Box Elder Wildlife Federation

[bewforg]

Every guy at some time or other probably wants a large-bore pistol. No different here, but you know the old saying about a champaigne appetite on a beer budget; I could never come up with the cash, just like a lot of other guys who are raising families.
Right off the bat here, this time I'll tell you about was "B.C.", or "Before Clinton". Had it been after the time S&W jumped into bed with Clinton and his repressive DOJ, I would never have considered an S&W. But the fact was I already had an S&W .357mag, and had been wanting a .44mag. (Why? don't ask me, it's just a guy thing...).
So anyway one day I'm down south of Willard at old S&E's, perusing the gun counter when a nicely dressed fellow comes in carrying a pistol case. He greets old Gene like they were blood brothers, they palaver awhile and then Gene asks him what he can do for him, and he says he'd like to trade in his pistol for a bigger pistol. Gene says O.K., no problem, what do you want to trade in, and the guy opens up the case and there is a S&W Mod 29-3, beautiful blue job, great wood on the grips and a Leopold scope on top. Gene says Uhhhhhh, didn't you just buy this a while back? Yep, says the gent, sure did. Don't ya like it, or is there something wrong with it? Gene asks. Nope, nothing wrong at all, I just want a bigger one, that's all. Then he says he might as well tell the story and so he bigins with his yearly flight up to Alaska to do some heavy salmon fly-fishing. He's up there in the outback, plane due to pick him up in a couple days, and he's got a big salmon on. Across the river there's Griz looking at the flopping fish and makes a beeline for it. Doc cuts the line, prudence being the better part of valor, and starts backpedaling away from the stream and into the brush. Bruin notices him backing away, and, naturally in the way of all bears he thinks food. Doc starts backpedaling faster and Bruin passes up the place where salmon had been and keeps coming for Doc who finally reaches into his waders and brings out this nice new .44 mag, and romps off a round at bruin. Bruin wobbles, stops for a couple seconds then takes up the chase again. Another round, another wobble, another round, another wobble and all the time bruin is getting a few steps closer than he was before. After the 5th round, Doc was a tad worried but finally put the sixth round into bruin who finally stops and then topples over, breathing his last bad breath into Doc's face. Doc sits down for awhile until he can stop shaking, then reloads the pistol, dropping about every second round and having to pick it up again to get them all into the cylinder. That's when he decided he had to have a bigger gun.
Gene says he understands the need, and brings out a nice 454 Casul and some ammo, Doc compared them with the .44 mag, smiles, peels off a few C-notes, gets his receipt, smiles, says have a nice day, and heads back out the store. Presumable to get ready for his next Alaska fishing trip. There I am, staring at this 6-times-shot S&W Mod-27-3 .44Mag with a Leopold scope and an 8-1/2 inch brrel. Gene smiles and says; "Got three fifty?" I says "Got fifty, can get the other three in an hour..." He says "Gimme the fifty, bring in the three by quitting time and it's yours."
So that's how I got my S&W .44mag. It's a straight shooter and I reload it with 300gr HPXTP, which I call my "Bear Loads". I ain't shot no bears with it, just paper targets so far, but it does lay three rounds in the same hole at 50yds which is as good as a guy can ask for. I picked up a couple of speed loaders and a righteous holster for use in the outback and that's the piece I carry when I go remote bush with no help within miles.
Just in case you're interested, and just in case you ever run across the brother to Doc's Griz; a big bear's heart only beats about (give or take) nine times per minute. So you see, if you hit one and he's only bleeding internally it's going to take him some time to bleed out. So, like Doc did probably without knowing it, try to lengthen out the time you have when you're laying lead into brother bad-bear, and try to forget the mean look on his face, the slobber flinging from side to side out of his gaping maw, the big feet making the turf rumble as he comes at you like a freight train, try to ignore the chilling roar that makes brave indians crap their shorts, and mind your shots, making every one of them count.
And this one is in the "true" category.