Lever Guns

[Bruce Cartwright]

It is all about perspectives.

There are a whole bunch of people who love the looks of the N Frame S&W, especially a Model 29. Same with a classic lever action. Many people dream of hunting with them, adventures, so on and so forth. Eventually they buy one or both. Then they don't use them because they are worried about scratching the fancy wood grips, or beautiful bluing, etc. They bought them dreaming of using them on adventures, then they never do. They take them out of their safes every now and then and daydream, occasionally taking them to the range but that is as far as it usually goes. No trips to the mountains chasing elk, no snowy adventures in steep and rugged terrain. No history.


Then they come on places like PF and look at Malamutes old Model 29 and go OOOOOH! What stories it could tell! Same with the well worn lever actions.

Well, Make your own stories.

Get that fancy brass framed Henry lever action and get wear marks all over it.

Build that custom Model 29, custom single actions, whatever.

then actually take them out and use them. Slip and fall in the creeks. Get scratches on them. Get a little rust on them from blood that didn't get wiped off from that deer/elk.

Have stories to tell.













Go have some adventures.

The guns will mean more to you. Scratches and all.

^^^ Agree.

I guess Im an oddball, I get a new gun, even new shiny Brownings that are 30 or so years old and unfired, and cant wait to drag them out shooting, hunting, hiking, drill holes for sling mounts and better sights, whatever. Whats the point in having ti if you cant use it and make it work to its best potential for you? If its a keeper and user, who cares about some perceived "loss of value" in making a gun ork for you? Let the next person that owns it after Im gone agonize over it, Im not going to. True rare or antique guns in very good condition get some due consideration from me, but still no guarantee they wont be maximized in their use potential.

Ive drilled and tapped an original Winchester 1886 for sling and receiver sight. It was already refinished and re-bored, so whatever i did only made it more useful to me, despite being 100 years old at the time.

Im reminded of taking people around the Verde hiking and dirt roading. Some cringe at the places I go, and hear and see the catclaw and mesquite making scratches in the paint and EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE sounds down the sides of the truck driving through the tight spots. Its tattoos of places youve gone, things youve seen and done. They remind me of the enjoyment of going there.

I talked to an old riding partner and mentioned wanting to get back to Az and dirt roading on my new/old 84 H-D, asking if hed go with me to some of the places we used to go. He said "Im not taking a $25K harley down dirt roads!". Well heck, I guess Im glad I cant afford one in that price range, because Im not the least bit afraid to ride any of the same old crazy places on mine. The good thing is they are narrow enough the catclaw and mesquite doesnt scratch up the paint.

Lost River and Malamute:

Amen to both. I tend to acquire used guns for this reason. It means they were used, carried/taken care of and probably have some story to tell if they could speak. My son asked me about one of my guns and I told him some of the stories associated with it and my use of it. He stood there for a moment after I finished and then asked why he had never heard that tale. I told him I had never been asked about it before. The upshot is that he convinced my to write down details about a couple of guns I have. I tend to think that is a great way to document a gun's history, especially for family heirloom purposes. Food for thought.

Bruce

[Rick R]

I tend to acquire used guns for this reason. It means they were used, carried/taken care of and probably have some story to tell if they could speak.

Bruce

A bit off topic, I’d like to put W.D.M. Bell and Jim Corbett’s .275 Rigby rifles in the same gun cabinet and then listen to see if they try to one up each other.

[Malamute]

Lost River and Malamute:

Amen to both. I tend to acquire used guns for this reason. It means they were used, carried/taken care of and probably have some story to tell if they could speak. My son asked me about one of my guns and I told him some of the stories associated with it and my use of it. He stood there for a moment after I finished and then asked why he had never heard that tale. I told him I had never been asked about it before. The upshot is that he convinced my to write down details about a couple of guns I have. I tend to think that is a great way to document a gun's history, especially for family heirloom purposes. Food for thought.

Bruce

Robert Service

THE CALL OF THE WILD

Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on,
Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,
Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,
Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God's sake go and do it;
Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.
Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sage-brush desolation,
The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?
Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation,
And learned to know the desert's little ways?


Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o'er the ranges,
Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?
Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes?
Then listen to the Wild — it's calling you.
Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?
(Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.)
Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,
Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?
Have you marked the map's void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races,
Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?
And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?
Then hearken to the Wild — it's wanting you.
Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet grasped at glory,
Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?
"Done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,
Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?


Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders?
(You'll never hear it in the family pew.)
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things —
Then listen to the Wild — it's calling you.
They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching,
They have soaked you in convention through and through;
They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching —
But can't you hear the Wild? — it's calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There's a whisper on the night-wind, there's a star agleam to guide us,
And the Wild is calling, calling . . . let us go.

[That Guy]

I was going to just replace the front sight with a fiber optic one made by Hi-Viz, but I'm not quite happy with the notion of a round front sight.

So, I looked into this option a bit further. Nobody anywhere seems to have published how wide the Hiviz front sight is, but I did eventually discover that the light pipe is 2mm. So the width of the sight must be a bit wider than that. 2,5mm? 3mm?

It is surprisingly difficult to measure the original front sight with any sort of precision, but it is somewhere around 1,5mm to 2mm wide.

So the Hiviz front sight, in addition to having a curved top edge, is probably too wide for the rear sight notch, moving it into a definite no go category.

There probably aren't a whole lot of other people around looking at front sight options for their Winchester 94 Trappers but, well, thought I'd mention this anyway.

[That Guy]

Speaking of sight options, I was recently looking at the front scope base holes on the rifle and a thought occurred to me. Typically if you wanted to mount a dot there you would have to mount a Weaver scope mount, a Picatinny red dot mounting plate goes there, and then you can attach your red dot. That moves the dot unnecessarily high. What if someone made a red dot mounting plate that bolted right onto those existing threads in the receiver? The bottom of the plate would follow the curvature of the receiver for a more seamless looking fit, and the red dot would mount nearly at receiver height. With the right kind of dot you might even be able to co-witness the iron sights!

Of course, nobody makes a mount like that. But wouldn't it be neat if someone did?

[Duelist]

Speaking of sight options, I was recently looking at the front scope base holes on the rifle and a thought occurred to me. Typically if you wanted to mount a dot there you would have to mount a Weaver scope mount, a Picatinny red dot mounting plate goes there, and then you can attach your red dot. That moves the dot unnecessarily high. What if someone made a red dot mounting plate that bolted right onto those existing threads in the receiver? The bottom of the plate would follow the curvature of the receiver for a more seamless looking fit, and the red dot would mount nearly at receiver height. With the right kind of dot you might even be able to co-witness the iron sights!

Of course, nobody makes a mount like that. But wouldn't it be neat if someone did?

A machinist might be able to fabricate that for you.

[Duelist]

Robert Service

THE CALL OF THE WILD

Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there's nothing else to gaze on,
Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,
Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it,
Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God's sake go and do it;
Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.
Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sage-brush desolation,
The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?
Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation,
And learned to know the desert's little ways?


Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o'er the ranges,
Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?
Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes?
Then listen to the Wild — it's calling you.
Have you known the Great White Silence, not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?
(Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.)
Have you broken trail on snowshoes? mushed your huskies up the river,
Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?
Have you marked the map's void spaces, mingled with the mongrel races,
Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?
And though grim as hell the worst is, can you round it off with curses?
Then hearken to the Wild — it's wanting you.
Have you suffered, starved and triumphed, groveled down, yet grasped at glory,
Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?
"Done things" just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,
Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?


Have you seen God in His splendors, heard the text that nature renders?
(You'll never hear it in the family pew.)
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things —
Then listen to the Wild — it's calling you.
They have cradled you in custom, they have primed you with their preaching,
They have soaked you in convention through and through;
They have put you in a showcase; you're a credit to their teaching —
But can't you hear the Wild? — it's calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There's a whisper on the night-wind, there's a star agleam to guide us,
And the Wild is calling, calling . . . let us go.

Never saw that before. Thanks!

[Wheeler]

Speaking of sight options, I was recently looking at the front scope base holes on the rifle and a thought occurred to me. Typically if you wanted to mount a dot there you would have to mount a Weaver scope mount, a Picatinny red dot mounting plate goes there, and then you can attach your red dot. That moves the dot unnecessarily high. What if someone made a red dot mounting plate that bolted right onto those existing threads in the receiver? The bottom of the plate would follow the curvature of the receiver for a more seamless looking fit, and the red dot would mount nearly at receiver height. With the right kind of dot you might even be able to co-witness the iron sights!

Of course, nobody makes a mount like that. But wouldn't it be neat if someone did?

Picatinny is basically a Weaver with more slots. You don’t ‘have’ to put a Picatinny base on a Weaver rail. Alternatively, if there is a Weaver mount available, there’s a pretty good chance there is a Picatinny alternative as well.

[03RN]

On the ragged edge of the world Ill roam, and the home of the wolf will be my home.

I've probably repeated that line a million times.

A few years ago I was on a canoe trip with my dog. It was a good trip. Lots of hiking, shooting grouse, sitting in the woods smoking my pipe and watching my dog roam around. On the last day a noreaster blew through. 40 knot head winds in an 18ft kevlar canoe was maddening. The driving rain was bearable because we were used to it from a decade at sea the both of us. It was that wind that if my bow went off course at all we would be spun around and it was incredibly hard to get straightened out. The river was bad enough but when we made it to the lake it took me 6 hours to paddle what would normally take 1-2.

I love solo trips in northern Maine in sep-nov but I was a bit nervous. Jack was very happy to finally get back to my truck. He didn't move on the 8hr drive home.

My 16" M92 .45 was a wreck after that trip.


Rhymes of a Rolling Stone
by
Robert W. Service
The Nostomaniac

On the ragged edge of the world I'll roam,
And the home of the wolf shall be my home,
And a bunch of bones on the boundless snows
The end of my trail . . . who knows, who knows!
I'm dreaming to-night in the fire-glow, alone in my study tower,
My books battalioned around me, my Kipling flat on my knee;
But I'm not in the mood for reading, I haven't moved for an hour;
Body and brain I'm weary, weary the heart of me;
Weary of crushing a longing it's little I understand,
For I thought that my trail was ended, I thought I had earned my rest;
But oh, it's stronger than life is, the call of the hearthless land!
And I turn to the North in my trouble, as a child to the mother-breast.

Here in my den it's quiet; the sea-wind taps on the pane;
There's comfort and ease and plenty, the smile of the South is sweet.
All that a man might long for, fight for and seek in vain,
Pictures and books and music, pleasure my last retreat.
Peace! I thought I had gained it, I swore that my tale was told;
By my hair that is grey I swore it, by my eyes that are slow to see;
Yet what does it all avail me? to-night, to-night as of old,
Out of the dark I hear it -- the Northland calling to me.

And I'm daring a rampageous river that runs the devil knows where;
My hand is athrill on the paddle, the birch-bark bounds like a bird.
Hark to the rumble of rapids! Here in my morris chair
Eager and tense I'm straining -- isn't it most absurd?
Now in the churn and the lather, foam that hisses and stings,
Leap I, keyed for the struggle, fury and fume and roar;
Rocks are spitting like hell-cats -- Oh, it's a sport for kings,
Life on a twist of the paddle . . . there's my "Kim" on the floor.

How I thrill and I vision! Then my camp of a night;
Red and gold of the fire-glow, net afloat in the stream;
Scent of the pines and silence, little "pal" pipe alight,
Body a-purr with pleasure, sleep untroubled of dream:
Banquet of paystreak bacon! moment of joy divine,
When the bannock is hot and gluey, and the teapot's nearing the boil!
Never was wolf so hungry, stomach cleaving to spine. . . .
Ha! there's my servant calling, says that dinner will spoil.

What do I want with dinner? Can I eat any more?
Can I sleep as I used to? . . . Oh, I abhor this life!
Give me the Great Uncertain, the Barren Land for a floor,
The Milky Way for a roof-beam, splendour and space and strife:
Something to fight and die for -- the limpid Lake of the Bear,
The Empire of Empty Bellies, the dunes where the Dogribs dwell;
Big things, real things, live things . . . here on my morris chair
How I ache for the Northland! "Dinner and servants" -- Hell!!

Am I too old, I wonder? Can I take one trip more?
Go to the granite-ribbed valleys, flooded with sunset wine,
Peaks that pierce the aurora, rivers I must explore,
Lakes of a thousand islands, millioning hordes of the Pine?
Do they not miss me, I wonder, valley and peak and plain?
Whispering each to the other: "Many a moon has passed . . .
Where has he gone, our lover? Will he come back again?
Star with his fires our tundra, leave us his bones at last?"

Yes, I'll go back to the Northland, back to the way of the bear,
Back to the muskeg and mountain, back to the ice-leaguered sea.
Old am I! what does it matter? Nothing I would not dare;
Give me a trail to conquer -- Oh, it is "meat" to me!
I will go back to the Northland, feeble and blind and lame;
Sup with the sunny-eyed Husky, eat moose-nose with the Cree;
Play with the Yellow-knife bastards, boasting my blood and my name:
I will go back to the Northland, for the Northland is calling to me.

Then give to me paddle and whiplash, and give to me tumpline and gun;
Give to me salt and tobacco, flour and a gunny of tea;
Take me up over the Circle, under the flamboyant sun;
Turn me foot-loose like a savage -- that is the finish of me.
I know the trail I am seeking, it's up by the Lake of the Bear;
It's down by the Arctic Barrens, it's over to Hudson's Bay;
Maybe I'll get there, -- maybe: death is set by a hair. . . .
Hark! it's the Northland calling! now must I go away. . . .

Go to the Wild that waits for me;
Go where the moose and the musk-ox be;
Go to the wolf and the secret snows;
Go to my fate . . . who knows, who knows!

[Malamute]

The Rhyme of the Remittance Man

There's a four-pronged buck a-swinging in the shadow of my cabin,
And it roamed the velvet valley till to-day;
But I tracked it by the river, and I trailed it in the cover,
And I killed it on the mountain miles away.
Now I've had my lazy supper, and the level sun is gleaming
On the water where the silver salmon play;
And I light my little corn-cob, and I linger, softly dreaming,
In the twilight, of a land that's far away.
Far away, so faint and far, is flaming London, fevered Paris,
That I fancy I have gained another star;
Far away the din and hurry, far away the sin and worry,
Far away -- God knows they cannot be too far.
Gilded galley-slaves of Mammon --
how my purse-proud brothers taunt me!
I might have been as well-to-do as they
Had I clutched like them my chances,
learned their wisdom, crushed my fancies,
Starved my soul and gone to business every day.

Well, the cherry bends with blossom
and the vivid grass is springing,
And the star-like lily nestles in the green;
And the frogs their joys are singing,
and my heart in tune is ringing,
And it doesn't matter what I might have been.
While above the scented pine-gloom,
piling heights of golden glory,
The sun-god paints his canvas in the west,
I can couch me deep in clover, I can listen to the story
Of the lazy, lapping water -- it is best.

While the trout leaps in the river,
and the blue grouse thrills the cover,
And the frozen snow betrays the panther's track,
And the robin greets the dayspring with the rapture of a lover,
I am happy, and I'll nevermore go back.
For I know I'd just be longing for the little old log cabin,
With the morning-glory clinging to the door,
Till I loathed the city places, cursed the care on all the faces,
Turned my back on lazar London evermore.

So send me far from Lombard Street, and write me down a failure;
Put a little in my purse and leave me free.
Say: "He turned from Fortune's offering
to follow up a pale lure,
He is one of us no longer -- let him be."
I am one of you no longer; by the trails my feet have broken,
The dizzy peaks I've scaled, the camp-fire's glow;
By the lonely seas I've sailed in --
yea, the final word is spoken,
I am signed and sealed to nature. Be it so.