Jon......a bit of a long story, but perhaps it will help you decide.
"Prime your rifle"
American history has been a passion of mine for many years now. When ever a new movie comes out which is reviewed as being historically depicted, I rush out to see it. In 1975 it was "Jeremiah Johnson". A movie about a former soldier who goes out west to the Rockies to be a "Mountain Man". As I was living in San Antonio Texas at the time and homesick for Colorado, I was mesmerized as I watched the story unfold. The character played by Robert Redford, states that he wanted a "Hawken Rifle", which he later finds on the corps of a dead trapper named "Hatchet Jack". A 50 cal. rifle, every true mountain man's dream, and one that would become mine as well. Once I had saved up the money I purchased one of the many Hawken Rifle clones being made in Italy, to fill the want of the fairly new muzzle loading rifle community. It was a percussion rifle of , you guessed it, 50.cal., and man was I proud of it. My first year hunting big game back in Colorado produced a fine young buck and my "living history fantasy" had begun. A few years later I was fully immersed in the "living history fraternity", reenacting the mountain man of the fur trade era of the 1820's to 1840's, complete with a new 58. cal. (GRRW) fullstock flintlock rifle I had built from a kit. I was a die hard, never even considered hunting with anything as modern as a bolt action rifle with a high powered scope. Nope I was a mountain man and more than ready to prove it.
The spring of 1980, only weeks after the birth of my son James, found me bear hunting from a tree stand a mere 300 yards from our house located in the Sangre de Christo mountains of southern Colorado. For several weeks I diligently carried two 5 gal. buckets of fresh table scraps, everyday to my bait station where I would then climb into my tree and wait for the bear I was hunting to finally show up during legal hunting hours. The routine was repeated nightly with great expectations that "this would be the night". Though there were many nights that did not produce a bear to shoot at, none the less, every night was a blessing. I found it was a time of perfect peace and reflection. I would sit on my limb and watch God's creation all around me, completely undisturbed as though no man was there to interrupted it.
On one night in particular, I was sitting as I always had, when I heard the sound of a small song bird behind and just a little above my head. Turning slowly around I was surprised to see a fat little Black Capped Chickadee happily singing away. Undisturbed by my presence he took off , flew around and landed on a limb directly in front of me, only inches from my face. Looking down at me with more curiosity than anything , he continued to sing. Suddenly he takes off again and flies around the top of my head, landing on my hair. The excitement begins to build now as this little troubadour seems totally unafraid of me. Then again he flies off of my head , circles again and lands on my ear where he hangs on the edge and sings directly into my head. Shaking with excitement, I gently reached up and lightly cupped my hand around this little brave critter and bringing him down to in front of my face , I uncupped my hand where my new friend stood and sang for the longest time before , finally he flew away. Amazing! Nothing like that ever happened before. Didn't take a genius to figure out that it was the hand of God. And the message was clear and simple. "I love you son"! Nothing more...nothing less. Wow!
One evening as I was sitting there enjoying the serenity, completely without warning, out steps a bear into the clearing. Silently and swiftly he made his way to the bait bucket. I sat and watched him for some time, but decided early on that this bruin was not the bear I wanted. I knew there were several different ones in the area and also knew several were quite large. I decided to wait. I was excited to watch this one though, as it was the first bear I had ever seen in the wild. I began to realize that it was nearing dark and was convinced that climbing out of the tree with a bear on the ground might not be all that prudent. I began to break branches, hoping the sound would frighten the bear off without exposing my presence. Without warning he stuck his nose in the air , sniffed and made a bee line for my tree.
When he reached the base, he coolly looked up and began to growl, snarl and snap his jaws. I yelled back at him and as I did he got all the louder. The reality of him climbing up the tree to drag me down became more and more of an issue, so I pulled out a reproduction cap and ball revolver I was carrying for back up and fired off a round at the ground, hoping to merely scare him of before I was forced to shoot him. Turning away from the tree, he began to walk away occasionally looking over his shoulder to growl and snap at me in defiance.
Hey! Black bears weren't suppose to behave like that. I was a bit rattled and doubt that my feet ever touched the ground that night as I made my way home.
I knew this guy could be a problem, so I began to pray that if this was the bear that God wanted me to take, he would have to force my hand. By now it was early July and I was also praying that if I was still going to be successful, the bear's hide would still be good and that all the hair would not be rubbed off as is common with the coming of warm temperatures.
July 10th. As had been my practice now for two and a half months, I was carrying two five gallon buckets of fresh table scraps, about 80 lbs., that I gathered from the Christian Camp where I was employed. Everyday, every last morsel of food was eaten leaving me to believe that there was more than my young ill-tempered friend coming in at night. I sat my buckets down and began to study the ground and bushes , hoping to see hair or tracks that would satisfy my suspicion that there were two bears hitting the bait each night. Standing there with my flintlock rifle slung over my shoulder with a make-shift sling I had made to aid my climb into the tree each night, I suddenly heard what seemed to me and audible voice that said "prime your rifle"! Without hesitation I reached into my "possibles bag", took out my small powder horn that carried my priming powder and dispensed a small amount into the pan of my flintlock. As I did I suddenly looked up to see a bear running straight for me! Quickly bringing my rifle to shoulder, I prayed "Lord if you want me to shoot this bear, let him come on. If not , turn him around." For a moment he stopped and then began again his charge. At twenty five yards I fired, hitting him in the chest area. Immediately he was thrown backwards and began to flail around and make an awful sound, not unlike a small child screaming. I was almost reloaded, when he suddenly fell to the ground , dead. Still tense from the previous few moments, I approached his now motionless body, aware that he might be playing possum and could spring to life again and attack.
As I stood over his lifeless body, a myriad of thoughts ran through my mind. First, there was praise for God's protection. There was thankfulness for His provision. There was, as always, the twinge of sadness for taking a life. After a quick prayer, I went to work field dressing my kill. As I worked carefully at the task, it began to settle in on me what had just happened. Had I heard the voice of the Lord! A "burning bush" experience! God had spoken to me! That same miracle that so many of us read in Scripture, and hope , but never really expect to experience, had happen to me. It happened at a time and in an environment that was suited and perfectly matched to me. How often had I read about mountain men at a moment of desperation killing a charging bear. Wow! Like the experience with the chickadee, once again God had shown me His love for me.
After field dressing the bear, I stood up to return home for help carrying the carcass out. Suddenly I saw only 25 yards away another bear feeding out of the bait buckets. There were two bears! But actually I had killed the same one that I had confronted a couple of months before. I had prayed for a larger bear and best I could judge this one had put on about a hundred pounds in those two months of feeding. Hollering at this second but smaller individual, he scampered off, not giving the same resistance that his now deceased cousin had given earlier in the summer. Arriving home I was given a hero's welcome from family and friends. By mid-night, I had completed the task of skinning the hide and had hung the meat in a cool place to be processed a week later.
Years later, I look at that old bearskin rug, and realize no great spiritual or theological truth had come out of the experience, but rather, those two and a half months waiting every evening for just the right bear to appear for me to harvest, have become simply, a testimony of God's love and favor for me a sinner , saved by grace, and living a few brief moments of fantasy that were and are tailored for me...His son.
IMHO...bigger is better. However in a couple of weeks I'll go ear hunting with smooth bore .62 cal. flintlock........I still own my .58 cal GRRW Leman flinter, but taking big game with just one gun and doing it with a smooth bore has become my "method" of choice.
