Was just doing a little research on the web. I typed "historical load for 50 cal muzzleloader" and this popped up. I wonder where they came up with that measurement, interesting.
Historical load?
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Brokennock
Cannon
Sometimes you've just got to consider the source and roll your eyes.
Banjoman
Hillbilly
Things that make you go hmmmm,,,,
Phil Coffins
69 Cal.
For a pistol?
longcruise
70 Cal.
I read somewhere that for the mountain men of the rockies a "service load" was 100 grains of powder. Caliber was not mentioned.
I read it as a rifle, here's the article. Not sure why they felt the need to publish "historical load" within.
https://www.sportsmansguide.com/art...ball with a,charge provides a historical load.
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For their lawyer to keep him happy.
smoothshooter
50 Cal.
A “historical load” is whatever some individual wanted to put down the barrel at any given time.
Might change from shot to shot or day to day.
Don’t get too hung up on this.
The Italian manufacturers are notorious for recommending cream puff loads for their guns. I suspect their lawyers have something to do with it.
Also, keep in mind that even the people who own and run the Italian black powder gun companies are not rifle and pistol shooters, and may not be shooters at all. A very few MAY occasionally indulge in shooting modern cartridge guns, but that would be it.
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Lewis and Clark had eight pound sheet lead boxes that could hold four pounds of powder. A half gallon in size.
A 50% ball weight.
If they were using a .54 rifle that would suggest a load of 110 grains. A .50 rifle would have been about 90.
The .69 musket about two hundred
British charged bess with 25 to 50 shots to the pound, 140 to 280 grains.
Umph.
America test done in the 1840s ran 110 grains to the 54 rifle And from 90 to 150 for the musket.
With the adoption of conicals muskets were reduced to 60-75 grains
Records from rendezvous show lead powder sold at about 35 to 50% for lead
Kephart who tested an original Hawken at .53 caliber shot from 90 to 180 grains
A 50% ball weight.
If they were using a .54 rifle that would suggest a load of 110 grains. A .50 rifle would have been about 90.
The .69 musket about two hundred
British charged bess with 25 to 50 shots to the pound, 140 to 280 grains.
Umph.
America test done in the 1840s ran 110 grains to the 54 rifle And from 90 to 150 for the musket.
With the adoption of conicals muskets were reduced to 60-75 grains
Records from rendezvous show lead powder sold at about 35 to 50% for lead
Kephart who tested an original Hawken at .53 caliber shot from 90 to 180 grains
I seem to remember reading a book on the mountain man era that said they could tell by the report of the gun if it was a fellow trapper or a native as the natives tended to "load light" to save powder.
Still 15 to 20 grains would be ineffective at killing large game with any efficiency .
Still 15 to 20 grains would be ineffective at killing large game with any efficiency .
flatcreek
40 Cal
It was on the Internet, so its got to be right.
stephenprops1
45 Cal.
Remember, our ancestors, out on the frontier, used the smallest caliber and the smallest powder charge that would still do the job. They had a difficult time getting resupplied, so they did their best to make stuff last.
Cruzatte
50 Cal.
Where did they come up with this bit of information, you ask? My hunch is in a fortune cookie at a Chinese restaurant.
longcruise
70 Cal.
Probably by using AI. The other day I asked AI to write a story about a mountain man in the rockies. You would be shocked at what it came up with. In fact, I'll post it here later today for comment.
longcruise
70 Cal.
Here's what I was talking about. Prepare for AI to change history as we know it.
I also asked it to "draw a picture of kit carson in buckskins at a campfire"
The response was that my request contained unacceptable words. I changed Kit Carson to "a mountain man" and it then drew a picture. Kinda creepy when the names of notable people in history are censored.
Here's the story:
Asked of AI
writea story of a mountain man in the Rocky Mountains
Certainly!Here’s a tale of rugged wilderness, echoing canyons, and the indomitable spirit of a mountain man in the Rocky Mountains:
In the heart of the Rocky Mountains, where the air is thin and thepines stand sentinel, there lived a man named EzraCallahan. His weathered face bore the etchings ofcountless seasons—lines etched by sun, wind, and frost. Ezra wasa trapper, a hunter,and a philosopher of solitude.
His cabin nestled against the granite flank of MountSentinel, its timbers hewn from ancient trees. The smokefrom his chimney spiraled upward, a silent signal to the wildernessthat Ezra was still alive. His days were marked by the rhythm ofseasons: the melting snows of spring,the lusty green of summer, the crimsontapestry of fall, and the icy breath ofwinter.
Ezra’s companions were the elk,the ravens, and the whisperingwinds. He spoke their language—the guttural bugle ofthe bull elk, the cryptic caw of the raven, and the mournful sigh ofthe breeze through the aspen groves. His rifle was an extension ofhis arm, and his traps were set with the precision of a watchmaker.
One moonless night, as the aurora borealis dancedacross the sky, Ezra heard a sound that chilled his bones—a ghostlyecho. It was the cry of a creature long extinct—the graywolf. Its mournful howl echoed through the valleys,stirring memories of a time when wolves roamed freely.
Driven by curiosity and a touch of madness, Ezra followed the echo.He climbed higher, past the timberline, where the air grew thin andthe stars seemed within arm’s reach. There, on a windswept ridge,he encountered the spirit of the wolf.
Its eyes were twin lanterns of ancient wisdom,and its fur shimmered like moonlight on snow. The wolf spoke to Ezrain a language older than words—a language of windand stone. It told him of a forgotten pact between manand beast, a promise to protect the wild places.
Ezra returned to his cabin, haunted by the wolf’s message. He knewhis days were numbered, for the world was changing. The ironhorse now thundered through the valleys, andthe fur trade was fading intomemory. But Ezra had one last hunt left—the hunt for redemption.
He set out with his rifle and a heart heavy with purpose. The wolfled him to a hidden glade, where the last of itskind awaited—a she-wolf with eyes like amberfire. Her coat bore the scars of traps and bullets, yether spirit burned bright.
Ezra knelt beside her, his hand on her flank. He whispered apromise—to protect her kind, to keep the wild alive. And in thatmoment, the wolf’s eyes softened, and Ezra felt the weight ofcenturies lift from his shoulders.
Ezra returned to his cabin, but he was no longer alone. The she-wolfbecame his silent companion, and together they roamed the highcountry. They watched the seasons turn, the elk rut, and the ravensdance on the thermals.
And when Ezra’s time came, he lay down on the cold granite, hiseyes fixed on the eternal sky. The wolfsat beside him, and as his breath faded, she howled—a haunting echothat carried his spirit into the wild beyond.
And so, the legend of Ezra Callahan livedon—a mountain man who listened to the wind, spoke with wolves, andfound solace in the solitude of stone peaks.
Note: The story of Ezra Callahan is a work of fiction, inspiredby the spirit of the Rocky Mountains and the timeless bond betweenman and nature.
I also asked it to "draw a picture of kit carson in buckskins at a campfire"
The response was that my request contained unacceptable words. I changed Kit Carson to "a mountain man" and it then drew a picture. Kinda creepy when the names of notable people in history are censored.
Here's the story:
Asked of AI
writea story of a mountain man in the Rocky Mountains
Certainly!Here’s a tale of rugged wilderness, echoing canyons, and the indomitable spirit of a mountain man in the Rocky Mountains:
The Solitude of Stone Peaks
Chapter 1: The Call of the Wild
In the heart of the Rocky Mountains, where the air is thin and thepines stand sentinel, there lived a man named EzraCallahan. His weathered face bore the etchings ofcountless seasons—lines etched by sun, wind, and frost. Ezra wasa trapper, a hunter,and a philosopher of solitude.
His cabin nestled against the granite flank of MountSentinel, its timbers hewn from ancient trees. The smokefrom his chimney spiraled upward, a silent signal to the wildernessthat Ezra was still alive. His days were marked by the rhythm ofseasons: the melting snows of spring,the lusty green of summer, the crimsontapestry of fall, and the icy breath ofwinter.
Ezra’s companions were the elk,the ravens, and the whisperingwinds. He spoke their language—the guttural bugle ofthe bull elk, the cryptic caw of the raven, and the mournful sigh ofthe breeze through the aspen groves. His rifle was an extension ofhis arm, and his traps were set with the precision of a watchmaker.
Chapter 2: The Haunting Echo
One moonless night, as the aurora borealis dancedacross the sky, Ezra heard a sound that chilled his bones—a ghostlyecho. It was the cry of a creature long extinct—the graywolf. Its mournful howl echoed through the valleys,stirring memories of a time when wolves roamed freely.
Driven by curiosity and a touch of madness, Ezra followed the echo.He climbed higher, past the timberline, where the air grew thin andthe stars seemed within arm’s reach. There, on a windswept ridge,he encountered the spirit of the wolf.
Its eyes were twin lanterns of ancient wisdom,and its fur shimmered like moonlight on snow. The wolf spoke to Ezrain a language older than words—a language of windand stone. It told him of a forgotten pact between manand beast, a promise to protect the wild places.
Chapter 3: The Last Hunt
Ezra returned to his cabin, haunted by the wolf’s message. He knewhis days were numbered, for the world was changing. The ironhorse now thundered through the valleys, andthe fur trade was fading intomemory. But Ezra had one last hunt left—the hunt for redemption.
He set out with his rifle and a heart heavy with purpose. The wolfled him to a hidden glade, where the last of itskind awaited—a she-wolf with eyes like amberfire. Her coat bore the scars of traps and bullets, yether spirit burned bright.
Ezra knelt beside her, his hand on her flank. He whispered apromise—to protect her kind, to keep the wild alive. And in thatmoment, the wolf’s eyes softened, and Ezra felt the weight ofcenturies lift from his shoulders.
Epilogue: The Solitude of Stone Peaks
Ezra returned to his cabin, but he was no longer alone. The she-wolfbecame his silent companion, and together they roamed the highcountry. They watched the seasons turn, the elk rut, and the ravensdance on the thermals.
And when Ezra’s time came, he lay down on the cold granite, hiseyes fixed on the eternal sky. The wolfsat beside him, and as his breath faded, she howled—a haunting echothat carried his spirit into the wild beyond.
And so, the legend of Ezra Callahan livedon—a mountain man who listened to the wind, spoke with wolves, andfound solace in the solitude of stone peaks.
Note: The story of Ezra Callahan is a work of fiction, inspiredby the spirit of the Rocky Mountains and the timeless bond betweenman and nature.
Brokennock
Cannon
Pretty good basic outline.
Put it in an envelope and take it to the post office, mail it to yourself,,, but do not open it, when it arrives.
Then sit down at your computer with a word processor and get to work adding some meat to that outline.
Put me on the list to pre-order the book you create off the bones AI gave you.
Put it in an envelope and take it to the post office, mail it to yourself,,, but do not open it, when it arrives.
Then sit down at your computer with a word processor and get to work adding some meat to that outline.
Put me on the list to pre-order the book you create off the bones AI gave you.
I think this tells a bit closer to the truth. That has to be a pretty stout load.
