A recent vivid lucent daydream...

[Wirehair]

Muzzleloading is a journey. The attitude and expectations of the person taking the first step are likely not the same as the person who has walked a thousand miles. Before raining on a newbies entry into the blackpowder experience, try to remember where you started with your first step. What's most important above all else is that he continues the journey.

 

[45man]

I built by buying parts and cutting planks to make stocks but now I am near 87 so a kit would be a next build if I ever do. I can't shoot all I have now!

 

[Smokey Plainsman]

Reminds me of tradesmen I’ve worked with. Guys who’ve been doing the job for 50 years coming down extremely hard on the new guys, turning them off and killing morale.

I’ll try not to be like them.

 

[Blitz]

Yeah, and we all, or at least many, of us know what that tastes like.

Maybe the old Bridge Tobacco ? Eh?

 

[SeaBee133]

I could actually see that as I read it…

Just getting back into caplock rifles. I remember my first trip to a rondy shoot (1986) like it was yesterday. Now I’m the grizzled old timer, right down to needing a cane pretty frequently.
I wore out a library copy of Sam’s book back then, I would turn it in and check it right back out. Then found the Foxfire book detailing making a rifle and knapping gun flints. I’m on my 3rd copy… Still can’t knap a servicable flint.

 

[snakebit]

Yeah, and we all, or at least many, of us know what that tastes like.

Buffler sh!t

 

[snakebit]

I recently had a vivid, lucent, daydream and thought I’d recount it here in the forum.

I dreamed I was attending a longrifle gun fair. There were lots of attendees in the hall streaming along perusing the various vendor tables. I was standing near a table listening to a conversation between a young man clutching a KY/PA-style longrifle across his chest in the classic fashion, and an old man behind a table displaying exquisitely crafted traditional muzzleloaders.

Transcript of the conversation:

Innocent (crestfallen and insulted): "I know it was a kit, but it was something I always wanted to do and a personal challenge. I.. I... got fulfillment out of finally shooting it. (eyes look down)"

Sycophant (talking loudly and looking around from behind his table for approbation): "Yeah, but you should be ashamed because you didn't 'build' anything, you just snapped together pre-made parts. You just wasted your time."

Pharisee (standing near and over-hearing Sycophant's tirade): "True, what he did required no skill, but I happen to know you, Sycophant, get others to bore your ramrod holes and cut your barrel channels, so you are a super hypocrite and not as skilled and superior as you want everyone to think. You're no better than he is, and he IS bad, for sure."

Sadducee (also standing near and over-hearing the conversation and butting in): "You all are hypocritical toadies. I am superior to all of you. I chop down my own trees and hack out my own blanks with stone axes. I mine my own ore and produce my own steel in my back yard furnace, hammer forge out my own barrel blanks, and rifle my own barrels on spiral rifling machines I carved out of logs with a pocket knife. I chisel out my barrel channels with my own teeth (smiles to show his prominent buck teeth), and slowly create my ramrod holes by scooping out with my little fingernail one sliver at a time."

I then saw an old bearded gentleman appear out of nowhere and pull the crestfallen Innocent away from the still-arguing group of pompous twits. I overheard him say: "Don't you fret, son. You've done well. I know for a fact none of those half-blind weasels have fired a gun in years and they can't hit the broad side of a barn when they do. Don't get caught up in their drivel. Take your nicely finished muzzleloading black powder rifle, learn to cut center, and put fare on the table with it. You'll be carrying on a uniquely American tradition that hopefully will never be forgotten."

With that, the old bearded gentleman turned and walked out of the hall with a kingly grace. As he passed through the glass doors, I swear his clothing seemed to transform into fringed buckskins, and a tricorn hat sort of just appeared on his head. A longrifle appeared and he clutched it across his chest in the classic fashion. He just sort of vanished like a mirage as he walked into the parking lot. I went after him and yelled “Old Timer! Wait…!”…

<SNAP> I awoke with a start. My wife heard me yell and said “Who in blue blazes are you yelling at!?!?”

I said “Never mind, I think I’ll get my horn and possibles and take my flintlock to the range this evening.”

“You do that.” she said with a wink.

Hammer, you been on the stump likker again?