I’m happy to report that my daydream fuel has become more refined since I was that young man staring at a Weatherby advert and I’ll also confess having whetted my appetite for fine rifles. I’ve been blessed enough to become friends with some of the biggest hitters in the firearms industry and I’m lucky enough to call guys like Chris Sells from HeymUSA, as well as Marc Newton and Simon Barr from John Rigby & Co., my friends as well as business associates.
Now, I’m by no means independently wealthy, nor am I a rifle snob – those guns I saved so long for still have a place in my heart and get used often – but as a gunwriter, I have had the opportunity to be exposed to some of the finest firearms available to mortal men. 308.” Sorry Pop, I’m hooked and no hay remedio. That curiosity, coupled with a half-million questions hurled at GP, was the germination of a lifelong love of firearms and cartridges – and adulthood focused on hunting abroad.Īs a younger man, I’d save for years sometimes to buy a rifle, and they became very dear to me, though GP insisted I was foolish for having “all those damned different calibers, when all you need is a good. I was a sucker for the Remington catalog, spending my time investigating the different model numbers and available calibers, slowly piecing the puzzle together regarding the various available calibers and their applications. I remember the advertisement, where an investor would part with a sum of money and receive a Weatherby Mark V, all shiny with the white-line spacers, and I’d stare in wonder at the possibilities of holding such a firearm in my hands one day. However, I’d secretly peruse whatever hunting magazines we had around, wide eyed and soaking it all in like a dry sponge. I’ll kill anything they will.” He’s not wrong, and I still wouldn’t want to be within 500 yards of the old man with that rifle in hand. “They’re bullet launchers,” he quips, in that stern voice that commands attention in any room, “you take any one of those ‘fancy-wood’ rifles and I’ll put it up against my Mossberg 100A. As it translated into the hunting facet of our lives, firearms were meat-getters my father – Ol’ Grumpy Pants – had a meager assortment of guns, each with their designated purpose, and he views a gun in the same manner today. My mother had, and still has, the ability to stroll into a nearly new shop and come out with head held high, looking like one of the classiest ladies I’ve ever seen. I was raised in a household where money was tight we never did without, nor were we unhappy, but there was little money for frivolity. If price is no object, you can’t do much better than these large-caliber dream guns for dangerous game hunting.