The Old Load

[NETim]

270 Winchester and 130 Nosler partitions... pretty iffy combo! Nice story nicely written. Thanks!

 

[ISS]

One of the best city bus rides I ever took was from Granite City, Ill, with two transfers, out to University City, MO. St Louis County, still a lot of farms back then. I hiked maybe half a mile to an address on an old American Rifleman. Townsend Whelen was living there with his younger sister and her family. We sat on the front porch, and he regaled me with stories of rifles he had built or owned over half a century of shooting. He spoke fondly of G.A. Woody, a cowboy from West Texas who was Commandant of Springfield Army during WWII. He and Woody, Grosvenor Watkins and another gentleman whose name escapes me now, had designed the 22 Hornet and built Winchester High Walls and converted M22's. That is why Hornets came with 223" bullets, they were converted rimfires.
That was long ago, I am Whelen's age now.

 

[Wild Bill IV]

The day was dark and overcast, that long ago afternoon, with just enough light peeking through the window to let me see the pointer on the scale.

I had forty rounds to make – the two 20-round boxes of virgin Winchester brass an uncommon luxury. A couple of little kids running around, a wife who didn’t work… and we were perpetually broke. Saving the empty hulls from factory rounds was how I normally got brass.

I had been running the Nosler 130 gr. Spitzer Partition for four years now. That, too, had been an extravagence. Those premium bullets came in miserly little 50-round boxes, which really put a crimp on load development. I can still remember cringing at the first box I ever bought, already thinking about the narrow line I was going to have to walk in getting a load worked up.

I had bounced back and forth between IMR-4350 and IMR-4831 in those early years, before settling on the slower powder. So by the time this dark November day rolled around I already knew what I was building: 56.5 gr. of that 4831, with CCI primers, and the whole thing stretching to an OAL of 3.350.”

Working the Mitutoyo calipers, a tiny smile tugged at my lips. With a single-shot you had to be mindful of the rifling, but otherwise you didn’t have to worry much about how long a cartridge was.

The work was tedious. Throwing an underweight charge with the Uniflow, dropping that into the pan, then meticulously turning the knob on the trickler, watching the large, extruded kernels drop one by one from the end of the tube, waiting for the beam pointer to marry-up with the reference on the scale.

The forty pieces of brass stood like soldiers in the tray, each awaiting its turn. My favorite part was placing the plastic funnel over the mouth of each one in turn, carefully lifting the pan from the scale, and enjoying the shsssh as the granules slowly flowed into the case mouth. You could hear it. You could feel it. And, most important of all, you could sense the gravitas that lay behind the whole endeavor. Life and death lived here.

When I was done, when all forty bullets had been seated, I sat back with the hard-to-describe pleasure that has always warmed me when finishing up a loading session.

Then, slowly, carefully – enjoying the moment – I gently lifted each round and placed it in the green MTM cartridge box. I carefully scribed “11/12/88” on the label, along with the rest of the load data. It was load #28.

§​

In the very first issue of Handloader Magazine, May-June 1966, Ken Waters penned the first of what would become his classic “Pet Loads” feature. And the cartridge he chose for that first eponymous effort… was the .270 Winchester.

Nowadays, of course, there are far more sexy and far more exotic calibers to play with. But back in those halcyon days, the .270 Win was the cat’s meow. It has lost none of its luster or any of its effectiveness. But its PR department has apparently fallen on hard times.

I had no way of knowing any of that back then, of course. And it would not have mattered anyway.

What did matter was what those forty rounds, and the rifle they were bred in, would come to mean to me. For there was something else going on.

I’ll say it this way… if I had a nickel for every whitetail deer I pushed out in front of me, heard but usually unseen, I could buy a really nice rifle. Having determined years before to become a still hunter – in an age when hunting from a stand, or using drivers to push game towards an unwitting ambush – was the obvious way to be successful… I had hitched my wagon to what seemed an unending series of hard lessons in the woods.

Apart from the subtle lessons they kept sending my way, the deer were quite safe.

The other half of the story was the Ruger No. 1 rifle I had chosen. If you carry a single-shot rifle into the woods, and hunt with that exclusively for years and years… it changes you. It makes you to see differently. It makes you hunt differently. And it makes you shoot differently.

And so there I was, a bound-to-be still hunter, carrying a single-shot rifle. Seemingly, a batter striding to the plate with two strikes already against him.

But what I didn’t know on that long ago November day when I sat loading those forty rounds was that it was all soon to come together.

§​

“He has lots of guns, but I don’t know what they are.”

My wife stood at the counter down at Clark Brothers, a local gun shop. She wanted to get me something nice for my birthday, but had no idea where to begin.

The man behind the counter paused for a moment, contemplating. “Well, since you don’t know what he has, I’d recommend going with something classic, like this.”

And so it was that the Model 700 CDL in .30-06 Springfield made its way home. Storied though the .30-06 was, it was a caliber I didn’t then shoot. A touch of serendipity. It was with no small delight that I bought a Leupold scope and RCBS dies and various components for the new rifle.

As the calendar rolled ‘round towards November, and my annual week in the woods, the question was obvious. But it didn’t take long to answer… there’s no way you can receive a gift like that and not make use of it.

I still remember the almost visceral embarrassment that first cold morning, thumbing three cartridges into the Remington’s cavernous magazine. But it was a fine rifle, and shot true. And it became the rifle I hunted with from then on.

The Ruger No. 1, despite the bluing on its receiver having grown dim from countless hours with my hand wrapped around it, remained as graceful and elegant as ever. But its handsomeness was relegated to the wood and glass of my gun cabinet.

§​

Fast forward a bunch of years. Half those pals I hunted with for so many years are gone. The miles-long tract in the rugged Allegheny Mountains that I so loved – that taught me all those lessons – has been sold. The pandemic that you read about in history books has become our present. And being a man, embracing the duties and responsibilities that come with that, is now an anachronism. Use whichever bathroom you like.

The green MTM box is dusty. I dampen a wash rag and wipe it clean.

The plastic latch is stiff, unused in years. But then, like the sear on a trigger, the latch releases and the top opens and out washes a flood of memories.

The routine every night, preparing for the next day’s hunt, was always the same. Ten rounds came out of the MTM box, inserted into the loops of the leather drop carrier I belted to my waist. From those ten, three were removed the next morning. Two – my spares - went into my outside jacket pocket. The third would be held in my hand until I was away from the cabin and into the woods, at which point it went into the chamber of the rifle. To this day, the lovely, hollow sound the falling-block action of the No. 1 made as you closed the lever is buried in my soul.

Now, looking inside the box… 17 unfired rounds remain. There are 22 pieces of fired brass. One piece of fired brass was apparently lost along the way.

Of the 23 rounds that were fired, three or four were used to verify my scope zero, a single shot, every few years. The rest each killed a deer. None ever ran more than a few feet. Most dropped instantly, like they had been pole-axed. A few were suspicious and were on alert, but most had no idea I was there.

When you only shoot one round a year, they last an awfully long time.

View attachment 1292316


Smiling at the seventeen rounds that remain, I pull up my handload log and scan the page for any notes. There’s nothing unusual.

Like life itself, a whole bunch of things have changed in my handloading world since I built those rounds, all those many years ago. Firing up QuickLoad, I’m surprised at its 3040 fps / 60,690 psi prediction. Knowing that Jack O’Connor, Townsend Whelen, and a whole bunch of others put several grains more of 4831 into their cases than my rather more conservative 56.5 gr., I expected a bit less of both velocity and pressure.

But, then, QuickLoad also shows it as a 3% compressed charge, and that’s clearly not correct. You can feel and hear the powder move when you shake the cartridges.

I still have the old 50-count Nosler box with the ten bullets I didn’t use on that long-ago November afternoon. Picking up another set of Mitutoyo calipers – now digital – I retrieve three samples from the box and quickly confirm that they are tiny bit longer than the default number shown in QuickLoad.

The biggest difference, though, is case capacity. A few minutes with syringe, a glass of water, and my FX-120i proves that the old Winchester brass I used holds three grains more than what is in today’s QL default.

It’s starting to dial down to what’s probably actually there.


View attachment 1292317

§​

Settling down behind the rifle, the blowing brown leaves remind me that it’s November, the month this rifle, and this load, always lived for. Gazing at the paper a hundred yards away, the white reflects the sun, washing out the ink and making the image difficult to see. But, then, that’s also always been part of it. Dealing with whatever hand you’re dealt.

This is just a quick-and-dirty, so I’ve only spotted one wind flag. I watch it for a minute, tracing the switches.

Bending to the rifle, I almost laugh. How long has it been?

Crikey, the stadia lines in the Leupold 1.5-5x Vari-X III are a fuzzy mess. So I sit back up and start cranking out the eyepiece. With it backed nearly all the way out… I can once again see.

Back in the glass, watching the wind flag. After a moment I lift my head, turn to the MTM cartridge box, and extract one of the unfired rounds. Sliding it into the chamber, the lever locks up with that satisfying sense of expectation that I have always loved.

Waiting for the flag… and when the shot breaks my eyes move to the Labradar… 2872 fps. Back at the scope, the shot is at one o’clock, a half inch off my point of aim. And since I would have zero’d the scope so that my intended point of impact was about two inches high… that actually makes it an inch and a half low.

Cold, wet bore. Which is the only kind that has ever mattered with this rifle and this load.

Shot two clocks in at 2933 fps and prints an inch and a half high – a half inch low, in other words.

And shot three makes 2921 fps, printing exactly on point at two inches high.

Mediocre results on paper. And mediocre chrono stats.

As I run the patches, lapping the bore with even strokes before putting the rifle back in the gun cabinet – where it will sit for who knows how long before I will shoot it again – I contemplate the afternoon.

All those years of one-shot, instant kills kind of lulls you into the notion that this load, in this rifle, must be heaven’s own horn. A bit of lightning, bottled up and sent down from on high.

Apparently, not so much.

But even as I think that, two thoughts come to mind. The first is… were I developing that load today, I would surely do it differently. I have much better tools. And hopefully I know a little bit more.

But then the second thought immediately rises up… it wouldn’t matter. Not a lick. Because that load, in that rifle, did exactly, precisely what they were supposed to. Over and over again. Without once shirking the task that lay in front of them.

Neither were great. But, then, they didn’t need to be.

They were both good enough.

Jager:

Beautifully written true story!!
I too fell those emotions and memories!!
You had the luxury of following Waters and his 270Win Pet Load!!!
I had to develop my loads for the 25-06 using IMR 4831 for the 120 SGK SBT bullets!!
The rifle was a self custom build in the early 80s!!!
After testing, I settled on one load that shot the tightness groups at 600!!
And, I too was a cold barrel one shot ACE!!!
But unlike you, I took 3 rounds in my shirt pocket to keep at a constant temperature, on those really cold mornings and days, with and open bolt (no rounds in the magazine or chamber), waiting for the previously scouted buck to pass by in range!!! I had plenty of time to chamber one round into the rifle and lock it without fear of my game hearing it!!! I could watch my game approach the killing zone with 1/4 to 1-1/2 miles of viewing!!!

But, my story goes a little further than nostalgia of the loads, the rifle, and my hunting technique!!! In my earlier days, I was a bow hunter!! A couple years into it, I pursued a very dominant young Whitetail Buck!!! His front shoulders were very rounded like a cross section of a basket ball, with hip muscles were like a x-sectioned health balls and heavy thick, viene neck!!! The 4x4 rack was heavy, wide beam with a couple of broken points!!! For 3 bow hunting seasons, that buck and I seemed to play games with each other!!! At times, I was watching him, and other times, that buck was watching me from a couple hundred yards away laying under cedar trees or low cut paths in thick patches of salt cedar, tall grass, and weeds!! And, we were watching each other, eye to eye, several times, playing the "who's going to move 1st" game!!!
1 years passed, and I never seen my foe of playing "who watching who" games!!!

I decided to take up firearms deer hunting at that point!!! And the custom build 25-06 started!! My first year out, I started hunting setting on a small high knob in open protected habitat that was a feeder to the cove I use to bow hunt in!!! I was totally shocked, when my old foe appeared one early sunrise morning!!! He was following close to a lone doe!!! He had one thing on his mind, dropping his shield of alertness and not sensing my presents!! I'm going to end this game of "who's watching who" with my advantage of spotting him 1st!! I took him down at around 275 (slightly downhill), where he got back on his feet and ran about 25-30 feet, nose diving into the dirt, the rack digging in the earth, and his body tumbling, hooves and tail straight over his planted head!!! This massive corn and milo (high protein diet) fed creature (315 lbs hanging gutted weight) had a very strong will to live!!! Upon field dressing this trophy, I examined the wound trail!! Straight through the heart and both lungs!!! This majestic buck was running on pure adrenaline and nosed dived when the oxygen was totally depleted in the brain causing "black out" conditions!! The rack was mounted on a story board, with the round, the black, silver, and gold beads representing the range, rooster tail streamers, and a rattlesnake rattle (another memorable event of that 5 days afield)!!

About 4 years later, I was shocked again! There before me was a dominant buck that looked like exactly like my earlier aged foe!!! The body, rack, color of hide, and characteristics of this buck was just like my foe from years ago!!! This was a direct descendant of my trophy buck!! He too had broken points showing his dominance of the area!!! But, he never came into range, where he used the heavy cover of salt cider, cat tails, and tall brome grass along and inside the 3 foot deep feeder creek banks to bypass a possible threat, and reappeared just before the coves vegetative heavy cover!! These trophy Whitetail Bucks are not stupid like Muley Bucks!!! Once again showing the same actions of my old foe!!! I believe this buck had caught my scent, because he stopped and looked kinda towards me after emerging, past my range, from the creek!!! Just like my old foe did several times!!!! Dominant bucks, learn from their dominant sire!!! Had to settle for a doe that year!! The following year, that bad boy's fate ended just likes its father at around 450 yards straight away!!! Hanging over 290lbs!!

Years past taking mid season basket bucks and late season does!!! About 6 years later, fate had its course!! There, 574 yards, uphill, was my shot at another generation of my old foe!! Broken points and all!!! He went down hard, got up and ended his life just like my old foe!!! He too was a heavy hanging carcass just under 290lbs!!

For 4 generations, I was lucking in my selection of having a unique location of taking this bloodline of bucks!!! They all had the same territorial area!!! Alas, after 10 years of taking the 4th generation buck (at around 325 downhill, just under 300lbs hanging), the bloodline stopped, or the territory changed severely!!! About 8 years later, I spotted a different dominant buck!! He was thinner, darker colored hide, with massive really wide span, 6x6 rack with a lobe hanger (non typical)!! His path and territory ran around the coves thick tree lined perimeter inside the outer sparse thick patches of salt cider!!! New bloodline in that area!!!

I hear you Jager, and understand totally, looking back at that rifle, the loads, and one shot harvesting memories!!! But, have a really special appreciation of God's will of showing me the nature of the beast in bow hunting and rifle harvesting experiences!!!

God bless you Jager!!! I too am up there in age, and I thank you for sharing your similar memories, emotions, and experience!!!

And yes, the old internet was really slow in those days!!! In those old magazines, the author would reply with comments, in the authors comment section of the magazine, from letters related to the previous monthly author's magazine article!!!

 

[Cecil S.]

Great read.

 

[Art308]

Well written. Takes me back to 1983 when I was 12. Dad had a long barreled Winchester Model ‘94 in 32 Winchester Special. My friends at school were starting there hunting careers too. The only rifles we spoke of were 30/30s, 270s, 243s and 30/06 (we had one water head in the group with a 32 Win Special). There were no “youth guns” and our parents couldn’t afford to take us out and burn countless rounds in practice. My old man had an old box of 170 grain silver tips with 9 rounds missing.

We would hit the school library and scour over outdoor life and field & stream. (Do any of you remember the “Grandpa and the Kid” articles?)

My 16 and 13 year old sons barely talk hunting. Most of their friends don’t hunt or shoot!! So sad, it’s all we spoke of. I did manage to kill my first deer that year, a young 2 point. I missed 3 does the evening before….8 times lol. My dad said “great now I have to go buy another box of ammo.” Hahaha to go back, I really miss dad.

 

[D-4297]

You have given a great gift to all of us in writing this . It puts all of us in mind of some point in time ; early in our loading years , or hunting times , or time as a Competitor , and why we do what we do , with the rifle we had , have , or are seeking .
Very well done , Sir !