twenty years ago, it was almost new, neglected, had no scope or recoil pad and a tough, factory trigger. I had the stock cut to match my arm length with an attached recoil pad and mounted a good scope. I purchased different makes and weights of factory ammo and began testing to find what the firearm shot best.


It shot better groups with 150 grain bullets than with 130 grain and it seemed to like the Federal Premium Safari loads over all others... very expensive loads.


After a long discussion with a knowledgable gunsmith friend, I bought a set of dies and an assortment of different styles and weights of bullets. I began experimenting. Long story short, the following is the recipe that has proven itself to be the best, most accurate in this particular long gun:



Case: Winchester

Primer: Remington #9 1/2 magnum rifle

Powder: IMR 4831, 54 grains

Bullet: 150 grain Speer Grand Slam






Winchester cases, Speer 150 grain Grand Slam bullets.


When well practiced, I consistently shoot 2 to 3 inch groups at 200 yards from a bench. Although I have not chronographed this load, it supposedly leaves the barrel traveling at nearly 2,900 fps and carries enough energy to knock down a deer or antelope at over 3oo yards.



I had the stock cut and a Decelerator recoil pad installed bringing the LOP to 14 5/8 inches.

The original trigger was sticky and required about 6/7 pounds of pressure to touch off a round.

My Lakewood LEO gunsmith friend removed the trigger group and performed some of his magic. The trigger now breaks crisply at about 3 pounds of pull.

The bipod is invaluable as a shooting platform for hunting out in the empty prairie. The scope is a variable 3/9 power Weaver set at one inch high at one hundred yards, at 6X power, effectively making zero at 200 yards.




The .270 Winchester was developed in the early 1920's and came into production in 1925 by Winchester Repeating Arms Company. It was the first of many "wildcat" cartridges based upon the venerable .30-'06 Springfield cartridge and still well liked by American hunters. It's populariuty is eclipsed only by its parent cartridge, the .30-'06.

WIND -and- ANTELOPE
Cheyenne Wells, Colorado

October 4th, 5th, 6th, 2007

*Please Be Advised:
The following essay contains images and descriptions of the hunt and the harvest of wild game. ______________________________________________________________________

We departed Denver at 11:00 hours on Friday, 4 October 2007 headed East on I-70. The wind was blowing gently out of the South, gusts around 20 mph. Mark set his trip odometer to zero. The Interstate makes a gentle dogleg turn South-East at Byers and heads towards Limon, which sits on the Palmer Divide, a ridge that defines two watersheds. To the North is the Platte River drainage, to the South is the Arkansas River. Limon is about an hour out of Denver.



I-70, looking West at Byers.

At Limon I-70 turns due East heading to Kansas. Mark took the third exit which put us on combined US Highway 40/287. Once again we were headed South by South-east on a two lane highway.

Hugo, Boyero, Aroya passed behind us. Bladders began to mutter and legs cried about some kind of atrophy. We stopped in Kit Carson...named for a legendary trapper/scout who, in the employ of the Bent and St. Vrain Company, helped to knit the early Colorado/New Mexico settlements into a territorial unit.

The bluffs, mesas and deep folds that define the prairie hard against the Front Range Mountains were behind us. We were now riding the rolling waves of the great, dry inland sea of the High Plains.



Here, the land becomes deceptive to the eye, seemingly flat, it rolls distant in perception and hypnotic to eyes unaccustomed to the immense sky and impossible long sight. Here is an environment perfect for the Pronghorn Antelope, "Speed Goats", "Prairie Ghosts."

At Kit Carson, we logged another hour as we turned east on US 40 towards First view and then Cheyenne Wells. The wind grew in strength. I'm guessing it was steady between 25 and 30 mph with gusts up to 35 mph.


East of Cheyenne Wells, an abandoned homestead in the middle of a
full section (640 acres~ 1 square mile) of land. One quarter was planted in winter wheat,
the above quarter section was left fallow and the remaining half stood dry corn, ready for harvest.

Mark checked his trip odometer. We had traveled 168 miles in a little under 3 hours, not counting the pit stop in Kit Carson.

Cheyenne Wells is the County Seat for Cheyenne County. It is a straight up community of hard working farmers and ranchers, most of whom welcome those hunters who ask permission and treat them and their land with respect. Unlike many of the other small towns which are mournful and threadbare in appearance, lamenting the loss of families and jobs, Cheyenne Wells is bustling, clean and still has that no nonsense, dirt-under-the fingernails, Carhartt overalls, calloused handshake, kick-ass American can do attitude.



Mark and I checked into our motel and headed out into a strengthening wind. Our plan was stop off at the Mockleman ranch to shoot a few rounds to check our firearms, shake off the pre-season willies and then to drive the section roads, searching for the elusive and exasperating Pronghorn.

I shot my S&W model "1500", .270 Win. loaded with 150 grain Speer Grand Slam bullets backed with 54 grains of IMR 4831 powder. Two groups of three shots under 3 inches at 100 paces in a wicked, blustery wind...not bad. Mark did equally well with his Pre-1964 Model "70" Winchester in .308 calibre stoked with 165 grain factory loads.

We packed up the long guns and headed out to scout. The Pronghorn were out there, as expected...dancing on the prairie, feeding in the winter wheat and keeping an eye out for anything unseemly, unusual. The wind was growing stronger. Mark and I decided to call it a day, have a beer or two, eat a bit and prepare for the next morning's hunt.


A forlorn, abandoned farm lying fallow, a great place to hunt dove and pigeon.

Saturday Morning - At 05:oo, we rolled out of the sack, made coffee, threw on hunting uniforms including the requisite hunter orange and stowed our firearms in the truck while breakfast burritos warmed up. There was a light wind, maybe 15 mph gusts.

The sun cracked the eastern curve of the earth and not one cloud in the sky as we spotted the first group of 12 to 15 antelope about a half-mile away, in the center of a full section of winter wheat. We stopped before the herd spotted us, discussed tactics and decided that we would attempt a flanking maneuver, approaching out of the rising sun.



Mark dropped me off where I could begin a sneak from almost due East, using a large mound of prairie left from some forgotten construction project as cover. He drove to where the road dipped enough to block him and the truck from view.

He gave me a thumbs up and we both began to make our way towards the herd. I headed east by south-east, Mark moved in east by north-east. As we closed in to about 600 yards, we were both stooped over, almost on our hands and knees, ready to crawl the last couple hundred yards.

Then it happened. A satellite buck, one of the younger males who is somehow chosen to be lookout, spotted Mark and trotted up to within 150 yards of him. The buck, stomped a couple of times, then turned and ran back to the herd. Mark, being closer than I, quickly dropped to one knee, picked out a doe standing apart from the rest and squeezed off a shot...which kicked up a cloud of dust right at her feet. 600 yards is a tough adjustment.

It was a melee of hooves and dust and the whole herd took off at a full run, heading north, and we could do nothing but head back the 600 or so yards to the truck. And that's why they call it hunting.

As we turned into the rising sun, the wind grew stronger out of the South.


An old adobe house and windmill set on a nominally high rise. A favorite spot for lunch
and a quick climb to glass the surrounding fields for antelope.


That incident set the tone for the rest of the day. Every time we thought that we were almost close enough, one of the herd, or small group, or twosome, would spot us just out of range and they were gone. And we were left with a rising wind and more sand in our eyes, burning our noses and gumming up our rifles.


Taking a lunch break in 30 mph winds.

By mid-afternoon, we had driven some hundred plus miles, tried every trick we knew of to put a good sneak on these wily critters and grown more and more exasperated.

And the wind kept rising. Heading due north at 40 to 45mph, the air outside the truck stood seemed to stand still. Driving across the wind was a hoot, and a challenge.
It made scouting interesting, to say the least.



Mark scouting for speed goats.

We circled back to the windmill site, Mark clambered up the windmill and spotted what looked to be a small herd about 3 miles away, feeding close to a field of standing corn. That meant cover, that meant he had a chance to actually make an approach which would allow him a shot...in 40-plus mph winds with gusts hitting 50.

I told him I would spot for him, but that I wasn't even going to attempt a shot.

About an hour later, he called me on the walkie-talkie. The stalk had taken him to within about 500 yards and he was attempting to close the gap when another satellite spotted him. The rest is a story already told.

He asked me to drive down the seam between the corn and winter wheat to pick him up. The man was exhausted, frustrated.


Late afternoon in the empty, windy Eastern High Plains.


We headed back to town as the sun settled down in West. The wind was howling, raising dust devils, laughing at all us dehydrated, windburned hunters. Of all the hunting groups with whom we spoke, two antelope had been harvested opening day.

Sunday Morning - We packed up and headed out into a very chilly morning. During the night, a Canadian cold front had moved in. The wind was now out of the North and not quite a bad as Saturday...so far.

We began our search without much hope. In fact, we didn't see any goats at first. It was as though they had packed up and headed for Kansas...or Oklahoma! Our first spotting was a pair, buck and doe who turned tail and ran the minute they saw the truck. The next pair gave us a chance to stop the truck before they sped off.

We came to a crossroads, both literally and figuratively, where neither of us had a clue as what to do. I pulled out a quarter which happened to be imprinted with the Wyoming Cowboy. As a joke I said:

"Well, if its heads, we turn West. If its tails we head for Wyoming."


10:45 AM, Sunday, 07 October 2007. Two antelope down ready for gutting and skinning.

Within fifteen minutes of the coin toss coming up tails, we spotted a group of three goats, a buck and two does. They spotted us about the same time and ran ahead of us and started to cross the road. As we rolled out of the truck, jacking loads into the chambers, the group stopped, seemingly confused by the fence on the north some 300 plus yards away.

Mark took a long shot and missed. The three sped off back from where we had first spotted them. As Mark and I jumped back in the truck to chase after them, the lead doe made her last mistake.

She led the other two back across the road, right in front of us. She crawled under the fence, the other two followed. They then stopped and milled about which gave Mark and I time to exit the truck, set up our shots using fence posts as shooting platforms.

Mark shot first. His doe took one step and dropped. The buck danced about blocking my shot until the first doe hit the ground. He then turned and ran, leaving me with a shot at a quartering away doe, some 200 yards away. I had no time to set and drew down quickly and touched the trigger on the old S&W. It barked, the doe hunched over and stumbled away about ten paces and crumbled into a heap.


Two Prairie Ghosts, a yearling and an mature dry doe. Meat for the winter!

Mark and I looked at one another in disbelief. Two animals down in less than the time it took for all the synapses to fire off recognizing that it could happen. Two hundred plus yards on each shot and one shot kills on both.
Now the work began. Time to gut, skin and pack out the meat. As we began the process, we did the forensic work on how each animal had died.
Mark's shot had entered at the right side behind the last rib. The 165 grain bullet sliced through the upper lobe of the liver, tore through the left lung and blew through the left shoulder as it exited the beast. The sudden shock would have shut down the yearling's electrical system. In all probability, it was dead before it hit the ground.

The Speer 150 grain Grand slam bullet screamed out of the old S&W.270 rifle, flew 220 paces and blew through the big doe's rib cage directly behind her left scapula. It then ripped through both lungs and mushroomed as it hit her right shoulder. What I thought was a gut shot, given the manner in which she hunched over after the bullet hit her, was a reaction to having both shoulders traumatized and her lungs destroyed. My guess is that the ten or so steps she took were more an autonomic response to flee than a choice to run. Such damage, with a high degree of probability, shut all of her systems down within milliseconds of impact.

The large doe, gutted, and ready for skinning and rough butcher.
My guess at her live weight is over 110 pounds...truly a big doe.


Mark and I took each gutted animal, hung the carcass and skinned it. We packed them in a large cooler, repacked the truck and headed into town for ice to cool down the sweet meat. Four hours later and, according to the truck's odometer, almost 700 miles logged, we pulled into "Nuevo Los Angeles de los Torres en Colorado", which used to be known as Denver, Colorado."

AUTUMNAL EQUINOX -2007

A Mountain Memorial

On the 22nd day of September, 2007, on or about 1300 hours, deep in the Cabin Creek watershed on the 13,911 ft. Mt. Meeker, the eastern most peak of the Longs Peak Massif, my beloved wife Deborah and I spread the remains of Aaron Boggs Anthony.

"Dad Anthony"....or "Bob"....or "Boggs"....or " A-A-Aaron!!!..or other loving names were attached to him over his 88 years. Mostly we kids called him Dad or Poppo.

His service to this country during World War Two has already been recounted. His work as a civil engineer will remain long after most of us are dust. However, the uncounted hours of sweat, toil and laughter he put in at the Ripley Family Compound of Luring Pines at Meeker Park have not been recalled.


They are akin to the many hours... and days... and long summer nights that many of us spent loving and being loved by that place, by the people who shared it and by the wonderful family who ran it from 1949 to 1972.

The following map, photos and writing chronicle the final deposition of Dad's ashes.

Hopefully, this will recall in those who read it, similar memories for those who share in this little walk on a Saturday afternoon on the eve of the Autumnal Equinox.

Please note:

All of the photos can be clicked and a larger image will come into view.

The yellow highlight is the watercourse of Cabin Creek from its headwaters on Mt. Meeker to where it meets Horse Creek and the South Fork of the St. Vrain River.

Homesteads like this old Boulder Creek Ranch were settled in glacial valleys and open glades of the Front Range from the 1850's through the 1920's.

A view of Mt. Meeker from the southern approach. If you look closely on the far left ridge you will see the profile known as "Chief's Head Peak" (13,579 ft.) These wide open glacial "parks" were formed during the last great ice age.

Cabin Creek...named for the remains of a cabin which Kit Carson built and used as his refuge during his years as a trapper in the employ of the Bent and St. Vrain Company in the late 1840's. It still provides a home to Brookies, Browns and the errant Rainbow Trout.

Sure now, myself it is. My ancient pack stuffed with Dad's ashes, lunch, water, rain gear and first aid kit. You will notice that "Snuffy Senior", my favorite sidearm...a S&W model 27, "N"Frame .357 Mag rides comfortably on my right hip. Deborah says that I an not bad looking for a beat up sixty year old hipster.

The Bridge across Cabin Creek. This is where most of the Ripley kids who were so inclined, sat and caught their first trout. The bridge also led to a path which took us to a wonderful little country store filled with penny candy, canned goods and barrels of pickles and crackers, bait for fishing, beer for the men and dime novels for the ladies. This bridge has been replaced at least four times in my lifetime...and it looks as though it needs to be replaced again.

Picnic Rock, where the original Ripley clan held cookouts after long weekends of work. There are spirits who still reside here....waiting for the return of the King..... It is a place full of wonder and pathos and joy.

I spread the first of Dad's ashes to meld with his compatriots at Picnic Rock. I could write a litany and not be done with names who reside here in a very, very long time. You see, beloved, the list grows almost daily.....

One of the deep holds where the trout reside where a small fall concentrates oxygen, food and a safe place to ride out the summer....growing, thriving. This trip may be about Dad Anthony, yet I cannot help but seek out where the wild trout live.

Deb catches me telling her that I have just seen a good size trout, 10 to 12 inches, moving into a feeding lane. No fishing today....at least not with a rod and line!

One of Dad's favorite places....An engineered waterfall, made to dam the creek to provide water for pumping without curbing its ability to maintain a good flow for both fish and man.

Spreading Dad's ashes into the flow of Cabin Creek. I am certain that some miniscule molecule will make a wayward path down to the Gulf of Mexico. There the ol' man will help feed the progeny of all those shrimp he consumed over the years. Lordy, how he loved seafood!

Look closely, you will see him settle into the sandy sunlit creek bottom.

Rest well and long, Poppo. You served God, your country and your family for many a long year. You deserve this quiet place, this gentle rest, this place you loved. May the good Lord that created you cradle you in his strong and loving arms, just as you did for me so many years ago.

Walking back through the old family compound, Luring Pines. The current owners have kept up the tradition of names on the cabins. And they have maintained the feel, the presence of place...of history. It is a good and blessed place.

Each is still marked with the original signage which my grandmother carved:

Brookside, Columbine, Deer Trail, Echo, Fern Glen, Grey Squirrel, Hoot Owl and Jay.

Each cabin is now privately owned, well maintained....a grand testament to the Ripley tradition.

The Crossroads, looking due north at Cabin Mountain, where Big Owl Road crosses Cabin Creek and the road splits, either returning to Highway 7 or heading downstream to the Big Elk Ranch and the South St. Vrain Canyon. Notice all the mailboxes.

Camp St. Malo, nestled at the base of Mt. Meeker where Cabin Creek crosses beneath Highway 7. Pope John-Paul II requested and held a personal retreat here in the mid-ninteen eighties.

The South Fork of the St. Vrain River facing West into the rugged high country of the southern reaches of Rocky Mountain National Park. This is the Wild Basin Wilderness, some of the most treacherous and inaccessible wild country left in Northern Colorado. To the north is the Never Summer Range, the headwaters of the Big Thompson River, the Poudre River and the North Fork of the South Platte River. To the south is the Indian Peaks Wilderness, a wicked mass of twisting montane and alpine canyons that claims the lives of unprepared humans on a yearly basis....

And this is where we leave this place, this time. The main cabin and lodge...Dad's favorite.

He is finally at rest and I hope y'all have enjoyed the tour of the Northern Front Range of the Rockies in Colorado, on the first day of Autumn, 2007.

God bless y'all, and may He hold you close and warm against His sweet breast, just as he has taken my beloved father and holds him close.

-Stephen

THE WHEEL GUN - SNUFFY SR.

Smith &Wesson
___________________________________


Model 27, N-frame, 4" barrel in .357 Magnum, matching serial number: S-129924,
stamped with ".357 CTG ~ Highway Patrolman" on the right side of the barrel.

A couple of months ago over at http://www.sondrak.com/ The Kisp'ers had a somewhat heated debate over a pic of Tammy Bruce and her lil' wheel gun, "Snuffy"...in which the stunning Ms. Bruce holds onto the pistol in a seemingly cavalier fashion with her index finger neatly wrapped around the trigger.

Not A Good Thing! ...according to most "experts".

However, it did prompt me to put these thoughts together concerning my favorite pistol, the S&W .357 Mag. pictured above. The frame has been refinished, bead blasted and Parkerized and fit with Pachmyr grips. The double action pulls at about seven pounds when uncocked and about two pounds when cocked with absolutely no creep and as crisp as a new two-dollar bill.

This is my favorite sidearm while hiking, fishing and hunting. It also resides next to the bedstead while Deb and I sleep at home. Its big and somewhat heavy. Which is actually a good thing, given that I have it stoked with hand loads which are brutally powerful. I stuff a maximum load of powder into clean and primed Win. cases (ask me, maybe I'll share) that are topped with Hornady's 158gr, HP/XTP bullets.

Just its presence is sufficient to scare most folks. And those who aren't scared would do well not to test its authority in close quarters.

- October on the Eastern Plains of Colorado, the hunt for pronghorm antelope begins

The Hunt, The Kill.


________________________________________________________________________________________________





This is not about chasin' Bambi to practice "Catch'an'Release!





PLEASE NOTE:


- This is not safe for those who are offended by the pursuit, slaughter and butcher of game.


- Each photo can be "clicked" and it will give you a larger, better resolution pic.





________________________________________________________________________________________________


A post on my favorite front porch Blog, http://sondrak.com/, has prompted me to revisit this issue.

I grew up in the Western United States. Both my parents families were farmers, ranchers or knew the cycle of birth and death and re-birth in domesitcated and/or game animals.

Growing up, I ate deer, elk, beef, buffalo, antelope, wild and domestic goat, sheep and pig, peccary, horse, mountain lion, and birds of every description. We ate what was provided us.

We all know that meat is a very dense, powerful protein. Our not-so-distant ancestors relied upon meat to sustain them and their families. They knew it so well that they began to domesticate animals for their consumption.

They knew it so well that, even after the domestication of certain animals, they chose to hunt. They trapped fowl and beasts. They shot birds, wild beasts and they fished for all manner of marine and fresh water animals.

We do the same today. It is deeply rooted in our genetic makeup. We have vestigal canine teeth which help us rip flesh. Our guts are well suited to the digestion of meat, along with fruits and vegetables and grains.

Those who think otherwise are welcome to believe as they wish.

However, they are not welcome to define my way of life and how I choose to provide food for myself and my family.

I do not agree with them and will fight till the end of my life to preserve my heritage, those ancestors who have hunted game and those who have raised, slaughtered and butchered domesticated animals.




- An abandoned farmhouse on the Plains of Eastern Colorado

I choose to hunt because of my love of the outdoors, the quiet rhythm of land and sky and weather. I enjoy the chase and all of it's nuance. It is work. It is joy. It is frustrating mayhem. It is sorrow.

I enjoy all of the fine and subtle ambiance that changes each day I walk in the field. I appreciate the patina of seasons laid upon seasons and the hand of man, as husband and lover of the land.

The use of a well tuned weapon to bring down a game animal has always fascinated me. The use of the same weapon to make a quick, clean and humane kill has always been my desire. That is what I was taught.

I enjoy the wide, wide open spaces of the plains. It is an environment that is at once overwhelming and intimidating in the powerful expanse, both of sky and land. It is also very intimate, requiring a gentle, humble acceptance of its wild nature, its gentle and fragile life.

This land will kill you. It has no conscience, nor does it care a whit as to man's frailties.

This land will sustain you. It is a land that loves those who know it and know how to respond to it with humility and caution.

- Sandhill country, the truck is a speck in the upper center.

On an early October day, Mark, my hunting/fishing partner and I began glassing the endless, rolling prairie of Southeast Colorado for signs of Pronghorm antelope..."white butts" as we like to call them.

Pronghorn are a perfect example of Darwin's theory of Evolution. They fit this country, just as it fits them. They have 270 degree vision that has been equated to a man with 8X power binoculars. Their hearts are massive pumps, nearly twice the size of a human of the same mass. They have incredible lung capacity and enjoy loping at sustained speeds near 20/30 MPH. They can, with little effort, run at the blistering pace of 60 MPH and disappear in a heartbeat...which is why many call them "Prairie Ghosts."

On this particular day, Mark and I scoped a small herd about four miles out. We made our decision to follow a shallow wash from the north which would bring us within shooting distance, maybe 200 to 300 yards.

I came up on a slight rise to find myself looking at what I thought was a 400 yard shot...that is a full four football field's distance. I dropped to a sitting stance, took one more look in the binoculars, clicked my bi-pod open and drew a bead on a satellite animal. Heat waves danced in the scope. A frisky breeze blew crossways.

I took a long breath, released about halfway and the world stood still. I could feel and see the blood thumping, moving my scope. I squeezed the trigger on my .270 Win. It roared and a millisecond later I heard a wet "Twump." Mark yelled...."YOU GOT'IM"

- Myself and an average antelope of maybe 90 pounds.

I paced off steps from where I shot to the dead goat. Three hundred fifty and some odd long steps and I found that my shot had hit dead on, blowing the top off of the animal's heart. It dropped in its tracks, dead.

I made that shot after two days of hunting. Mark and I drove and glassed and hiked and fought wind and heat waves and more wind.

He shot his animal at a little after 08:00 hours on our first morning out, a nice, older buck. He was lucky.

It took me a bit longer to do what I had come to do. Put clean, wild meat on my table.

- Skinning and dressing the goats at our friends ranch

- Myself, my backside as I skin the front legs.

A good butcher (like myself) will be able to package up between 30 to 50 pounds of meat from an antelope. This is meat with minimal fat, no growth hormones, no antibiotics. It is meat that tastes like the wild wind. It is good. And I would rather eat of it than any fancy-schmancy hundred dollar steak.

Period.

I can ususally draw one tag for antelope in Colorado every year or so. Wyoming normally has leftover tags and, if I am feeling rich, can harvest two or more animals in the Cowboy state.

That weighs in at only 150 to 200 lbs of meat...if I am successful.

It is a sobering thought, how much it requires to provide such a bounty. And, I would not change it for the world, nor any fool who does not understand.

It is my life and my heritage.