"Dog hunting" from a motorcycle...
Posted: Thu Apr 23, 2009 10:20 am
The recent thread regarding the shooting of a dog with an AK 47, along with a recent post regarding .32 caliber handguns has reminded me of a story -- but as it is not an actual hunting story, I have posted it in this forum.
My Mother had a couple of older brothers, one born in 1907 and one in 1909. These two men had an upbringing that is, perhaps, familiar to those who were raised in rural areas, but may need a bit of explanation to those who are "city people." My maternal Grandparents were truck farmers -- they raised vegetable produce for sale. Living in the country offered boys an interesting scope for learning and some mischief: For instance, during World War 1, while farming along the old Lincoln Highway (the USA's first transcontinental road), they would assail people from Chicago who were out driving their autos on "Gasless Sundays" with rotten eggs. They got caught once, and were hauled in front of my Grandfather by the angry victims of their pranks, who demanded that the boys should be punished. My Grandfather, a man of few words, simply noted that they shouldn't have been driving on Sunday in the first place. On another occasion, the two boys decided to try fishing with dynamite (which was commonly used by farmers in those days for blasting tree stumps from fields -- it was a more innocent time). They had two sticks of dynamite and only one blasting cap. Because one stick of dynamite would be useless if they only used the other one with the blasting cap, they decided to use both. Of course, there were no fish left when they blew up the creek they had targeted for their fishing expedition.
Both of my uncles were very avid hunters. The older one was somewhat of a self-made intellectual, and he concentrated on bird hunting, both upland and waterfowl. The younger uncle, who is the subject of my story, was a very outdoors person and an avid hunter of everything. He was also a natural marksman. My older uncle told me with a sense of awe about how they went duck hunting once. The younger uncle was using a Browning A5 which he had determined had a barrel that was excessively long. So, he sawed off 4" of length. As my older uncle pointed out, this removed all of the choke from the barrel, but this in no way impeded my younger uncle's shooting ability with the gun. Once they went hunting and my younger uncle shot so often that his right shoulder turned black-and-blue, and he simply switched to shooting from the left shoulder with equal deadly effect. (I suppose that in those days, bag limits were not a factor somehow.)
My younger uncle also hunted deer, moose, elk, turkey, Texas hogs, and badger beside upland birds and waterfowl. As a youngster, I recall eating all of this game, which was expertly prepared by his wife. A real treat was the frog legs he would get -- very tasty! For a number of years, his weapon of choice was a Remington 742 semiauto in .30-06. However, he was planning an Alaskan trip and while on an elk hunt in Wyoming, his guide displayed the flat shooting abilities of his new 300 Weatherby Magnum, which he'd just got. My uncle quickly got one of his own for his Alaska hunt.
I also recall his getting the Weatherby very well. My uncle relished taking his friends out to a range and having them shoot it. He would regale us with tails of how some of them were "scoped" with bloody results from the Weatherby's tremendous recoil. I realize now that he was trying to "buffalo" my Dad and after a time, he chivvied my Dad into trying out this fearsome weapon. I don't know whether my uncle knew it or not, but Dad had been part of his regimental target team in the Army before the war, and my uncle's effort to assert superiority failed on that day. However, I was allowed to choose one of my uncle's guns to shoot on that occasion. I chose his legendary A5, and I also choose some slug loads to shoot out of it. For a young boy, it was quite an experience to shoot that thing. I could sense the clicking and clacking of the action and the smoke exiting the ejection port -- it was quite a "bang" for a young kid.
My uncle's first Alaskan hunt was, I believe the year was 1964, and he hunted from Barrow with guides and two planes for polar bear. There were several noteworthy aspects to this hunt. One, of course, was the magnificent pair of rugs (he got both a polar and a grizzly at different times on that trip) that he brought back. Another were the films: While shooting both bears, his guide was standing behind his shoulder, armed with an 8mm movie camera, recording him shooting the polar bear three times. He even had movies of the Inuit folks washing the polar bear hide in a hole cut in the ice over the Arctic Ocean. His polar bear "squared out" at a smidgen over 9 feet. ("squaring" is the average of front paw to front paw and tip to tail measurements.) He told about Fred Bear, the famous archer, who was up there at the same time taking a world record polar bear with a bow. My uncle said that he saw that hide being skinned out also, and said he saw bullet holes in it...
All this is to point out that my uncle was quite a hunter and a fine shot. (I don't suppose that guides put their guns aside for a movie camera for too many clients.) This is a key element to the story of, perhaps, his most amazing shooting feat.
In his younger days, my uncle was also an avid motorcycle rider. His preferred mount was an Indian 74. (1200 cc) As a bit of a motorcyclist myself, he shared a number of stories about that, also. In these days during the Great Depression, my uncle would ride from the family farm far out in the country to his "graveyard" shift in the steel mills. These country roads were gravel farm roads then, and far out in the country, my uncle had to drive past a farm house where three large dogs were kept. Far out in the country, there was no light other than his motorcycle headlight, and these three dogs would chase him every time he went to work in the middle of the night. My uncle stopped and told the farmer owning the dogs that they were a hazard, and that my uncle feared they would get caught in his wheels and flip him off the road. The farmer only laughed at him.
One night, one of my aunts and her husband were visiting the family farm. This uncle worked in a lumber yard and because he had to take the cash to the bank in those dire times, he carried a .32 revolver -- I'm not sure what kind, but I believe it was one of the top-break Iver Johnson types. When they got ready to leave, my uncle asked to borrow this revolver and asked that my aunt and her husband would wait for him to arrive in the next town, planning to follow in a few minutes and return the revolver.
When my uncle got to the farm where the large dogs were, they came out and chased him, as usual. In the middle of the night, my uncle pulled the revolver and emptied it.
My uncle was not completely sure of the results of his shooting. He said that afterwards, he never saw one of the dogs again. A second dog lay dead in the farmer's yard for some time, bloated. The third dog appeared again after awhile, appearing very scrawny, as if he was gut-shot. My uncle said that he could usually see this dog running for the barn during the day, as soon as it heard the sound of the motorcycle.
My uncle lived in Texas when I arrived on the scene. Beside working in a steel mill, he had about 55 acres on which he ran a few cows. In Texas, as in the West, most ranchers are very keen to rid the countryside of any stray dog, since even tame dogs will quickly attach themselves to a pack and engage in depredations on flocks and herds. The story around the small town that his house was near was that, whenever shooting in the countryside was heard, it was usually attributed to my uncle's ridding the area of stray dogs.
I simply cannot imagine being able to discharge a revolver from a motorcycle on a country gravel road in the middle of the night at three dogs and, apparently, score three hits. Times have changed in more ways then one.
My Mother had a couple of older brothers, one born in 1907 and one in 1909. These two men had an upbringing that is, perhaps, familiar to those who were raised in rural areas, but may need a bit of explanation to those who are "city people." My maternal Grandparents were truck farmers -- they raised vegetable produce for sale. Living in the country offered boys an interesting scope for learning and some mischief: For instance, during World War 1, while farming along the old Lincoln Highway (the USA's first transcontinental road), they would assail people from Chicago who were out driving their autos on "Gasless Sundays" with rotten eggs. They got caught once, and were hauled in front of my Grandfather by the angry victims of their pranks, who demanded that the boys should be punished. My Grandfather, a man of few words, simply noted that they shouldn't have been driving on Sunday in the first place. On another occasion, the two boys decided to try fishing with dynamite (which was commonly used by farmers in those days for blasting tree stumps from fields -- it was a more innocent time). They had two sticks of dynamite and only one blasting cap. Because one stick of dynamite would be useless if they only used the other one with the blasting cap, they decided to use both. Of course, there were no fish left when they blew up the creek they had targeted for their fishing expedition.
Both of my uncles were very avid hunters. The older one was somewhat of a self-made intellectual, and he concentrated on bird hunting, both upland and waterfowl. The younger uncle, who is the subject of my story, was a very outdoors person and an avid hunter of everything. He was also a natural marksman. My older uncle told me with a sense of awe about how they went duck hunting once. The younger uncle was using a Browning A5 which he had determined had a barrel that was excessively long. So, he sawed off 4" of length. As my older uncle pointed out, this removed all of the choke from the barrel, but this in no way impeded my younger uncle's shooting ability with the gun. Once they went hunting and my younger uncle shot so often that his right shoulder turned black-and-blue, and he simply switched to shooting from the left shoulder with equal deadly effect. (I suppose that in those days, bag limits were not a factor somehow.)
My younger uncle also hunted deer, moose, elk, turkey, Texas hogs, and badger beside upland birds and waterfowl. As a youngster, I recall eating all of this game, which was expertly prepared by his wife. A real treat was the frog legs he would get -- very tasty! For a number of years, his weapon of choice was a Remington 742 semiauto in .30-06. However, he was planning an Alaskan trip and while on an elk hunt in Wyoming, his guide displayed the flat shooting abilities of his new 300 Weatherby Magnum, which he'd just got. My uncle quickly got one of his own for his Alaska hunt.
I also recall his getting the Weatherby very well. My uncle relished taking his friends out to a range and having them shoot it. He would regale us with tails of how some of them were "scoped" with bloody results from the Weatherby's tremendous recoil. I realize now that he was trying to "buffalo" my Dad and after a time, he chivvied my Dad into trying out this fearsome weapon. I don't know whether my uncle knew it or not, but Dad had been part of his regimental target team in the Army before the war, and my uncle's effort to assert superiority failed on that day. However, I was allowed to choose one of my uncle's guns to shoot on that occasion. I chose his legendary A5, and I also choose some slug loads to shoot out of it. For a young boy, it was quite an experience to shoot that thing. I could sense the clicking and clacking of the action and the smoke exiting the ejection port -- it was quite a "bang" for a young kid.
My uncle's first Alaskan hunt was, I believe the year was 1964, and he hunted from Barrow with guides and two planes for polar bear. There were several noteworthy aspects to this hunt. One, of course, was the magnificent pair of rugs (he got both a polar and a grizzly at different times on that trip) that he brought back. Another were the films: While shooting both bears, his guide was standing behind his shoulder, armed with an 8mm movie camera, recording him shooting the polar bear three times. He even had movies of the Inuit folks washing the polar bear hide in a hole cut in the ice over the Arctic Ocean. His polar bear "squared out" at a smidgen over 9 feet. ("squaring" is the average of front paw to front paw and tip to tail measurements.) He told about Fred Bear, the famous archer, who was up there at the same time taking a world record polar bear with a bow. My uncle said that he saw that hide being skinned out also, and said he saw bullet holes in it...
All this is to point out that my uncle was quite a hunter and a fine shot. (I don't suppose that guides put their guns aside for a movie camera for too many clients.) This is a key element to the story of, perhaps, his most amazing shooting feat.
In his younger days, my uncle was also an avid motorcycle rider. His preferred mount was an Indian 74. (1200 cc) As a bit of a motorcyclist myself, he shared a number of stories about that, also. In these days during the Great Depression, my uncle would ride from the family farm far out in the country to his "graveyard" shift in the steel mills. These country roads were gravel farm roads then, and far out in the country, my uncle had to drive past a farm house where three large dogs were kept. Far out in the country, there was no light other than his motorcycle headlight, and these three dogs would chase him every time he went to work in the middle of the night. My uncle stopped and told the farmer owning the dogs that they were a hazard, and that my uncle feared they would get caught in his wheels and flip him off the road. The farmer only laughed at him.
One night, one of my aunts and her husband were visiting the family farm. This uncle worked in a lumber yard and because he had to take the cash to the bank in those dire times, he carried a .32 revolver -- I'm not sure what kind, but I believe it was one of the top-break Iver Johnson types. When they got ready to leave, my uncle asked to borrow this revolver and asked that my aunt and her husband would wait for him to arrive in the next town, planning to follow in a few minutes and return the revolver.
When my uncle got to the farm where the large dogs were, they came out and chased him, as usual. In the middle of the night, my uncle pulled the revolver and emptied it.
My uncle was not completely sure of the results of his shooting. He said that afterwards, he never saw one of the dogs again. A second dog lay dead in the farmer's yard for some time, bloated. The third dog appeared again after awhile, appearing very scrawny, as if he was gut-shot. My uncle said that he could usually see this dog running for the barn during the day, as soon as it heard the sound of the motorcycle.
My uncle lived in Texas when I arrived on the scene. Beside working in a steel mill, he had about 55 acres on which he ran a few cows. In Texas, as in the West, most ranchers are very keen to rid the countryside of any stray dog, since even tame dogs will quickly attach themselves to a pack and engage in depredations on flocks and herds. The story around the small town that his house was near was that, whenever shooting in the countryside was heard, it was usually attributed to my uncle's ridding the area of stray dogs.
I simply cannot imagine being able to discharge a revolver from a motorcycle on a country gravel road in the middle of the night at three dogs and, apparently, score three hits. Times have changed in more ways then one.
