The Muzzleloader

Since before I was old enough to remember, my father had a collection of firearms locked behind the glass of an old wooden gun cabinet. Held there safely by a simple skeleton key was a .45 Caliber Connecticut Arms muzzleloader. It was a kit rifle he had bought and put together for my mom so they could go to matches together. It wasn't designed like the flint locks for the rustic mountain man or set up as an in line with a scope for the new age sportsman. It was a simple cap and ball with iron sites that allowed the man or woman in possession to hold responsibility for the shot made. This rifle was designed for women and youth, as it was a little shorter reach to the trigger, and when I became old enough to go shoot with dad, it became a quick favorite.

I'd practiced with a few other rifles prior to learning of its existence, but when that muzzleloader came out, I was intrigued. We didn't simply grab a box of ammo and go. There was an old cow horn we had to bring with us, a bag full of mysterious patches, satchels, and a bottle of what my father referred to as moose milk. Once we worked through the process of how to load the rifle and it was time to fire it, I remember being nervous. We had just done all that work, and I only got one shot before I'd have to redo all those steps. Then it fired. When your young life evolves from the tap-tap-tap of a .22, on to the roar of a .45 muzzleloader you don't forget it. You remember the feel on your shoulder, the smell of the powder, the smoke in the air, and the sound that shook your heart. That moment quickly grew into a fascination, and I was shooting often with dad close by. I'd go to places like Friendship, IN to watch him compete with friends and strangers, and admire that he didn't seem bothered at all that someone might be watching him.

Back in the 1900s my dad and his buddies liked to get together on weekends and pretend they were frontiersmen of the 1800s. They'd go through the woods setting up targets and telling stories and have their own competition amongst themselves. It was great to watch, and probably where I learned most of my trash talking skills. I accepted an invite once, to join those old guys (old as in 30s and 40s). It was back in my parent's woods, and I was doing a decent job keeping up with those long-haired pioneers. One particular target seemed impossible. There on a stump was an ax head mounted down, with a clay pigeon equally spaced on each side. The object was to hit the ax head in a way that would split the ball and wipe out both targets in one shot. A few had succeeded, a few hadn't, and it was my turn. I got it. And as I was gloating in my head, several old men were telling me it was a fluke, anyone could accidentally do that once, and I was going to have to try again. So, I did. I nailed it. There was a lot of grumbling, and excuses being tossed around, but as I turned to face them, I could see the smile on dad's face. Every kid should get to witness that kind of pride from a parent. Looking back, I don't believe that pride was completely in regard to wiping out those pigeons twice, but partly because I withstood the chatter and poking from his friends and tried again. I wasn't afraid to show who I was, even if it risked failure and an assortment of "I told you so" comments. That was the day I learned to let who I was shine, and a day neither of us will ever forget.