INTRODUCTION: THE PERFECT HUNTING RIFLE
Shooting writers are fond of blanket statements such as “the Winchester 94 is a great hunting rifle.” Or the Model 70, or the Remington 700. What the writer usually means is that some 94s, Model 70s, and 700s are great hunting rifles, depending on the caliber, barrel length, and stock shape. There are many factors to consider in the making of a great hunting rifle, and getting any one of them wrong can result in a gun that just isn’t very good.
There are many examples of this in the history of the modern big-game rifle. We will briefly look at a couple. One that is often singled out is the Savage 99 lever action, a rifle that was born in 1895 and stayed in production for almost a century. During this time, it was made in a bewildering variety of models, calibers, barrel lengths, and configurations. Cataloging them all has defied the efforts of firearms historians for years, and even now no one knows exactly how many of which model were made, or when.
During that time, the 99 proved itself to be strong, accurate, durable, and dependable. Out of the hundreds of models and variations, however, very few are what I would call great hunting rifles. They were all reasonably good, some were better than others, but only a few were “great.” Why? Savage always seemed to fit the wrong barrel for a particular cartridge, or misshape the stock. In only one instance, to the best of my knowledge, did the planets align and everything come together in a package that was a little gem. That occurred in the 1920s, and did not last long. The Model E from that era, in .250-3000, capitalized on the virtues of both rifle and cartridge, minimized their respective drawbacks, and resulted in a stalking rifle that is frankly extraordinary. We look at this rifle in detail in chapter VIII.
An almost endless list of factors can sink the best-laid plans. These include barrel length, rifling twist, stock shape, stock material, safety position and operation, overall weight, action length, the relationship of action length to chamber and maximum overall cartridge length, and a host of ever-more-arcane features. To create a hunting rifle with no flaws—nothing at all we would like to change—requires not only mechanical and technical knowledge, and great attention to detail, but an understanding of ballistics, ergonomics, and shooting itself. Changing any single thing can result in a domino effect that renders an otherwise good rifle practically unusable.
Also, nothing can be done in isolation; we must look at every other feature. For example, when Winchester introduced the .264 Winchester Magnum in 1958, it was originally chambered in the standard Model 70. When that didn’t sell well, it was offered in the light, short-barreled Featherweight. It was a disaster. Recoil was very unpleasant, and with the short barrel, the claimed velocity was unattainable while the muzzle blast was a beast.
Making changes to a rifle to accommodate the marketing department, or the company sales force, or the corporate lawyers, is rarely a good idea, because they never take these interrelationships into account. The Savage .250-3000 cartridge is an excellent example. When Charles Newton designed it in 1914, he intended it to shoot a 100-grain bullet at 2,800 feet per second (fps.) The marketing department, however, wanted to advertise a velocity of 3,000 fps which, ever since Sir Charles Ross and his sensational .280 Ross, had been the Golden Fleece of ballistics. To accomplish this, bullet weight was reduced to 87 grains and barrels were given a twist rate of one turn in fourteen inches (1:14). This twist rate limited accuracy in any bullet weight heavier than 87 grains, and also had an impact on effective barrel lengths. Only the intrinsic excellence of the .250-3000 allowed it to overcome these obstacles and become one of the great hunting cartridges of the twentieth century. Without these hurdles, it could well have become as much a standard chambering as the .270 Winchester.
BARRELS, BORES, AND TWIST RATES
In the simplest terms, accuracy depends on the rate of twist of the rifling. The effective twist rate depends on velocity, and velocity depends on barrel length. As I write that, I can hear the chorus of “Well, yes, but . . .” from every rifleman across the land. Of course, the barrel must be straight, the bore good, and the bullet accurate to begin with. My point is that the best bullet, in the finest bore, can be rendered unusable by the wrong combination of barrel length, twist, and velocity.
The purpose of rifling is to impart spin to the projectile and stabilize it in flight. This is the basis of accuracy. It used to be believed that bullets could be over-stabilized, so great attention was paid to having a Goldilocks twist—not too fast, not too slow. In the days of black-powder fouling and cast bullets, twists were generally much slower because a lead bullet could strip in the rifling (not “take” the rifling and spin, but simply plow on through leaving a trail of lead fouling). Such fouling is no longer an issue, and it is now generally believed that over-stabilization is a myth, or at least its effects vastly over-estimated.
Here are some general rules:
Graph that allows calculation of appropriate twist rate for a particular bullet at a given velocity. This graph was printed in the 1962 Gun Digest, in an article on twist by John Maynard. Today, computer programs for calculating twist are freely available on the internet.
• The longer the bullet, the faster the twist required.
• The slower the bullet for its length, the faster the twist required.
• The shorter the barrel, the lower the velocity, and hence the faster the twist required.
By the same token, a slow twist can be overcome by increasing velocity.
The effects and ramifications of these laws of ballistics spread out like ripples in a pool to affect many other aspects of the rifle. If the magazine is too short (in the case of a box magazine) to allow sufficient cartridge length, either the use of a long, heavy bullet becomes impossible, or it must be seated so deeply that it takes up usable powder space, and velocity is reduced below the minimum required for the given rifling. As a result, you are forced either to use a bullet that is too light, or accept mediocre accuracy.
Comparing two modern 6.5mm’s with the old originals, from left: 6.5 Grendel, 6.5 Arisaka, 6.5 Carcano, 6.5x54 Mannlicher-Schönauer, 6.5 Dutch Mannlicher, 6.5x55 Swedish, 6.5x58 Mauser, 6.5 Creedmoor. Long, heavy bullets required very fast rifling twists. The modern trend is to lighter bullets at higher velocities.
In the early bolt-action military rifles in Europe, the 6.5 mm (.264) diameter was popular, using heavy bullets—typically 160 grains. These were often referred to as “pencil-like” because the bullets protruded so far out of the case. Rifles like the Swedish Mauser, chambered for the 6.5x55 Swedish, had a rifling twist of around one turn in eight inches (1:8). This was extremely fast for the time, but necessary to stabilize the long, heavy bullet at relatively low velocities. When these cartridges were chambered in carbines, either military or sporting, velocities were reduced even further, but the fast twist still stabilized the bullet out to reasonable distances.
This lesson was either lost on the engineers at Savage, or simply ignored, when they introduced the .250-3000 in 1915. Twist was 1:14, which would stabilize the standard 87-grain bullet at the advertised velocity of 3,000 fps, but would not if the hunter wanted to use the more effective 100-grain bullet instead. Savage compounded this problem when they brought out the .250-3000 in various carbines, with barrels as short as 20 inches or even, on special order, 18 inches. With a twist of 1:14, and velocity drastically reduced because of the shorter barrel, accuracy suffered. Many of these short-barreled rifles were takedowns, popular in the early part of the twentieth century. They acquired a reputation for inaccuracy, blamed on allegedly “coming loose,” when the real culprit was the velocity-twist equation combined with their stubby barrels.
One point should be added. The early 6.5s acquired a reputation for excellent killing power, mostly due to the sectional density of their long bullets, and dependable penetration even on elephant skulls. When later 6.5 mm magnum cartridges tried to increase velocity, it was necessary to use slower-burning powders. The slower the powder, the longer the barrel required to utilize its force. Therefore, combining a bigger case with more powder and a heavier bullet all came to naught if the barrel was too short.
In the days before chronographs, hawkers of wildcat cartridges, and even many factory ones, could claim velocities that simply did not exist. The .264 Winchester Magnum, and its use in the short-barreled Featherweight model in the early 1960s, is a notorious example of all these factors coming together and sinking what is otherwise an excellent cartridge.
SHAPE AND FORM
The shape of a hunting rifle is important, and not just to please the eye of its owner or promote sales. The concept of graceful design is integral to tools of all kinds, and has been throughout history. Great original inventions are refined, usually in two ways: they are made simpler and more reliable, and they are made more graceful and ergonomic.
Ergonomics is a word that was coined in 1857 by a Polish scientist. It’s derived from the Greek words for “work” and “natural law,” and was introduced to English in 1949, during a meeting at the British Admiralty, which led to the formation of The Ergonomics Society. In North America, it’s generally taken to mean “human factors” and how those affect, positively or negatively, the use of any utensil, from cars to coffee pots. Another term would be ease of use, which has roughly the same meaning.
Imagine, if you will, a boat propelled by humans, all lining the rail and wielding paddles. The designers make the gunwales high, to prevent waves washing over. They make the paddles short, because that gives the paddlers the most leverage. In theory, wonderful. In practice, disastrous. The paddlers are positioned too high, their arms are too short, the paddles don’t reach the water, and the boat goes nowhere. The designers might argue that the fault lies with the paddlers, whose arms are too short. Had the designers tried using the boat themselves, they would have seen this problem and corrected it.
To continue with this analogy, the canoe is an ancient form of transportation, and over many centuries has been refined into a masterpiece of simplicity. A canoe can be propelled by almost anything—even by the canoeist’s bare hands, if need be. Generally, however, some sort of paddle is used. This paddle could be a length of two-by-four, a flagpole, a walking stick; in theory, one could even use a railroad tie. Obviously, all of these present some difficulty either in manipulating them to good effect, or in the minimal efficacy they would have. And so, over many centuries, the canoe paddle has also been refined, and paddles can be found in any sporting-goods catalog.
Just as there are serious shooters, there are serious canoeists, and I’ve known a few. Their attitude toward store-bought, generic paddles is about the same as mine toward rifles—which is to say, highly critical of the most arcane points. Almost all of them have custom paddles made by paddle-carving artistes. They want the right length, a grip on the end that fits their hand, at just the right angle; it must be the correct weight, and the circumference of the shaft must be correct for their hands. It must be made of a wood that affords strength without excessive weight. The shape of the blade must be just right. Some want square corners on the blade, others want it rounded—and in fact, I am given to understand, those features are determined by use: Will the paddle be used by the canoeist in the bow, or the one at the stern who steers the craft? Or, by a lone canoeist in the stern, without a front paddler? Will the canoe be heavy-laden, or a light, bobbing craft for competition? I thought I knew a little about canoe paddles. As it turns out, I really knew nothing.
Some of the serious canoeists I’ve met, given the right paddle, could make a canoe dance like a ballerina, cross a calm lake like a racehorse, or negotiate the most treacherous rapids at warp speed. These same standards of application, usability, and ergonomics apply equally to hunting rifles.
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Sometimes usability is dictated by the technology itself, and the current state of a technology might limit any advance in ease of use. The ancient matchlock firearms are good examples, and from the introduction of gunpowder in the 1200s until around 1790, guns remained clumsy, awkward, heavy, and difficult to use. Little attention was given to form, shape, weight, or fine detail until the advent of the Mantons in London. John and Joseph Manton are credited with being the first to treat a firearm not just as a tool, but as a work of art, with the art being in the function of the gun itself. It was this transition that made guns more usable. The immediate result was the rise of wingshooting, beginning with the early box-bird matches. Without guns that handled smoothly and well, shooters were limited to sitting targets. With the Mantons’ masterpieces, operation became smooth and reliable, handling was a dream, and the whole concept of shooting at moving targets became realistic.
A Joseph Manton fowling piece. The Mantons turned flintlock guns into graceful and ergonomic masterpieces, preparing the way for two centuries of superb craftsmanship in rifles and shotguns.
So finely were Manton guns made, inside and out, that locks like these found their way into museums of applied arts. Beau Brummell ranked his Manton fowling pieces on a level with his collection of Sèvres porcelain.
The entire London gun trade followed in the wake of John and Joseph Manton, and this resulted in several generations of guns that are unquestionably the most graceful—and ergonomic—ever made.
Researching further, we find that while the Mantons introduced the ergonomic concept to fowling pieces, it had already been applied to duelling pistols by makers such as Samuel Nock and John Rigby. Given the stakes, nothing was added to a duelling pistol that would not increase its efficiency and deadliness, but nor was anything omitted. The ability to shoot a duelling pistol accurately and instinctively (to say nothing of reliably) was highly prized. Duelling pistols from the 1780s and ’90s are masterpieces of form, function, and grace.
An interesting sidelight on the work of the Manton brothers comes from George “Beau” Brummell, the Englishman who became the arbiter of good taste in everything from men’s fashion to public deportment during the Napoleonic Era. The Beau had infallible taste, and his influence lives on in what is, today, proper evening dress for men. We attend black-tie dinners wearing almost the exact outfit decreed by Brummell two hundred years ago. He was most assuredly not a “dandy,” as he is often characterized, but was in fact the polar opposite. “The surest way to be out of fashion tomorrow,” he wrote, “is to be at the height of fashion today.” Brummell’s formula for proper attire was sober colors, the finest materials, and perfect tailoring. In men’s evening dress, he dictated fashion and good taste for the centuries, not just for the next gala. When he died, and his estate was listed for auction, it included, along with his collection of Sèvres porcelain, three Manton fowling pieces. They were, to Brummell’s discerning eye, the epitome of perfect form and function.
Just as Brummell’s evening dress lives on, so do many of the Mantons’ innovations in gun style and design, reflected to this day in Holland & Hollands and Purdeys.
A Safari-grade custom .270 Weatherby—a harmonious marriage of stock, action, barrel, riflescope, and scope mounts. It is beautiful as well as graceful.
As flintlocks gave way to percussion, and percussion to central-fire cartridges, the evolving technology put a strain on gunmakers to maintain, or regain, the level of ergonomics they had previously achieved. The question was how to marry new technology to proven form. Somehow they managed it, although often there was a lag, resulting in guns that were technologically superior but ergonomically inferior. This explains the fairly frequent instances of prominent shooters clinging to older guns with demonstrably inferior firing qualities, because these shortcomings were more than compensated for by their superior weight and handling. Sir Frederick Milbank, one of the greatest of English wingshooters, clung to his Westley Richards pinfires for years after they had been superseded by central-fire, and both Lord Ripon and King George V remained devotees of hammer guns long after hammers had been almost completely replaced by hammerless.
English firms like Holland & Holland had an advantage in designing their rifles, both doubles and single-shots to begin with, and later bolt-action magazine rifles. Their clients would visit the shop and speak personally with the proprietor, as well as with the stockers, barrelmakers, actioners, and others who were actually building the rifle. It allowed them to tailor it precisely in terms of weight, balance, and ease of use and handling. These luxuries—for luxuries they are, in an age of factories and mass production—are not available to the workmen in a big factory, turning out dozens or hundreds of rifles a day. In such cases, fine ergonomic design was sometimes good luck; other times, it resulted from the fact that the workmen were shooters themselves and knew what a good rifle should feel like. As well, early factories employed skilled men to do the final fitting and adjustment of such things as trigger pull, and if they saw a problem of any kind, they could remedy it before the rifle left the shop.
The problem of ideal form is not one of the stock alone, nor of the barrel and action alone. It requires a harmonious marriage of stock, action, and barrel, and even accoutrements like sights, riflescopes, and slings. A poor rifle can be improved by restocking, but a new stock rarely makes it perfect. The same is true of rebarreling. Assembling all of these disparate parts into mechanical perfection requires either a team of craftsmen who know exactly what is needed and how to do it, working together, or the efforts of one all-around gunmaker who is not only skilled with metal and wood, but knows how to combine them.
You would think, then, that the simple answer is the custom rifle: Have it made exactly the way you want it, and it will be perfect. Alas, no. It is sometimes the answer, when you get a riflemaker who knows what he’s doing, and understands what you want. Unfortunately, too often we go to so-called riflemakers who consider themselves artistes, who believe they are creating works of art, and have no idea what a good hunting rifle should feel like. Instead, they want the public to admire their exquisite checkering, the fine inletting of the stock, or the gadgets they contrive. The latter may be ingenious, but just as often are completely useless.
If, for example, you pick up a custom rifle by Al Biesen, Jack O’Connor’s “genius of Spokane,” you know immediately that you have in your hands a rifle made for big-game hunting. Conversely, pick up one by any number of other custom riflemakers, and it feels like just another rifle. It’s undoubtedly finely crafted, but not crafted for hunting. Some of these men not only don’t hunt, they never shoot a rifle themselves if they can avoid it. How could they possibly be expected to know what a rifle should feel like?
This custom hunting rifle, built by Al Biesen, is a perfect balance of cartridge and action—a .270 Winchester combined with an FN Deluxe. Completed in the mid-1980s, it includes several custom touches, including a Model 70-style wing safety crafted by Biesen himself, and fitted with a Canjar trigger.
For that matter, how can a hunter be expected to know this, if he has never had the opportunity to handle a really fine rifle? The human body is very adaptable, as witness how well some shooters have done with rifles and shotguns with lousy balance, reluctant opening and closing, bad trigger pulls, and stocks that are too short. Hefting a fine rifle is like the first time you taste a really great wine. Until you’ve experienced it, you can’t describe it, but you will remember that feel forevermore, and measure every rifle against it.
It has been known for centuries that gracefulness and ease of use go hand in hand, and this principle has been applied to swords, teapots, buggy whips, ships’ wheels, walking sticks, and duelling pistols. Its value and importance should never be underestimated. It is integral to, and inseparable from, the creation of a great big-game rifle.
THE RIFLE ACTION
The action is the heart of any rifle, and most custom projects begin with the selection of an action and proceed from there. Over the past two centuries, any number of action types have been used to build exceedingly fine rifles. In this book, you will find double rifles, lever actions, and bolt actions. There are no single-shots, not because I dislike single-shots, but because I have never owned one that measured up. There is no denying, however, that some exquisite hunting rifles have been built on single-shot actions, to the very highest levels of quality. In fact, I tried to have one built on a Dakota Model 10 action. It was a .250-3000, stocked with a piece of extraordinary walnut. I no longer have it, for the simple reason that when I received the finished rifle, it was not the magic wand I expected. It was simply lifeless—as alluring as a mannequin of a beautiful woman. In fairness, the same thing has happened to me with several custom bolt actions.
It is possible to go wrong with an action, and doom the rifle from the start. For example, if you were to obtain an Oberndorf Magnum Mauser action and then chamber it for the .243 Winchester, you would have an unnecessarily heavy rifle, probably with lamentable balance. Conversely, you could get a Mauser Kurz (short) action, chamber it for the .284 Winchester, and find yourself doomed to substandard performance because the magazine would not accept a cartridge long enough to allow the use of heavy bullets with appropriate powder charges. This latter has happened many times in the history of factory rifles, generally as a result of trying to offer as many options (calibers) as possible, while at the same time keeping costs down by trying to make one action size do everything.
This is exactly what happened when Savage introduced the .300 Savage in 1920, and tried to duplicate .30-06 performance in a short cartridge and short action. It was, and is, a fine cartridge, but fell short of its potential. It was hamstrung from the beginning by the Savage designers, not unlike the .250-3000 with its slow twist rate, five years earlier.
For these reasons, a great hunting rifle begins with the action, and the choice of a cartridge, and progresses from there.
WEIGHT AND BALANCE
Just as a rifle can be too heavy, it can also be too light. Generally speaking, an ideal big-game rifle weighs between seven pounds, complete, on the light side, and up to maybe ten pounds in heavier calibers, with twelve to fourteen pounds in a double rifle for big elephant cartridges like the .577 Nitro Express. A rifle’s avoirdupois plays two important roles: It dictates how steady the rifle can be held to make a shot, and it dampens recoil. Also, in bigger calibers, the rifle must have strength (and hence weight) to withstand the repeated destructive force of firing.
After weight, the most important consideration is its distribution. How the poundage is distributed either contributes to or detracts from the positive qualities mentioned above. There is no absolute weight that is ideal for every rifle, in every caliber. And, of course, personal preference and physical ability come into it. A man who backpacks up and down mountains will want a rifle that is relatively light, but if, after all that, he has to take a shot when he is out of breath, and misses because the rifle lacks the heft to hold steady, then he hasn’t gained much.
Generally speaking, the more weight there is in the barrel, the steadier the hold. The more weight in the buttstock, however, the shakier the hold, and also the greater the muzzle jump. Weight should be distributed so the rifle has good balance and a lively feel. This will promote better instinctive shooting, such as when you jump a whitetail at close range and have to make a shot without thinking, the way you would shoot at a flushing grouse. You want a rifle that will come up smartly, point naturally, and swing almost on its own.
Since the adoption of the bolt-action rifle as the standard sporter, roughly a century ago, tastes and preferences in weight have come down steadily. In the 1920s, a Springfield sporter with iron sights, weighing nine pounds, was not unusual. Today, such a rifle would be completely unacceptable to the majority of hunters, who think in terms of seven to eight pounds, including scope, sling, and full magazine. Once you dip below six pounds in a big-game rifle, however, you are asking for trouble. It will flutter around like a wand and kick too much, and you may have sacrificed either strength or accuracy to shed the pounds. If shortening the barrel has been part of the weight-reduction plan, you will also be sacrificing velocity.
SIGHTS AND STOCKS
The sights and the stock must be considered together, because the shape of the stock will be largely dictated by the primary sighting equipment. When brought to the shoulder and snuggled down into a secure shooting position, the stock should align the eye exactly with the sights. A perfectly fitted stock should come to the shoulder with your eyes closed and, when you open them, they should be in position to shoot with a minimum of adjustment.
The enduring problem since the 1920s, when riflescopes began to come into common use, has been creating a stock that puts the eye high enough for a scope, yet low enough to use the iron sights. This is a problem that has not been absolutely solved to this day, although Steyr-Mannlicher came the closest to doing so in the 1950s. In a way, however, it is being solved by default, as the use of iron sights becomes more and more rare.
Some ingenious German and Austrian gunmakers, who fitted detachable scopes to their rifles, would sometimes make a movable comb for their stocks. This popped up automatically when the scope was attached, and dropped back down when it was removed. Aside from the expense and sheer finickiness of such an arrangement, it did not lend itself to mass production.
This, of course, is not the only requirement of the stock, but it is a major one. The stock also plays an important part in managing recoil. Generally, a stock whose length of pull (distance from the trigger to the center of the buttplate) is too short, or has excessive drop, will magnify recoil. Lengthening and straightening the buttstock reduces it.
The pistol grip, if there is one, can be either too steep or too gradual; if too steep, it makes it slow to get into shooting position; if too gradual, it’s quick to mount but makes trigger control difficult. Similarly, if the circumference of the grip is too great, it is hard to reach the trigger, and makes the whole rifle seem cumbersome.
Unfortunately, the wrist of the stock is considered to be its weakest point, and because of that, most modern gunmakers make it thicker than really necessary. This is a mistaken belief—or at least exaggerated. Consider how slender the handle of a baseball bat is—much slimmer than a rifle’s wrist—and then how much punishment a bat takes before breaking. It’s far more than is ever applied to a rifle grip, unless your horse rolls on it or you run over it with your pickup truck. Provided the grain of the walnut is correct through the wrist, it’s extremely strong for its size, and with materials like wood laminates or composites, there is no excuse whatever for suffering with a bulky pistol grip.
The forend, which is where the forward hand holds the rifle, has similar requirements. It can be, in cross-section, like a huge flattened French loaf (a typical target stock,) a triangular slab unfit for human hands (benchrest stock,) an ungainly and awkward “dual purpose” stock, usually called a beavertail, or one that is far too small, usually referred to by anti-slim-stock writers as a toothpick. Early European stocks were very slim, modern American ones are generally too thick and bulky. Given a choice, I’ll take the slim one.
This early Mannlicher-Schönauer exhibits many features of an excellent hunting rifle stock, with a slim forend, a trim, moderate pistol grip, and just the right drop to accommodate its iron sights. Chambered for the 8x57 JS, the drop at heel and comb would not accentuate its recoil unduly.
A .300 Weatherby, one of the last made in Germany by J. P. Sauer, with an Alaskan brown bear taken on Montague Island in 1988. Many dislike the Weatherby’s California styling, but ergonomically it works extremely well.
Looking at the forend in cross-section, the ideal is either a modest pear shape or a horizontal oval. A beavertail is an oversized horizontal oval, of course, but reduced to a reasonable size it makes a very ergonomic stock. A perfectly round forend is also good, provided it is not too thick. Many modern custom gunstocks have a forend shaped in a vertical oval. This gives large, flat side surfaces, on which it is easy for a checkering artiste to apply an elaborate pattern. Alas, it means the only way of holding the forend firmly to help arrest muzzle jump is by pressing the fingertips into the checkering. The pear-shaped, round, triangular, or horizontal oval allows the fingertips to wrap comfortably around the forend and hold it firmly without having to white-knuckle it.
As a general rule, the less drop at both heel and comb the better for holding a rifle firmly and reducing felt recoil. The American style of stock design flowed originally from the Kentucky long rifle, which was shot exclusively from an upright position. It had so much drop it was impossible to shoot any other way. This style was transferred to plains rifles like the Hawken, then to early lever actions like the Winchester ’73. Schützen rifles, so popular for off-hand matches in the late 1800s and early 1900s, had similar stock configurations. It was not until the 1920s, as stockmakers began extensive remodelling of Springfield bolt actions, and the bolt rifle began its inexorable ascent, that what we now know as the “American classic” style emerged. It was developed by stockmaking immortals like Alvin Linden and Bob Owen, and today is de rigueur for any high-dollar custom rifle. As with any other style, however, the individual features of American classic can be overdone, to the detriment of overall ergonomics.
Jack O’Connor often quoted a rule that originated with Morgan Holmes, a New Jersey stockmaker. It stated that the lines on a fine rifle stock should be either straight or segments of a circle. Also, those lines should blend together into an overall design that is graceful to the eye.
In the 1950s, Roy Weatherby burst on the scene in a big way with what came to be known as the “California look.” This was, in many ways, the antithesis of American classic, and when anyone mentions it today, it’s usually to deride such aesthetic atrocities as white-line spacers, skip-line checkering, ivory inlays, and varnished wood as flashy as a cheap blonde. Generally, they also mention such exaggerated features as high Monte Carlo combs, with a forward slant to the cheekpiece.
I acquired my first Weatherby rifle in 1975, one of the last made in Germany by J. P. Sauer, and its stock was one of the most comfortable and ergonomic I have ever found—far more so, in fact, than many fully custom, so-called American classics. The forend, flat on the underside and triangular in cross section, was very slim and could be held firmly but effortlessly—essential with a cartridge like the .300 Weatherby. Similarly, while the pistol grip was steep, it was very slim. Overall, the rifle was very handy and not at all cumbersome. Weatherby insists that their stocks today are identical, and that the dimensions have not changed in forty years. Without calling anyone a liar, I beg to differ. New Weatherby stocks have the same general configuration, it’s true, but they are toned down, with corners rounded and angles modified. More important, however, they are thicker and beefier overall. So, while the original California look was gaudy and untraditional, it was also very usable. It was no accident, I believe, that Roy Weatherby himself was a serious rifleman who knew his stuff, and the man who designed that stock, Leonard Mews, was an extremely fine stockmaker, albeit one with rather far-out tastes.
If you look at the traditional Weatherby stock, you will find that Mews applied Morgan Holmes’s rule. He used more straight lines than most, and fewer radii, but the overall effect is very graceful and appealing. And, very ergonomic.
Weatherby rifles, except for the .460, are absolutely not intended for use with any sights except a scope, which allowed them to use that exaggerated Monte Carlo comb and make no allowance for iron sights. This was not an option for any mass-production riflemaker, like Winchester or Remington, that sold rifles with iron sights already in place. One partial solution is to make the stock with as slight a drop as the iron sights will allow, and then mount the scope as low as possible. This pays dividends in other ways, promoting a very firm, steady hold, and bringing the line of sight down as close as possible to the position of the forward hand. As any shotgunner knows, that makes for the best possible instinctive shooting. Another approach—ingenious in its simplicity—is to make the iron sights higher. By putting the front sight on a ramp and the rear on an island or quarter-rib, you solve the problem, and they do not in any way interfere with the scope.
Some other stock features, such as a forend tip, are purely a matter of taste and not performance. The same is more or less true of grip caps, but the buttplate is another question entirely. Modern custom gunmakers often insist on a steel buttplate, sometimes with engraving to match that on the action. Custom gunmaker Lenard Brownell is quoted as saying that a fine custom rifle with a recoil pad is like a man in evening dress wearing rubber boots. Well, if it’s pouring rain, that’s actually very practical.
Aside from the real benefits of a good recoil pad on a hard-kicking rifle, there are other good reasons to have a recoil pad (or a hard rubber one) on a big-game rifle. One is standing it up against a tree. Most of us are reluctant to do that if the rifle is wearing a finely engraved custom buttplate. Even the old utilitarian steel buttplates are not very good for that, because they slip. Also, in a pinch, where you find yourself having to use your rifle as an alpenstock, a rubber pad will grip the ground better. If the pad gets battered and tattered, it’s an easy matter to have it replaced. This is not the case with either an engraved steel one or the steel skeleton buttplates so beloved of stockmaking artistes. Aesthetically, we have mostly dispensed with the ugly ventilated pads and white spacers of years past, and today’s solid black or brown ones look very becoming, as well as being very effective.
TRIGGERS AND TRIGGER PULLS
The single most important factor in shooting a rifle accurately is the quality of the trigger pull. No matter what else you have, if the trigger is heavy, rough, and inconsistent, you can never shoot it well. It’s possible to adapt to virtually everything else about a rifle, but not that.
There are many types of triggers, and you will find several different ones on rifles in this book. There are single and double triggers, single-stage and double-stage triggers, and both single and double set triggers. Most target rifles have light, crisp, single-stage triggers. The old double-stage was found mostly on military rifles, like the Mauser 98, and those were retained on some sporterized military rifles. The Mannlicher-Schönauer originally was fitted with a double set trigger, and single triggers only became an option later in its production life.
The Dayton-Traister was one of several fine replacement triggers that allowed the wholesale conversion of military Mauser 98s into fine sporting rifles.
Double triggers, as found on almost all big double rifles, are one of several features that have been demonized to the point of absurdity by American gun writers over the past fifty years. Others include automatic safeties, as found on most English double shotguns, and Damascus barrels. Double triggers, especially, have been condemned as “agents of the devil,” which seems to be going a little far. Others have suggested banning automatic safeties by constitutional amendment.
Some shooters are given to flat statements such as, “I just can’t shoot a gun with double triggers.” Personally, I find that puzzling. Looking down my gun rack, I see both single and double triggers, set triggers, and two-stage triggers. I switch back and forth with no trouble whatsoever.
For a while, it was all the rage to have any double gun with two triggers converted to a Miller single trigger, which were ugly in the extreme and, according to reports, questionable in operation. This outrage was perpetrated on any number of fine English doubles that emigrated to the New World. This is purely an opinion, but I believe anyone who is a competent shooter can adjust to any type of trigger if he puts his mind to it—provided, of course, that it has a decent trigger pull. Certainly, if you acquire a rifle with a particular type of trigger, I would be careful about rushing to replace it with something you perceive to be preferable. It might not be, and you could find that out too late.
The key question with any trigger, again, is quality of release. This has become a rather thorny legal issue, because the last three generations of corporate lawyers have concluded that the way to avoid litigation is to fit firearms with triggers that are abominably heavy. This is the same line of logic that decrees that a sharp knife is more dangerous than a dull one when, in fact, the opposite is true.
Since at least the 1930s, after-market replacement triggers have been manufactured for military rifles like the Mauser 98, as well as better triggers to replace some poor factory ones. Some famous names include Timney, Canjar, and Dayton-Traister. More recent ones are the Jewell and the Jard. One particularly interesting replacement trigger is made by Paul Dressel—a copy of the old Model 70 trigger, which was highly praised, made to fit the Mauser 98. As with any product, some of these after-market triggers are better than others. It appears to my cynical eye that the dark hand of corporate lawyerhood has, if only indirectly, affected the operation of many of these, as well.
Some older triggers were famous, such as those found on Sako rifles in the mid-’80s. It had a release, it was said, like a “glass rod breaking.” That particular analogy dates back a long way, but it’s still apt for anyone who has ever actually snapped a glass rod. With the disappearance of glass swizzle sticks, a better one for today might be the snapping of an icicle. Those Sako triggers were, indeed, astonishing—and they came that way straight from the factory.
Another legal bugaboo has been the possibility of adjusting triggers for pull weight, creep, and over-travel. It seems that if you make a trigger adjustable, and someone makes it too light and hurts himself, then the manufacturer is liable. If, on the other hand, you do not provide an adjustable trigger, it either puts off potential buyers or forces them to get a replacement like a Timney.
Sako triggers seem to have slipped, and the new factory-trigger champ is the Blaser family of companies, which also includes J. P. Sauer and Mauser. The new (as of 2017) Mauser 98 has the finest factory trigger pull I have ever experienced—better, even, than the legendary Sako. It releases like snapping a stem of fine crystal, and the first one I tested had a trigger pull of two pounds twelve ounces. From pull to pull, it varied no more than an ounce either way, nine times out of ten.
And the worst? The two worst rifle triggers I have ever had the misfortune to experience were on a Ruger 44 Carbine in the 1980s, and a Steyr AUG in 1990. Both had a pull weight of about fourteen pounds, with four or five inconsistent, gritty stages before the rifle finally fired. The AUG at least had an excuse, since it was a semiauto adaptation of what was originally a full-auto mechanism. There was no excuse for the Ruger, and no remedy either. It got sold down the river, alas, before the Ruger 44 Carbine became a collector’s item.
Most of the rifles in this book are sitting on the rack, wearing the triggers they were born with, but three Mauser 98-based custom rifles have replacement triggers. Two of them are the above-mentioned Dressel, the third a Canjar of hallowed memory.
When the Sirens of the ancient Mediterranean sang to Odysseus and his men, luring them to their doom, it’s entirely possible they were promising an additional hundred feet per second for their arrows. The siren song of velocity is at least that old, or so it seems. Every time you think you have found the very first instance of a rifleman (or musketeer, or arquebusier) pursuing higher velocities, you stumble on an even earlier one.
It’s generally conceded that the modern era of high velocity in rifles began in London in 1851, with James Purdey the Younger. An experimenter and ballistician as well as a gunmaker, Purdey reduced bullet weight, increased the powder charge, and called his new creation an “Express” rifle. The choice of name was certainly inspired, and is with us to this day. For this reason, many believe Purdey originated the pursuit of high velocity.
In fact, it goes back considerably earlier in England, to the soldier and inventor, Lt. Col. David Davidson. He was a Scot who grew up in the Highlands, joined the Bombay Army, and eventually retired as a major. He later commanded a volunteer regiment, earning the rank of lieutenant colonel. During that time, he experimented with both rifles and riflescopes (he is considered the father of optical sights in England) and, in 1851, had his own exhibit at London’s Great Exhibition. Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s consort, who was a devoted hunter as well as instigator of many technological advances, examined Davidson’s rifles and riflescopes and praised them highly.
Davidson also interested Sir Joseph Whitworth (of steel-making fame), and Whitworth rifles, fitted with Davidson riflescopes, were used to great effect by Confederate sharpshooters during the American Civil War. Partly for this reason, Davidson is remembered primarily for his pioneering work in sporting optics rather than his high-velocity rifles. Davidson’s rifle used a belted ball, whose belts fitted in two spiralling grooves. This was not a new concept in itself. What was new was his use of smaller bores, lighter projectiles, and more gunpowder.
The Great Exhibition of 1851 is most noted in shooting circles for the exhibit of Casimir Lefaucheux, which introduced (from France) the concept of the break-action breechloader. Joseph Lang took the idea and began making the first such English guns, and this was partially responsible for the frenzy of invention and development in English gunmaking that began in the 1850s and did not end until 1914. This was largely due directly to Prince Albert himself. Being the consort of the Queen, he inspired fashion, and one of those fashions was a passion for shooting, both wingshooting and big game.
More shooters meant more demand for guns, but also for ever-better guns. The competition among London gunmakers was intense, with everyone looking for an edge. Purdey found one with his express rifles, and the concept carried over from percussion into the era of the pinfire, and then the central-fire cartridge. Proponents of higher velocity made many of the same claims in the 1860s that we have since heard from Sir Charles Ross (1908), Charles Newton (1911), various wildcatters in the 1930s, and finally Roy Weatherby in the 1950s.
With the advent of breechloaders, the centuries-old round ball finally gave way completely to bullets. As riflemakers searched for ways to increase velocity, some inspired soul took a lead bullet and hollowed out the nose. This not only reduced weight, thereby increasing velocity, but it made the bullet expand on impact with often astonishingly deadly effect—often, but not always. Rapid expansion works to the detriment of penetration, and sometimes animals escaped with ghastly surface wounds. This was in the 1870s, and the debate has continued with only faint pauses from that day to this.
Prophets of high velocity (and they can only be described in religious terms) have made fantastic claims for its effects over the years. David Davidson, who was a big-game hunter from the time of his youth, saw high velocity and lighter projectiles affording two benefits: greater range and flatter trajectory. When combined with his telescopic sights, this turned a 150-yard rifle into, perhaps, a practical and effective 200- or even 250-yard rifle. It was only some decades later that the fantastic claims began, and the belief that velocity in and of itself had some magical devastating effect.
Like every other aspect of hunting rifles, velocity cannot be considered in isolation. It is not an absolute, but the result of a combination of factors. In the days of black powder, things were relatively simple. You could only pack so much in, it detonated rather than burned, and you needed a long barrel to capture the full effects of the detonation and get the desired velocity. When black powder was replaced by smokeless, the whole equation changed—on paper, at least. Smokeless powder burned progressively, and it was either “fast” burning or “slow.” Early smokeless powders were very fast by today’s standards, and the powder story of the twentieth century was a steady progression to slower and slower powders, which allowed the use of larger cartridge cases and heavier bullets. The net result, supposedly, is higher velocities, although that is not always true.
While barrels could certainly be shorter with smokeless powders than with black powder, barrel length was (and is) still a critical factor in achieving the desired velocity. The velocity figures you read in a company catalog may or may not be true, even in their own rifles. Take the .300 Weatherby I mentioned above. You will not find it in this book because it had a critical failing: Its 24-inch barrel could not deliver published .300 Weatherby velocities. It was not until I acquired my first chronograph, in 1990, that I began measuring its loads and realized that, while it kicked like a mule and bellowed like a wounded grizzly, factory ammunition fell far short of delivering “Weatherby” velocities. As personal chronographs became as common as spotting scopes, Weatherby stopped offering the shorter barrel, and the Weatherby magnums became strictly 26-inch-barrel propositions in factory rifles.
Personally, I am neither pro-velocity nor pro-heavy-bullet (the two common divisions). Obviously, you must have some velocity, and equally you must have some bullet weight. Some of my rifles work best with higher velocities, while others prefer heavier bullets, and I make those decisions based on what I want the rifle to do. I have always found the continuing heated debate over velocity versus bullet weight to be pretty artificial anyway, with an awful lot of people who have little real knowledge of ballistics or bullet performance shouting at each other.
In 1988, with my .300 Weatherby, I killed an incoming Alaska brown bear at 17 yards. The next year, I made the shot of a lifetime on a running moose at somewhere around 300 yards. A couple of years earlier, I had made the best instinctive shot of my life on a fleeing caribou, dropping it with a bullet through the neck, and later that week killed another one, standing still, at about 100 yards. When I analyze those four shots, I find myself in a strange situation: If I had known in advance that I would need to make any one of those, would I have chosen that particular rifle? The answer is no, and yet it performed perfectly well in each instance. Certainly there was nothing to complain about, although I would cheerfully agree there was a generous proportion of luck involved in the brown bear, the moose, and the first caribou. Velocity (or the lack thereof) played no part in those kills, although I believe the second caribou pretty much disproved the theory that the “shock power” of high velocity would drop an animal in its tracks no matter where you hit it. The animal took a 150-grain bullet at whatever the velocity was—advertised at 3,550 fps at the muzzle, but in that rifle at 100 yards probably no better than 3,100 fps. It hit right behind the shoulder and he stood there looking at me, then walked in a tight circle. A second bullet in almost the same place finally dropped him.
The .300 Savage cartridge fits exactly into the short Savage 99 action when loaded with a 150-grain roundnose bullet. It functions superbly, but is severely limited, ballistically, by the action length.
The reason that rifle and I parted company was that it offended my sense of efficiency. What’s the point of a rifle chambered for the .300 Weatherby, with all that entails (big, heavy action, stiff recoil, deafening muzzle blast, and expensive ammunition) if you are going to get .30-06 performance?
The one enduring lesson was that velocity should be considered merely one of many different factors in what makes a great rifle.
CARTRIDGES
Traditionally, books on hunting rifles have dwelt at length on cartridges, looking at what each is suitable for, its long-range capability, stopping power, and so on. Not here. There are too many variables to make a blanket statement such as, “The .30-06 is a great deer rifle.” Is it? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. A Winchester Model 70 bull gun from the 1930s, in .30-06, would make a very poor deer rifle. The .30-06 is only as good as the individual rifle it’s chambered in, and the same is true of every other cartridge.
Several factors come into play, including weight, action length, and barrel length. Take the .300 Savage. In the Savage 99, with its short action, the cartridge’s overall length is severely restricted. With anything heavier than a 150-grain roundnose, the bullet is seated so deeply to function through the action that you can’t pack in enough powder for adequate velocity. Sweeping statements like “The .300 Savage can take anything in North America, given the right bullet,” might be true in a Winchester Model 70, whose long action gave the .300 Savage plenty of breathing room, but it sure isn’t in the Savage 99.
Many otherwise fine cartridges have been hamstrung by action length. The .257 Roberts, a real aficionado’s cartridge if ever there was one, was bound and gagged early in life by action length. In the case of the Winchester Model 70, the magazine was blocked to fit the Roberts’s maximum overall length, which was based on a roundnose bullet. The magazine block could be replaced with one in .30-06 length and, along with a few other modifications, the rifle became much more versatile. Remington, on the other hand, chambered the Roberts in their short-actioned Model 722, condemning an otherwise fine cartridge to a life of mediocrity.
Later in this book you will read about the .250-3000 (.250 Savage). It had problems related to both rifling twist and action length in the original Savage 99, and was also chambered by the Mauser-Werke in their “K” (kurz, or short) action. I have never had the good fortune to shoot one of those, but I do have a .250-3000 in an intermediate Mauser action. Its extra length gives the .250-3000 all the space it needs, no matter how heavy a bullet I choose to use.
The Remington Model 600, which came out in the mid-’60s chambered for two “short magnum” belted cartridges, limited both of those by its action length. The 6.5 Remington Magnum should have been a fantastic little cartridge, foreshadowing today’s infatuation with 6.5mm cartridges generally, but again it was a matter of the action limiting maximum length, which in turn restricted bullet weight and powder capacity. The same is true, to a lesser extent, of its big brother, the .350 Remington Magnum.
Many short-actioned rifles are rationalized by the questionable tenet that shooters are uncomfortable with longer bolt throws, and will “short stroke” the action in a tight situation. My experience has been the exact opposite. In a tight situation, the bolt gets slammed back so hard it would keep on going were it not for the bolt stop. Sure, you save a few ounces with a shorter action, and there is no doubt the “K” Mauser makes up into a sweet little rifle. If, however, trimming the action by half an inch restricts the capabilities of the cartridge, it’s a serious net loss. Most rifle companies seem to give this little thought, however, being caught up in the marketing possibilities of a lighter, handier rifle.
RECOIL AND RECOIL REDUCTION
In one of his books, Sir Samuel Baker tells the story of shooting an elephant with a gigantic muzzleloader. At the shot, the gun spun him around three times, knocked him back several feet, and he fell to the ground with a nose bleed. The question was whether he would get up first and grab another gun to finish off the beast, or the elephant would struggle to his feet and stomp Sir Samuel into marmalade.
Frederick Courteney Selous, a later contemporary of Baker, tells of using an ill-fitting gun for his early African hunting. It had such vile recoil that he was left with a bad flinch for the rest of his life. Ernest Hemingway, ever the merry prankster, wrote about an acquaintance he persuaded to shoot a .505 Gibbs in the basement shooting range of Abercrombie & Fitch, on Madison Avenue in New York. The man suffered a fractured collar bone. Hemingway thought this was hilarious.
With any gun firing a heavy projectile at hunting velocities, the equal and opposite reaction demanded by Newton’s third law of physics is going to be noteworthy, no matter how heavy the weapon to dampen the blow. And, another law of physics kicks in, which is that energy can neither be created nor destroyed. Any attempt to divert the kinetic energy of recoil will result in an increase in some other form of energy somewhere else, either creating a whole new problem or aggravating an existing one.
Every rifle has some recoil, although in a heavy target .22 it may be indiscernible to the average person. Like velocity, felt recoil is the result of many different factors, and it can be made tolerable by varying those same factors. Recoil is measured in foot-pounds. There’s a formula for calculating this, but in practical terms it’s of little value. If you are bothered by the recoil of a light 28-gauge shotgun with one-ounce loads, it does not help in the least for me to point out that the recoil is “only” so many foot-pounds. If it bothers you, it bothers you.
There is also the question of velocity. Over the past thirty years, I have shot, among other things, a .700 H&H, a 4-bore double rifle, various elephant guns from the .465 H&H to the .505 Gibbs, A-Square’s late, unlamented .577 Tyrannosaur, and the comparable .585 GMA. I have also fired, a few times, a .378 Weatherby. Of them all, the one I will never voluntarily shoot again is the .378 Weatherby. Experienced shooters of my acquaintance feel the same way. The recoil of the others can be big and bad, but the Weatherby is simply vicious. The reason is the velocity at which the rifle comes back at you. Heavy recoil spread out over a few micro-seconds is one thing, but it’s something else when packed into one micro-second. In one instance you get a big, loud, hard push, while in the other you sustain a blow like a left hook from Joe Frazier.
None of the rifles in this book has what I consider to be even unpleasant recoil, much less unmanageable. Some of them are quite powerful, including a .500 Express 3¼”, a .450 Ackley, and a .505 Gibbs. The .358 Norma is no pussycat, either. Only one has any semblance of a muzzle brake—the .450 Ackley—and that’s a moderate Mag-Na-Port treatment intended only to dampen muzzle jump, not rein in straight-back recoil. That was done in 1991, and if I could do it over, I wouldn’t.
This business of muzzle brakes and other recoil reducers is about equal parts wishful thinking and deliberate fraud. Any muzzle-brake manufacturer who claims there is no increase in muzzle blast is lying through his teeth. There is always increased blast. Removable muzzle brakes, intended to be taken off when hunting, can cause all sorts of problems, most obvious of which is a potential change in point of impact. Recoil absorbers, inertia-type gadgets filled with mercury and such that are inserted into the stock, can also change point of impact dramatically, and affect shooting in other ways.
At one time, I had a .500 Nitro Express double, newly manufactured. Unbeknownst to me, the maker (now out of business, thank God) put a pair of mercury recoil reducers in the buttstock, which gurgled like a hip flask. It weighed 12.5 pounds when the proper weight for a .500 is more like 10.5. The extra two pounds in the butt drastically affected its shooting qualities, causing the butt to plunge earthward every time I pulled the trigger, with a corresponding exaggerated muzzle jump. The balance was atrocious. I had the mercury gadgets removed, which moved the point of balance forward into the barrels. That ended the muzzle jump problem. It also carried easier. Alas, the point of impact changed by close to twelve inches at fifty yards, which then had to be dealt with. Even so, it shot vastly better after than before, and I took it to Tanzania and killed a Cape buffalo. Climbing down a cliff in pouring rain, with the rifle in one hand and anything I could grab in the other, I was very happy the extra two pounds were gone.
At various times, manufacturers have tried elaborate collapsing recoil pads, or even entire collapsing buttstocks. Personally, I would rather approach the problem from a different direction.
In 1993, at the Holland & Holland shooting ground outside London, I shot a number of rifles that were under construction, including a .500/.465 H&H double, and a .500 Nitro Express double. In theory, the greater power of the .500 should have translated into greater recoil. Instead, I found the .500 comfortable to shoot (eight or ten rounds worth, as a matter of fact) while the .465 was distinctly unpleasant. They weighed about the same, but the difference was in the dimensions. The .500 was being built for a man with dimensions about the same as mine, while the .465 was quite different. It shows that stock shape and dimensions can go a long way to taming recoil. The .500 NE mentioned a few paragraphs back had been built to my dimensions, too, and with the recoil reducers gone it was very comfortable to shoot.
In the matter of velocity, I have found that a rifle like the .450 Ackley has a magic threshold, above which recoil becomes very unpleasant. Stay below that threshold, and recoil is relatively mild. Practical killing power is not really affected (unless you think 2,250 fps with a 500-grain bullet is a huge difference from 2,400 fps). There are other good reasons for keeping big-rifle loads on the mild side, such as avoiding compressed powder charges and the potential problems those entail, or high pressures and stuck bolts under the blazing African sun. Recovery time for a second shot is also something to be considered.
A third factor is barrel length. Recoil has three distinct elements: straight-back push, muzzle jump that slams the rifle comb into the cheek, and muzzle blast. The shorter the barrel, the more you magnify the second and third. Keep your barrel to a reasonable length and it helps reduce both muzzle jump and blast.
Of the three, I believe muzzle blast is the worst for causing a chronic and sometimes debilitating flinch. The idea that you can put a muzzle brake on a .460 Weatherby, for example, and then wear ear protection while hunting is, to me, unacceptable. I would no more go into the bush in Tanzania wearing ear muffs than I would a suit of chain mail.
Sir Samuel Baker reserved his big guns for the worst situations. Selous got rid of the villainous weapon as soon as possible, and acquired something more civilized. Hemingway never hunted with a .505 Gibbs, but such was his respect for it that, in The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber, he armed the professional hunter, Robert Wilson, with a .505—“this damned cannon,” as Wilson describes it.
Although it’s rarely thought of this way, recoil is really one more facet of ergonomics in a rifle. And, it’s a very important one. You will never think of a rifle with affection, as an extension of yourself, if you are constantly afraid it’s going to bark and savage you. And unless you think of a rifle that way, you will never be able to do your best work with it.
* * *
We began with the analogy of the canoe paddle. We will end with an analogy of the automobile. A car can offer top speed, horsepower, gas mileage, acceleration off a stop light (a nod to my younger days, there), turning radius, road-hugging ability, comfort, and safety, or any combination thereof. Emphasizing any of those to the detriment of the others will turn the car into a specialty vehicle. Top speed is valuable in Formula One, not so much in alpine rallies. A 500-hp V8 does nothing for gas mileage. Building a car out of balsa wood might give light weight and fantastic gas mileage, but the handling would be dreadful and it would give no protection in an accident.
Similarly, a rifle has velocity, accuracy, weight, and power. At various times, manufacturers have keyed on one of these features to the exclusion of all else, and then tried to sell rifles on that basis. This rifle is so accurate, they say, you’ll never have to worry about a second shot. Or, it has such high velocity, it doesn’t matter where the bullet hits. Power? This cannon will crumple a pachyderm. Climbing mountains? Light as a feather—you’ll never know it’s there.
In a rifle, tack-driving accuracy is not a benefit if it comes at the expense of weight, stock design, or portability. You can kill a deer with a benchrest rifle under the right conditions, but that does not make it a good all-around deer rifle. High velocity is of little use if the noise is so deafening you live in terror of pulling the trigger and flinch badly when you do. Short barrels may reduce weight, but they also reduce velocity. A rifle may be light enough for you to bound up a mountainside like a chamois, but will you be able to get a steady shot when the oxygen is thin and you’re panting for dear life?
The finest hunting rifles of the last 150 years balance all those qualities, emphasizing those that are needed for a rifle’s particular purpose, but never to the extent that they compromise other qualities, and turn the rifle into such a specialized tool that it’s practically worthless for anything else.
James Woodward & Sons double rifle, in .450 Express 3¼”.
