Couldn't Hit Spit on Saturday

[Driftwood Johnson]

We had a fine wintertime shoot in Scituate Mass on Saturday. The day dawned bright, clear and dry, with that kind of wintry sun that makes you squint when you look anywhere near it. The snow had mostly melted, and there was just a little bit of mud on the ranges.

Scituate tends to set their targets back just a little bit farther than most clubs that I shoot at, so I always have to remember to concentrate a little bit more on my front sight than I do at most other clubs. There were two other BP shooters on my posse besides myself; Brother John and my old pard Wild Bill Blackerby. The ranges at Scituate are set up so that the firing lines all face the morning sun, plus there wasn't a breath of air that morning. Wild Bill was the first BP shooter on our posse and I was right after him. After his first shot, when he started ducking and dodging and dancing around trying to see the targets, I knew we were all in trouble.

Now the evening before, when I was setting my gear out, I peeked down into the bottom of the ammo barrel and scraped around in the dregs to see what I could find left over from last season. I haven't fully fired up the bullet mine yet and I'm working off of the leftovers from last season. There were 2 or 3 boxes of 44-40 for my '73 loaded up with Mav-Dutchman bullets, but I found a box of hardcast pan lubed bullets that I had made up over a year ago, before I started casting. These are the ones that I would usually swab the barrel out halfway through the match and get enough of the fouling out of the barrel that I could continue hitting the targets. I wanted to use them up and get rid of them, so I threw them in my ammo bag.

Back at the firing line, I did my share of dancing and ducking and dodging on the first stage. I did OK. I don't remember exactly how I did, but it was OK. Then we headed over to the next stage. Wild Bill was up first, then me. We commenced with the course of fire. About halfway through my string of rifle targets, I believe it was a Nevada sweep, I noticed I wasn't hearing any clanging. I assumed I was just missing the sound in all the thunder I was making. I shot a few more and heard one clang. Then shot a few more, and again heard the deadly silence. I hollered out to the posse and asked if I was hitting anything. Again deadly silence. When I finally finished the stage I looked at the spotters and each man was holding up six fingers.

Now I'm not one of those argumentative types who questions the spotters eyesight or doubts their mothers' virtue. I took it like a man and staggered off to the unloading table, muttering that I was sure that someone was moving the targets while I was shooting. Or perhaps it was the white painted targets that tended to disappear in the white haze of smoke with the sun directly behind.

When we got to the third stage, I was the first shooter. I did my best, and again heard the deafening silence and saw the many fingers. We had a bit of comic relief when Barrister Bill had his famous Peek-A-Boo squib, and then we all broke for lunch.

This was to be a 6 stage match. Shoot 3, have lunch, then come back and shoot the last 3. Same 3 positions, different scenarios. We came back refreshed and sated. I was now last in the rotation. Again, I couldn't hit spit with my rifle. I just couldn't figure it out. There was a puff of breeze, so the smoke wasn't a problem this time. The sun had hid behind some thin clouds and I couldn't blame him. Everyone was accounted for so I couldn't blame anyone for jiggling the targets while I was shooting at them. I just couldn't understand my lack of marksmanship. Sure, the targets were a little smaller than I was used to, but my trusty '73 never fails me. If I lay the front sight on the target, it goes clang. Finally Brother John, who is a kindly soul, came up to me and put his arm around my shoulder and said 'You know Drift, it's awfully dry out here today. There's not a hint of humidity in the air. Maybe you need to swab out your barrel.'

Well, I mean to tell you, the dawn broke over Marblehead. I went over and looked at my muzzle. Instead of the usual nice gooey lube star that I'm so used to with my Mav-Dutchman bullets, there was this evil, nasty, crusty looking splotch on my muzzle. I had completely forgotten what bullets I was shooting. I whipped out my cleaning rod and my Murphy's Mix and a few patches, and lickety-split, I swabbed out my barrel with about 8 patches.

I finished the match and didn't miss a single rifle target on the last two stages of the day. Once again there was joy in Mudville. The sun came out again and smiled down beatifically. All was again well with the world.

Of course I have no good excuses for all the pistol shots I missed with my PRS bullets gobbed full of SPG. But that's for another day. I only know I used up the last of those misbegotten hardcast, pan lubed, atrocities that masqueraded as Black Powder loads.

[Cheyenne]

I feel your pain!  Though the picture in my avitar looks good, I too was suffering from "loads not normally used because I knew the tend to foul out badly".......no problem, except I forgot to bring a rod! Oh well, it was fun dumping rounds fast and not hitting nothin'! The stage this picture was taken on, I had missed the first 3 rifle rounds and proceeded to dump the remaining ones just so I could move on.

It was right after that I remembered the rounds were left overs and not my normal ones.....no rod.....poured water down the barrel and that helpeed some, but not enough.  Lube and humidity are two things we have to keep in mind.....and having a rod handy!