What if question

[smokepolehall]

I am amazed by some of the Conservation people n their so called opinion a .25 pop pistol is a good legal weapon vs. a 32 ML rifle. The 1892 shot about 1250 fps load.

 

[waksupi]

You’re squirrel hunting with a .32 SMR PRB your usual small game load. White tail season is in along with squirrel. A white tail walks out at around 25 yards. Would you take a broad side shot? If so where? Me probably not. I don’t think an ethical kill is likely with my typical small game load of around 28 grains. Heavier load, 32-35 grains probably. Any conversation over coffee?

I would take a broadside shot on the squirrel.
Read Ned Roberts. When they were shooting deer and bear with small calibers, they weren't shooting round balls.

 

[Tanglefoot]

When I was small, back when the world was young, we were poor. We lived on a subsistence farm in the eastern mountains and grew or gathered most of our food. Our property was a quarter-section of mostly forest bordered on one side by a live stream, with a dirt road in front. Quite a lot of the rest of it stood on edge. There was a-plenty of game in the woods and fish in the stream, and there was a small lake nearby too. I was born a few months before the Pearl Harbor attack and WW II was very recent history when
I was growing up. My father was trying to get a business started in the village a couple miles away and we had no car so he walked there and back each day. As I got a little older he formed the habit of giving me 2 or 3 .22 LR cartridges for my heirloom single shot and suggesting that a little fresh meat would go well if I had time after my chores --- mostly on days with no school.
One day when I was about 10, he did that and went off to town. I finished my chores and come afternoon picked up my rifle and headed up the hill, with a shell in the gun just in case I spotted the fox that was terrifying our chickens. There was one place beyond our hen coop and tool shed that was our "upper garden." Past that was a wooded area where my
grandfather (or maybe his father) had once planted native apple trees that had been abandoned later and gone wild. I could generally find rabbits there, and there was also a few nut trees frequented by squirrels. I hunkered down in a clump of brush with the sun over my shoulder and waited. No bunnies. Also no tree rats. Huh! I waited a while longer. Then there was motion in the shadows, and a deer stepped out, then another and another. Pretty soon there were 4 or 5 does and a couple of that season's fawns with their spots fading. They paused for what seemed like a very long time, looking for danger, their eyes seeking motions and their big ears listening for the least noise. Finally they started browsing on the fallen apples. I raised my little rifle slowly and memory tells me the doe I chose was not more than 20 yards away. When she bent to pick up an apple, I shot her in the top of the head. She fell in her tracks.
I cut her throat with my Genuine Barlow pocket knife and opened her up to field dress her. I went back to the house for a rope and tried to hang her in a tree but wasn't strong
enough. I got her haunches off the ground but that was the best I could do. My father got home about an hour later and I was sitting on the side porch steps waiting. I told him I needed some help and he said, "With what?" When I told him what, his eyebrows went up and he just said "Show me."
I did so. He rigged a travois from some limbs and we took her down hill to the smoke house to hang. He cautioned me against bragging to any of my friends about it. "You know," he said, "Deer season isn't for a few weeks yet." The next time he went to the village he came home with a stag-handled Marble hunting knife with a 4 inch blade and handed it to me. I had admired it in the hardware store. Pa said, "If you're going to do a man's work, you should have a man's tools."
I've still got that knife. One day, one of my grandsons will have it. And yeah, that old .22 got the job done, but I think
making a careful shot at close range helped a lot. A muzzleloader .32 would have done the same but with the same reservations and just as much care. Friend of mine used to hunt the Hill Country with a .38 percussion rifle, one of Judge Resley's guns. He never had a lick of trouble.

 

[ETipp]

Indeed. Know your shot distance and make well placed, selective shots for the deer tool used.

 

[Pilgrim]

When I was small, back when the world was young, we were poor. We lived on a subsistence farm in the eastern mountains and grew or gathered most of our food. Our property was a quarter-section of mostly forest bordered on one side by a live stream, with a dirt road in front. Quite a lot of the rest of it stood on edge. There was a-plenty of game in the woods and fish in the stream, and there was a small lake nearby too. I was born a few months before the Pearl Harbor attack and WW II was very recent history when
I was growing up. My father was trying to get a business started in the village a couple miles away and we had no car so he walked there and back each day. As I got a little older he formed the habit of giving me 2 or 3 .22 LR cartridges for my heirloom single shot and suggesting that a little fresh meat would go well if I had time after my chores --- mostly on days with no school.
One day when I was about 10, he did that and went off to town. I finished my chores and come afternoon picked up my rifle and headed up the hill, with a shell in the gun just in case I spotted the fox that was terrifying our chickens. There was one place beyond our hen coop and tool shed that was our "upper garden." Past that was a wooded area where my
grandfather (or maybe his father) had once planted native apple trees that had been abandoned later and gone wild. I could generally find rabbits there, and there was also a few nut trees frequented by squirrels. I hunkered down in a clump of brush with the sun over my shoulder and waited. No bunnies. Also no tree rats. Huh! I waited a while longer. Then there was motion in the shadows, and a deer stepped out, then another and another. Pretty soon there were 4 or 5 does and a couple of that season's fawns with their spots fading. They paused for what seemed like a very long time, looking for danger, their eyes seeking motions and their big ears listening for the least noise. Finally they started browsing on the fallen apples. I raised my little rifle slowly and memory tells me the doe I chose was not more than 20 yards away. When she bent to pick up an apple, I shot her in the top of the head. She fell in her tracks.
I cut her throat with my Genuine Barlow pocket knife and opened her up to field dress her. I went back to the house for a rope and tried to hang her in a tree but wasn't strong
enough. I got her haunches off the ground but that was the best I could do. My father got home about an hour later and I was sitting on the side porch steps waiting. I told him I needed some help and he said, "With what?" When I told him what, his eyebrows went up and he just said "Show me."
I did so. He rigged a travois from some limbs and we took her down hill to the smoke house to hang. He cautioned me against bragging to any of my friends about it. "You know," he said, "Deer season isn't for a few weeks yet." The next time he went to the village he came home with a stag-handled Marble hunting knife with a 4 inch blade and handed it to me. I had admired it in the hardware store. Pa said, "If you're going to do a man's work, you should have a man's tools."
I've still got that knife. One day, one of my grandsons will have it. And yeah, that old .22 got the job done, but I think
making a careful shot at close range helped a lot. A muzzleloader .32 would have done the same but with the same reservations and just as much care. Friend of mine used to hunt the Hill Country with a .38 percussion rifle, one of Judge Resley's guns. He never had a lick of trouble.

Thank you for sharing this story. Conversation like this was what the post was about.

 

[Hermit Tim]

When I was small, back when the world was young, we were poor. We lived on a subsistence farm in the eastern mountains and grew or gathered most of our food. Our property was a quarter-section of mostly forest bordered on one side by a live stream, with a dirt road in front. Quite a lot of the rest of it stood on edge. There was a-plenty of game in the woods and fish in the stream, and there was a small lake nearby too. I was born a few months before the Pearl Harbor attack and WW II was very recent history when
I was growing up. My father was trying to get a business started in the village a couple miles away and we had no car so he walked there and back each day. As I got a little older he formed the habit of giving me 2 or 3 .22 LR cartridges for my heirloom single shot and suggesting that a little fresh meat would go well if I had time after my chores --- mostly on days with no school.
One day when I was about 10, he did that and went off to town. I finished my chores and come afternoon picked up my rifle and headed up the hill, with a shell in the gun just in case I spotted the fox that was terrifying our chickens. There was one place beyond our hen coop and tool shed that was our "upper garden." Past that was a wooded area where my
grandfather (or maybe his father) had once planted native apple trees that had been abandoned later and gone wild. I could generally find rabbits there, and there was also a few nut trees frequented by squirrels. I hunkered down in a clump of brush with the sun over my shoulder and waited. No bunnies. Also no tree rats. Huh! I waited a while longer. Then there was motion in the shadows, and a deer stepped out, then another and another. Pretty soon there were 4 or 5 does and a couple of that season's fawns with their spots fading. They paused for what seemed like a very long time, looking for danger, their eyes seeking motions and their big ears listening for the least noise. Finally they started browsing on the fallen apples. I raised my little rifle slowly and memory tells me the doe I chose was not more than 20 yards away. When she bent to pick up an apple, I shot her in the top of the head. She fell in her tracks.
I cut her throat with my Genuine Barlow pocket knife and opened her up to field dress her. I went back to the house for a rope and tried to hang her in a tree but wasn't strong
enough. I got her haunches off the ground but that was the best I could do. My father got home about an hour later and I was sitting on the side porch steps waiting. I told him I needed some help and he said, "With what?" When I told him what, his eyebrows went up and he just said "Show me."
I did so. He rigged a travois from some limbs and we took her down hill to the smoke house to hang. He cautioned me against bragging to any of my friends about it. "You know," he said, "Deer season isn't for a few weeks yet." The next time he went to the village he came home with a stag-handled Marble hunting knife with a 4 inch blade and handed it to me. I had admired it in the hardware store. Pa said, "If you're going to do a man's work, you should have a man's tools."
I've still got that knife. One day, one of my grandsons will have it. And yeah, that old .22 got the job done, but I think
making a careful shot at close range helped a lot. A muzzleloader .32 would have done the same but with the same reservations and just as much care. Friend of mine used to hunt the Hill Country with a .38 percussion rifle, one of Judge Resley's guns. He never had a lick of trouble.

That is a great story and thanks for sharing. Sounds alot like my childhood. But it was about 25 years later and pop would only give me .22 shorts. Your dad sounds like a great man.

 

[Gtrubicon]

When I was small, back when the world was young, we were poor. We lived on a subsistence farm in the eastern mountains and grew or gathered most of our food. Our property was a quarter-section of mostly forest bordered on one side by a live stream, with a dirt road in front. Quite a lot of the rest of it stood on edge. There was a-plenty of game in the woods and fish in the stream, and there was a small lake nearby too. I was born a few months before the Pearl Harbor attack and WW II was very recent history when
I was growing up. My father was trying to get a business started in the village a couple miles away and we had no car so he walked there and back each day. As I got a little older he formed the habit of giving me 2 or 3 .22 LR cartridges for my heirloom single shot and suggesting that a little fresh meat would go well if I had time after my chores --- mostly on days with no school.
One day when I was about 10, he did that and went off to town. I finished my chores and come afternoon picked up my rifle and headed up the hill, with a shell in the gun just in case I spotted the fox that was terrifying our chickens. There was one place beyond our hen coop and tool shed that was our "upper garden." Past that was a wooded area where my
grandfather (or maybe his father) had once planted native apple trees that had been abandoned later and gone wild. I could generally find rabbits there, and there was also a few nut trees frequented by squirrels. I hunkered down in a clump of brush with the sun over my shoulder and waited. No bunnies. Also no tree rats. Huh! I waited a while longer. Then there was motion in the shadows, and a deer stepped out, then another and another. Pretty soon there were 4 or 5 does and a couple of that season's fawns with their spots fading. They paused for what seemed like a very long time, looking for danger, their eyes seeking motions and their big ears listening for the least noise. Finally they started browsing on the fallen apples. I raised my little rifle slowly and memory tells me the doe I chose was not more than 20 yards away. When she bent to pick up an apple, I shot her in the top of the head. She fell in her tracks.
I cut her throat with my Genuine Barlow pocket knife and opened her up to field dress her. I went back to the house for a rope and tried to hang her in a tree but wasn't strong
enough. I got her haunches off the ground but that was the best I could do. My father got home about an hour later and I was sitting on the side porch steps waiting. I told him I needed some help and he said, "With what?" When I told him what, his eyebrows went up and he just said "Show me."
I did so. He rigged a travois from some limbs and we took her down hill to the smoke house to hang. He cautioned me against bragging to any of my friends about it. "You know," he said, "Deer season isn't for a few weeks yet." The next time he went to the village he came home with a stag-handled Marble hunting knife with a 4 inch blade and handed it to me. I had admired it in the hardware store. Pa said, "If you're going to do a man's work, you should have a man's tools."
I've still got that knife. One day, one of my grandsons will have it. And yeah, that old .22 got the job done, but I think
making a careful shot at close range helped a lot. A muzzleloader .32 would have done the same but with the same reservations and just as much care. Friend of mine used to hunt the Hill Country with a .38 percussion rifle, one of Judge Resley's guns. He never had a lick of trouble.

This very closely resembles my story and experience as a young man. I have never tried a 32 muzzleloader on a deer. But if needed I wouldn’t hesitate.

 

[user 36911]

There's a good reason a .32 would be illegal in Colorado for deer. I consider a .50 as minimum and prefer a .54.

I don't care if your grandmother uses a smaller caliber. It's what I like and I never lost an animal that I shot.

 

[nkbj]

Years ago there was a Texas fella on forums that hunted deer close in, head shots with a .32.
Everybody knew it worked but boy howdy did they ever hate him for doing it!

 

[Hermit Tim]

Years ago there was a Texas fella on forums that hunted deer close in, head shots with a .32.
Everybody knew it worked but boy howdy did they ever hate him for doing it!

I remember that guy. Personally I didn't hate him for it. It's just not for me.

 

[smokepolehall]

Personally i find conical bullets 100 + gr used on deer decent. .32 has that choot them deer n speed goats.