The Hunter's Chronicles

[milegajo]

Saturday 12th May 2012

Nature, my mistress, provider and dictator has limited my activities and resources somewhat of late.
Though today, just when required, she changed her mind. Bathing myself and the solar panels in glorious celestial warmth. The heat that nurtures all life...including the netbook...

Between this, and my last reported adventure I have been a hunting guide, dodging rain and shooting rabbits with success and failure on both counts.

Presented with the opportunity that was this day, I fed the new S200 a whole tin of RWS Superfields. She spat them out rather erratically and it was clear that they were not to her liking. When I changed her diet to AA Fields she started to behave, if she wasn't pumped too full (170 BAR seemed to side step the two magazines of 'two mildot high' pellets that had troubled me the whole day).
With a pretty thorough work out on the pump burning in my back muscle's, I decided it was time to turn her loose in the fields.

Rather than wander the entire land, I went prone outside of a warren whose population were as equally grateful for the return of the Sun. Shortly after, the cross hairs were rising and falling scribing an imaginary line of death down the side of the nearest rabbits face. They rested a mildot high at nine times magnification with a range of 53 yards. The S200 let wind.
The pellet struck the earth behind him...I'd over filled her! She was at 190 BAR... The Kit paused at the hedgerow, his play fellow evidently oblivious to his chums dance with death. I aimed straight at him. The Reaper visited and claimed a soul.

"Death wuz 'ere"

As I awaited the return of the remaining quarry, my mobile rang. It was my dear sweet lady love.
"Don't ask me how, but the chickens have escaped and are all in the garden, I would round them up, but the cockerels out too".
"On my way..."
Our Old English Game Cock appears to believe my partner and our oldest daughter to be hens that require rounding up. He's not averse to resorting to flying kicks and pecks to the buttocks to exert his will. He only avoided execution after an escape and assault earlier in the day as I couldn't be bothered to pluck him.

I returned to the fields around 19:00 with food in my belly, anxious to test my new found understanding of the .22 calibre pellet.

Progress was slow and silent as I patrolled a bramble patch. Improbably close to my right, barely 4 yards ahead, a grey/brown shape moved through the fence!
I was astounded. A fully grown rabbit boldly going about her business.
My senses searched to identify the factor that was facilitating this experience.
It was plain. Her fur was patchy, eyes narrowed slits, blinded by the grip of her decay at the hands of Myxomatosis. I suddenly found myself the victim of a moral dilemma. I, rooted to the ground, observed her for what seemed a long while as I deliberated on a course of action. Reason said Myxomatosis victims are edible, instinct told me not to eat a diseased animal. Added to this, her fur was of little use and appeal to me.
Eventually, I decided she was searching for death. She had been seeking me for a while now and the gods had chosen me to end her suffering. They guided my hand to lift the sights to 4 mildots holdover and send a pellet precisely where it was required. She rolled over and left this existence with barely a shudder.
She reminded me of the admiration I have for all those beings who, through whatever ailment/circumstances, are without one of the senses I take for granted and rely upon almost every waking moment. Whilst my phone and camera had run out of battery denying me the ability to record that event, it will remain forever branded in my mind. A personal experience granted exclusively to me, to be shared only in words.

My appetite for death escaped me, my hunger for meat forgotten.

For now...

 

[milegajo]

Sunday 13th May 2012

Due to a low battery warning in our carbon monoxide alarm, I was awake at 04:00 whether I liked it or not.
A dawn patrol.
The sunrise was awe inspiring. My old friend, the woodland, transformed in my absence. The cover now blocking the rising light, vibrant green providing a screen from the multitude of pigeons cooing from the dizzying heights of the giant beech trees.
Whilst no quarry presented itself, I witnessed something I have not seen before. A crashing thundering sound suddenly erupted ahead. I dropped to my knee expecting to see a cyclist hurtle past at breakneck speed. Instead, four deer stampeded past weaving frantically through the trees... an incredible sight and most unexpected.
I exited the woods the other side.

Over the hill I strolled breathing in the fresh dawn air. It has been too long since I prowled the woods at this, a most vibrant hour so full of anticipation and promise it is almost palpable.
Out of sync with the terrain, and distracted by the scenes around me, I only managed to send the three rabbits that were seen scurrying back to their tunnels and warrens.

My focus switched to the pigeons as I embarked on the return leg of my tour. Only two shots of the many opportunities were possible and my closest attempt took a feather or two off the backside of one as I struggled to master shooting at near vertical angles. I have yet to learn this with the .177 let alone the .22 and I do not fancy scaling those arrow straight ancient beeches in order to mount targets to practice!

At 14:15 I set out to the fields on the lower slopes of the valley. After 3 hours I really did question my sanity entering on the forum a thread entitled "How I Know For Certain I'm Insane..." with the following post;

"...and it's the air rifles fault.

I read that one of the definitions of insanity is "the repetition of the same task or activity, with the expectation of a different outcome each time".

As I sit outside this warren for the umpteenth time, I can't help but wonder if the men in white coats, not rabbits, are about to jump out..."

I gave up on that warren and elected to 'mooch' instead.

In the next field over I spied two illuminated red elliptical shapes close to the ground. I dropped to my knee and inspected through the glass. As I suspected, the sun was shining through a pair of ears attached to a feeding rabbit. As I rose to advance, the wind, strong and unpredictable, and possibly over eagerness in my movement, gave my presence away and I had milliseconds to act. No time for laser range finding, it was shooting by the seat of the pants. The gut put range at 40 plus yards, the mind responded with the calculation of a mil dot hold over, she was turning to launch into a run. I fired from a standing position. She was out of the blocks and at full tilt. She failed to reach 572.5ft/s and the pursuing AA Field crashed into her skull. Two front flips and a side roll and four legs pointed upwards, twitching at the heavens.

A large and heavy Doe with seven fetuses. I was taken aback by her size.

'Bagged n tagged', we headed home. Within minutes she was 'dressed' (ironic, as being skinned surely she was undressed!) and in the pot. An old jar of Madras curry paste, its contents separated into 'brown' and 'liquid' provided the foundations of a very large and satisfying meal.

The possibilities and adventures that exist when the Sun doth shine!

 

[milegajo]

Wednesday 16th May 2012

A brief return to the neglected woodland, possibly the last too as the weekenders have decided to move in full time. Nice to have neighbours and in honesty my pigeon roost shooting techniques don't seem to be yielding many juicy breasts. I'll find somewhere else to pop em off.

My pigeon hunting techniques are so poor in fact...I came home with a squirrel! I opted to explore a bit and try out a new vantage point. This had an excellent kill zone, the slope put me midway up the trees, with a panoramic view of the woodland floor out to a perfect 40 yards. I was presented with a couple of chances, but threading the pellet through the newly grown foliage was seemingly impossible. The shots I did get off must have ricocheted or impacted into branches, or I fluffed them all.

As my right leg had fallen soundly asleep, and I feared I would soon follow, I went for an "ahhh, ohhh, owwww JEEZZZUS CHRIST" wander...
A tail dangled from the fence. It was attached to a small female squizzer. As I eyed her up in the glass, she gave me a wink. I was most excited and blew an RWS Superfield in her direction...

The RWS Superfield entered beside the right eye, only just visible in the picture above. She fell back and dangled from the wire, slumping into the carpet of Ramsons.

I was amazed when I performed the autopsy to find a .177 in the left shoulder blade! Evidently the pellet had travelled through the skull, down the neck and expended itself between the muscle and skin. 10.87ft/lbs at 40 yards. Astounding.

My first thought was "Wow, maybe JFK was killed by a 'magic bullet'!"

I'm keen to chuck her in my 'oven' and see what she's like with some Patak's Rogan Josh curry paste!

Only a short one this time friends!

 

[milegajo]

The Wise Hunter knows his continued existence depends not only in the taking and destruction of life, but the nurturing and giving of it also.

 

[milegajo]

Friday 18th May 2012

It was time. And for this outing, there were two. We left with the words of my beloved ringing in our ears "bring us back a nice big rabbit!". Yes M'aam!.

My buddy, Mawders, being without his Superten, had brought with him a borrowed S410 carbine. It was woefully off zero (stubbornly shooting to the left despite numerous turns of the turret) and I was left underwhelmed by not only its performance but, strangely, the depth of the carving allowed for the palm in the stock. So shallow did it feel that for an instant I thought it to be a lefty stock. Forgivable after being used to the deep moulded feel of the TX200's woodwork.
Here was an occasion for a true PCP hunting carbine to step up to the mark. The deservedly renowned and much lauded S200. I left Mawders to get himself familiarised as I returned to camp to pick up the TX200 and return the disgraced S410. Upon my return,he told me of his positive first impression and awe at it's consistency and accuracy at 30 yards.

As we embarked on our 'mooch' pattern, a duvet of cloud rolled over the sky and soon a haze of 'dusty' rain was falling. Thankfully this did not persist, though at times it did sporadically return, keeping the ground moist enough to soak through the clothes should you crawl or lie prone upon it.

This outing kicked off much earlier than our two previous trips and was the better for it I feel. We settled on a spot where rabbits had been consistently seen and lay in wait.

Our position lay in a thistle ridden and shallow dip. Despite the odd 'tickle' in the nether regions which promoted alertness, the site afforded us good cover and soon the Mawders/S200 combination was presented with a challenge.

Both rose admirably to the occasion. As the large doe hopped from her hiding place in the hedge row, I barely had time to mutter "30 yards, dead on" before a 'phut - SMACK' was heard. She pulled off a flip of which any gymnast would be proud, only to land it, legs stiff and twitching towards the sky. There was no doubt in my mind that she was dead upon the pellets impact. We left her undisturbed for a time, keen not to dissuade any other candidates from exiting the safety of their hedgebank. Eventually, I handed Mawders the knife and he collected his prize.

The .22 had not been kind. It had ploughed through skin, bone, brain, then further on to bone and skin as it exited the other side, leaving a very bloody kill in its wake and irony to the expression 'a clean kill'
She lay in a surprisingly large pool of her own blood.
When Mawders opened her up, there were four large developed fetus, bonus! Or as Mawders rightly put it: "One pellet, five rabbits!"

Disemboweled, she was offered as a teaser to the Crows, but there were no takers from the corvid kingdom and as the temperature dropped and the limbs started to seize we moved on to see what other opportunities were aboard.

The usual suspects were in the usual places, and once again evaded execution. We repeated the mooching pattern and returned to our favoured position as the light was fading.

Having got soaked through crawling with admirable dedication towards a group of rabbits earlier, neither Mawders nor myself fancied lying once more upon the soaking earth. We elected instead to park our bums in the hedgebank on gunslips.

50-60 yards away a large rabbit leapt out and loped along towards our position. He was front on and presented a narrow target, but I was confident where I placed the crosshairs. I fired. Miss. The pellet slapped into the ground, I think in front of him leading me to question whether the scope was still zeroed. He must've moved to within 40 yards! Poor shooting then.

A short while later other rabbits appeared but were either too nervous to allow stalking and/or far out of range to not bother to attempt.

Light was dwindling along with my hopes. I strained my eyes to make out shapes through the Simmons 50mm lens...Ahaha! The unmistakable shape of a rabbit manifested in my sight picture, it seemed ready to pounce into the nettle patch, but I took my time. Guesstimating the range to be in the high 40's low 50's (yards) I adjusted the scope to 9x mag and lifted the crosshairs to the top of his cranium. I held my position, took up first pressure, fired and followed through.

The shot struck just in and below the eye. Instant death. Range turned out to be 47 yards. The TX200 proved itself to be equal to its PCP stable mate despite the smaller calibre.

The Brothers in Air Arms...

The trips bounty.

 

[milegajo]

Wednesday 23rd May 2012

Air Rifles are playing a seemingly pivotal and synchronistic role in this lifestyle of mine. Not long after purchasing the S200 from a local chap, my eager ego was busy shopping for things I neither needed nor had the money to purchase; Bipods, Quick release studs, etc etc. It even went as far as to belittle the acquisition that it had for so long desired and generated so much suffering over it's deprivation and lack. Now it said "Not as good as a HW100!" What the heck! I have nothing to sell!
Oh but you do....
No. No. I couldn't. Selling my time was exactly what started this whole breakaway and shift off.
Could I go back? Not to something that I didn't enjoy, no way.
It had to be local.
It had to be temporary, yet worthwhile.
Pah, the nearest settlement is a sleepy hamlet with a pub. I was not about to pull pints again.

I mulled my new desire and the predicament of the overdraft my past desires had created.
I just about managed to convince myself I was actually happy and complete.
Then I received a text.

"Just picked up a traditional building job down the road from you. You available Monday?" It was the guy I bought the S200 from!

'Absolutely' featured in my reply. Right up my alley having spent a year learning traditional building methods, here was someone requiring me to put them into practice and teach me some more whilst paying me!

The cottage was idyllic.

The job was not.

Nearly all the walls bar one need re-pointing. That means 3-5 months work using a miniature pick to tap out the old lime mortar, then replacing it. The chimney needs rebuilding. A window in the roof to be ripped out and replaced by a dormer.... and two days in, my back is sunburnt, wrist is strained and I'm knackered.

I had little recourse therefore to bemoan not being able to hunt. The very time I would normally spend doing it, I was selling. Tough cookies.

But today, tired though I was, I made time.

As I rode shotgun in my employers van (he kindly ran me up the hill to my abode) I spied an invasion of crows marauding one of the fields of my permission. Game on!

A very quick slurp of coffee, shirt off, camo jacket on. Far too hot for layers today.

I grabbed the TX200 as I believed I'd be requiring the lighter faster calibre.

I approached the target area.

I crept through the trees. Just the other side of this thicket, there was a crow party in full swing.

I emerged to find....

...I wasn't invited.

They buggered off. The lot of them.

Ahh well, rabbits it is. I was philosophical in my disappointment at being denied the opportunity of trying out crow burgers, but philosophy gave way to conniving.

Out along the row of fences pictured above I spotted an unsuspecting prize. Range - guesstimated at 43 yards or thereabouts, appropriate hold over, fire.

Most bizarrely, it was after the pellet impacted, this kit decided he'd audition for the Olympic Gymnastics Team, the media hype evidently infectious to rabbits too. To give him his due, he put in a sterling effort to execute a 360 degree backflip with twist, but failed miserably to land it. I held up my judges card. I gave him 3 for effort but his timing was way off in my opinion, next time I would advise he do so without a lump of lead in his brain.
His buddy was harsher than I, and failed to even acknowledge the incredible talent displayed by his now deceased playmate. As I approached, he scratched his ear in his attempt to appear nonchalant. I was not so accurate with my 'gut' rangefinding and missed not once but twice before I applied slight hold under and got an audition out of him too. Not nearly as impressive however. So he got a '1' for merely showing up.

I slit the kits and hid in the bushes, hoping to lure the crows back with treats.

I waited. And I waited some more.

Then I went for a mooch.

In a favourite spot of mine, a large Doe loped around happily, and lazily disappeared back into the hedgerow. A good time for a well earned lie down to give my backside a chance to regain some blood supply.
She re-emerged at a lazed 32 yards. Rested on my gamebag stuffed with the gunslip it was a straight forward shot. It struck home where expected.
What happened was unexpected. The strike was audible and yet she barely reacted shifting forward as though completely unaffected. She was mortally affected. Blood poured from her mouth, dribbling in the grass. In an attempted to hasten her demise I fired another shot, another strike. A flinch. Then she keeled over stone dead.

I paunched her immediately, to find her digestive system in full swing. Food was still being pumped along the intestines. From a nick in the lower tract oozed processed food matter. This continued for a short while even after all had been disconnected. Quite fascinating to say the least.

The pellet seemingly struck the correct area, yet I can only surmise the small .177 round failed to cause the required level of trauma and thus passed just under the brain. She may have drowned on her own blood though unlikely. May have suffered a heart attack?
In my experience, this occurrence is extremely rare. But lessons have been learned. For starters, the S200 will be my primary rabbiting gun. If I use the TX200 for rabbits, it appears the pellet must strike fractionally higher than the mark shown.

I added her to the collection of Kits to which the crows had now flocked, and subsequently scarpered as I drew nearer.

Another wait for the crows.

Another saunter.

At the bottom of the tree on the right there is almost always a rabbit.

This time was no different.

This one decided to perform a very quick cartwheel stunt audition. Similar to the last kill, with more blood from the mouth than I'd like and expect but not quite as disquieting and a much quicker exit. Successful, but with room for refinement.

And so, with my temporary employment, which shall usher in a top pedigree stallion to the airgun stable, I must accept my forays may be less frequent than I am used to. But I am willing to endure the hardships. My boss has promised to show me how to prepare rabbits Cretan style if I tutor him in their skinning and butchery (If it means time off from picking at mortar so be it!).

Til next time friends!

 

[milegajo]

A Hunter must possess versatility and adaptability if he is to survive. This sometimes means providing more than just meat. Water. Fuel. Foraged greens.
For those finer things that his skill set cannot extend to, he may choose to trade or sell his time for units of currency.
The recent heat has meant that, without proper refrigeration, any meat left hanging is soon spoiled by hordes of flies eager to fill every orifice with their eggs. So, I feel it disrespectful to slay any creature only for his body to be cast aside as nature devours it in her numerous peculiar ways. In such weather, it is also more refreshing I feel to enjoy the option to subsist on cool vegetation and foraged leaves
And so it was that this past week, it was not the fields in which the hunter could be found.

Still outdoors in glorious and blessed rays of sunshine, but in contact with stone not soil. Lots of stone.

For the most part, the lime mortar has been raked out. Now, with new sacks of traditional (and thankfully, ready mixed) lime mortar. The re-pointing has commenced.

Alas, the working week must end. It is then one can retire to the shade of the woodlands, resplendent with trees in full bloom. To where sanctuary can be found and tranquility enjoyed with those held most dear.

 

[fishfish]

enjoyed that! make sure your getting vitimin A with all that coney your eating mate.

 

[milegajo]

enjoyed that! make sure your getting vitimin A with all that coney your eating mate.

A bit of foraging helps balance that out. Thanks fishfish!

 

[milegajo]

Saturday 2nd June 2012

"The best laid plans of Mice and Men often go awry"

Steinbeck wrote a book on that theme. I think we all could. If I did, today would certainly feature as one of the illustrations.

With the intention of bagging some rabbits, I opted for the S200 with it's beefier .22 calibre. A text to the landowner, and I was off to the fields where life has surged forth in the sunny days I have been absent. I was death. A balance was to be exacted.

I entered the area in which I was to harvest. My first soul to be ushered to that place we are all journeying was waiting. He munched on the dewy wet fodder that surrounded him 56 yards down the slope. I approached with the trees and hedges behind me to compliment my camouflage. As I closed to a distance of what I guessed was 45 yards, he sensed my presence. It was time. I carefully raised the 'despatcher'. It was further than I had hoped and a standing shot, but I was confident. I lifted the crosshairs the required 1.5 mildots and sent the lead of destiny on its path. My aim was true and over the rabbit rolled.

It was after this that the plan went awry.

I traversed the landscape slowly, taking my time to drink in the environment that had so quickly galloped on without me. Grass much taller than I remembered. New faces in the undergrowth. Full grown poppies bobbed and waved lazily from their sea of green.
But no more rabbits wished to pay the ferryman.

Down from my position, in the field at the bottom of the valley, a fractious gathering of crows were strutting about, taking off, landing, all to a chorus of squawking and calling. I scanned them through the scope. Hmmm not just crows. Intermingled with the yobs of the sky were pigeons and ducks! A veritable target gallery.
There was no obvious approach that would conceal my presence. Whilst I perhaps couldn't prey on them feeding, I could pick off newcomers from a tree that was an obvious vantage and rest point for them. Conveniently, a hedgerow, elevated by the slope and gradient of the terrain lay 45 yards away. It was here I sat, shielded in front by grass now waist high and above by the hedge itself. In minutes a jackdaw alighted on a branch. My despatcher was ready. 1.5 mildots hold over. The AA Diabolo was sent on its way. The slower flight time gifting the jackdaw a moment to twitch before an audible smack returned to my ears. He plummeted through the leaves and branches. His brothers and cousins soon lamented his passing with a renewed clamour of calls. As none were willing to venture to the tree from which he was downed, I crept closer.

Before I came to the foot of the tree, a deer startled me as much as I her. A magnificent beast that pranced effortlessly through the grass that I waded. She stopped to assess me, her fear abated, she melted away into the flora and fauna of a young patch of woodland.

I could find no trace of the jackdaw. I paced up and down the area he should have fallen, but vast swaths had now been swallowed in a mass of man high nettles and thorns. He could rest safely there...

I stopped to reflect on my next course of action. I waited just long enough for it to come to me.
A pigeon landed in the tree directly above and kindly presented a plump breast. It was a risk and challenge to thread the pellet, but I took my chance. He made to take off, but only his spirit flew skywards as his body failed him. A puff of soft downy feathers floated on the wind from the fortress of brambles into which he disappeared.

Honour bound, I resolved to rescue the downed airman.

I found him and successfully retrieved his remains.

The redeeming aspect of those thorns was that he had partly plucked himself.

The gain of that painful endeavour was an excellent hide.

I inspected the killer blow, expecting it to be a heart and lung shot. I was most surprised to only be able to find trauma to the cranium. His face, a mask, not unlike 'The Phantom of The Opera'. One side untouched, the other a mess replete with a red blood filled eye.

I was very pleased that despite the difficulties presented by the dancing limbs and tendrils of his perch as well as the angle, I had again managed to send him off with a clean, instant kill.

I laid him as a decoy 30 yards from my new found cubby hole. And awaited the next soul I knew to be expecting me.

A crow, then a jackdaw swooped low, around, then away as they inspected the pigeon. The two too nervous to land.

I had almost given up hope when three figures waddled over the brow of the hillock to my left.

Water Chicken. A breed similar to the fabled Wild Chicken, but its pond loving cousin. Around here it is common knowledge that this quarry makes fine eating all year round if you can find them. Though abundant, they are most careful, retiring creatures. I have not had an opportunity such as this in nearly a year. I doubt I will for another. Reputedly they are best cooked 'crispy' and are complimented well by a variety of fruit sauces. As the one that wished to pass held its head up above the grass at a lazed 30 yards, I took my opportunity to put the reputation to the test. A head shot behind the eye, though my knife through the throat ensured it's demise as I wasn't satisfied by the pellets work.

I hung around for a time afterwards, but knew my work here was done. A most productive hunt. Almost a relief and a release. I wonder if I was not a bit trigger happy in light of my absence and this, my return. That may be, but what a pie I can make! Food for a week I'm sure.

I thank you souls, for your 'welcome back' parade, it was most unexpected.

 

[milegajo]

Monday 18th June 2012

As I type, the iron stench of rabbit blood rises to my nostrils from the keyboard. I hold my breath as I raise a biscuit to my mouth after its hot chocolate bath.
I can not complain. Nor do I wish to seem to.
It was something like a lust for blood that set my weary legs to purpose at 20:00 this evening. After drawing a blank Friday, you can add some shaken self belief into the pot of motivation.
If I am critical and honest, I was rusty. Too hurried, too rushed. I wasn't 'present', rather, I was already at the next likely spot of opportunity.
I did have one eye on the clock and the fading sun, but I was completely missing out on the experience of the hunt. Until I took steps to remedy that fault, I paid dearly. Rabbits hopped into cover unhurriedly, my presence comfortably noted. Crows flapped away almost begrudgingly. Pigeons sung their soothing song from the deep safety of their ivy covered nests. I was an alien. A disconnected being to be avoided and observed without ever presenting a threat.

It could almost be seen as though the Gods were both laughing at me and trying to send me a meaningful message when I almost literally stumbled upon this chap nonchalantly munching his greens.

Ravaged by myxomatosis he was blissfully unaware that anything untoward could be harbouring any ill intent in his vicinity. My 'LRF' read 7 yards. I'm sure he was closer. I aimed as though it were and missed, then realised 7 yards is the minimum read out. In spite of his diseased condition this one was not to die this day. I reloaded, and upon the click of the safety catch, he bounded off into the woods on my left. Ahh well.
My lesson had been learned with gratitude.

In the next field I was as focused as a Cat. My attention paid dividends as I utilised the double edged sword of the long grass to my advantage. As my hunting buddies know, there is a right hand curve in the hedge line and beyond it are normally one to two very nervous bunnies. The curve means that a right handed shooter such as myself inevitably presents his body before the business end of his rifle. But not today. The two ears were spotted, the eyes obscured by the abundant growth of his fodder.
A sharp crack of pellet on bone and the head disappeared. I reloaded and approached softly. He flipped once as I drew near with enough co-ordination to warrant another dose of lead in the back of the head between the ears.

I had designs for this little fellows insides.

I journeyed on quickly to my little natural hide and slit him 31 yards from it in the hopes of baiting the crows. Crows, that at this time of the day, were no where to be seen. My plan was further thwarted by the arrival of these fine beasts.

Thankfully they didn't hang around long, nor did they pay heed to my rabbit.

I waited. And waited. I used my phone to go on youtube and play crow calls from videos at the highest volume my phone would allow. But no corvid appeared to have heard.

Then my backside and right leg lost all feeling and sensation.

I exited my hidey hole, analysing the tree branches for any sign at all of an avian presence. When my gaze lowered, I found it was being returned. Correctly I guessed, from 25 yards away. The second standing shot of the evening, this one far more straight forward with satisfyingly conclusive results. A very loud smack, a quick hop and mid air curl and it was very evident that this little blighter was half way across the River Styx long before I got to his body.

To date, I have been most pleased with the performance of the RWS Superdomes .177 pellets gifted to me by a forum member. Thank you kindly Rob, they are devastating!
Other MK3 TX200 owners may like to note that RWS Superdomes do not appear to sit as tightly in the barrel as RWS Superfields and this seems to aid the excellent delivery of energy and velocity. I would honestly put them on a par with JSB exacts.

My 35 yard grouping compared very favourably against a BSA Superten .22. Granted the Superten owner was unaware of how seriously I was zeroing....

Haha!

Until next time friends...

 

[milegajo]

Sunday 24th June 2012

I stared through the window in a state of abject indecision.
The image presented, for once, was one of paradise. Glorious rays of sunshine tumbled through the leaves of the blossoming trees to shimmer and dance on the woodland floor.
The outdoors begged me to venture forth. My legs equally implored me to remain seated.
If we had not suffered a run of abysmal weather, my legs would have firmly won and I may have spent the rest of the evening soaking in the tranquillity.
My stomach, growled for flesh. It reminded me of my as yet uninitiated acquisition. The BSA Scorpion T10 Tactical .177

Aside from a very quick chronograph session snuck between showers two days after her arrival, she has been thus far neglected. It was time to test her and the 11.1ft/lbs she was punching into those RWS Superdomes.

Off into the heart of pigeon land I strode. A long while spent eyeing up the giant swaying perches towering above. By pausing, listening and visually scanning for signs of life every few steps, I caught sight of a squirrel scurrying along a fallen trunk. I awaited its appearance the other end but when it was evident none would arrive I crept forward.

It's impossible to be completely silent in woodland. Nonetheless I managed to take this tree rat completely off guard. Within seconds the crosshairs were trained on her noggin and a 'phut' from the T10 bowled her over the side of the log. As I approached to inspect my prize, I could have ejected faeces from my rectum when she popped back up, a grotesque picture of mortal injury. Blood flowing from a seemingly fatal shot. Serious 'Terminator' squirrels. Thankfully, the next round was chambered and already impacting the skull ensuring a swift demise and passage to the afterlife. Her mate, mortified, barked his disapproval at me from the branch of a neighbouring fir. His horror lasted but an instant as he too joined her on the banks of the Styx.

​

The BSA Scorpion T10 was evidently in fine fettle. Two close to medium range shots delivered with superb accuracy. Light and extremely 'pointable', target acquisition is fast and easily held steady. Despite having the older style magazines, reputedly troublesome, it cycles faultlessly and smoothly.

But more was to be asked.

Deeper into the temperate forest I went, eventually finding myself in a 'dead' zone of forgotten land as the woodland borders a cattle field. Here I discovered many treasures. The first, a tree favoured by crows. I scared them away upon approach, but so fond of it were they, that within minutes they had returned. By this time I was concealed behind a cotswold stone wall, perfectly positioned to scare the Bejesus out of one of them by hitting a branch that swang just in front of the pellet with impeccable timing. Just as well. Crow burgers will have to wait for another day.
The ground was so riddled with warrens and tunnels, traversing it was akin to navigating across a swiss cheese.
My next discovery was of a small patch of bracken that allowed a quiet concealed approach to the fence and a view of the hedgeline. Rabbits lined the way. Three at least were very happily digesting their 'five-a-day'. As I believed myself lacking in my rabbit RDA, I thought "I'll av one of them"...
So I did.

​

Someone appears to have neglected to have attached a colourful label for me to consult whether this product is organic/suitable for vegetarians/free from anthrax. Which is doubly frustrating as how will I know who to sue?!!
Still I'll live on the edge and cook it up anyway...

The wild, truly the worlds most fantastic 'supermarket'.

 

[milegajo]

Monday 25th June 2012

My buddy Mawders and I, when not hunting, can often be found messaging each other discussing it and arranging the next opportunity. Such is the degree of our shared infatuation.
This evening had been scheduled in the diary, so come rain or shine, it had to happen. Upon his arrival just after 17:00, there was time for a chat over a coffee, then it was straight off to the fields.
Being in PCP rehab, he was to have the TX200 MK3 .177, I the Scorpion T10.
The customary zeroing session demonstrated the stunning accuracy of both rifles at 35 yards, then off we mooched following our usual pattern.

So early in the evening it was quite normal not to see much about, but as we emerged from behind a hedgerow, the number of targets soared. Just behind a gate a pigeon grazed. As I exclaimed "Pigeon", out of surprise more than to alert my hunting partner, I startled it as it had done me. It was as I apologised to Mawders and blamed my forceful pronunciation of 'P', a decent sized rabbit zipped across the gate by our left. Mawders squeaked in desperation. It was no use. The rabbit was long gone.

Ducks quacked. Pheasants ambled by.

Along a track, I spied another bunny. It was unaware of our presence. Not only a standing shot, but one complicated by the squares of the wire fence. I took the shot. The resounding crack betrayed a pellet strike, but as I arrived on scene all I found was a tuft of fur stuck to a nettle. I poked the barrel of the T10 into the undergrowth to find a sheer drop a good few feet within. Darn it!

Ever the optimist, Mawders staked out the bunnies and went prone by some young birch trees. I wandered into the trees that overlooked the pond hidden by the bushes.

My gamble paid off. Numerous pigeons flew in to roost. All landed deep in the foliage fouling my line of sight. Eventually, one landed in my kill zone and paid dearly with a heart and lung shot. He flapped once, then fell in a semi controlled dive crashing 5 feet away with a heavy thud. I pounced with such enthusiasm and elation that I failed to take into account the nettles I was thrusting my bare hand into.
His eyes were blinking and having fired the last shot in the mag I had to think quickly.
Wring its neck.
This I attempted, but being used to the sturdiness of a rabbits anatomy, I ripped his head straight off. That was a bit far and a regrettable mistake despite making good my intention.

​

Keen to capitalise on the pigeons, Mawders and I shifted positions to sit and watch the leaves rustle in the wind for 20 minutes...nothing. Poor Mawders.

The light was waning fast now and with it the hopes of the TX200 to even the scores.

​

We returned to a spot favoured by the bunnies.
I hung back. Mawders got excited and had to lie down. I watched from my vantage point and soon not just one, but two, then three bunnies loped into view. I buzzed them with my ranger gizmo - 56 yards. Hmm Mawders, you need to get crawling buddy...
For what seemed like an age, we waited. The two young kits reckless bounding in the short grass. The older rabbit watchful, but occasionally shifting closer to our position.
The TX200 cracked. All three unharmed bunnies raced to the hedgerow for cover.

Completely forgivable. I sincerely doubt I would have successfully made that shot, certainly not if .177 was alien to me and I were used to the drop of .22 pellets.

We called it a day shortly after.

But the night held a very special gift. As we chit chatted by the cars at my place. In my periphery I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a reflection of the car lights. When the car lights extinguished, the light remained... intriguing!

My curiosity demanded a closer inspection.

​

Ok, so the weirdo in the caravan is now reporting 'strange lights'. You'd be forgiven for zoning out and wandering off elsewhere. Yes, it was eery. Unearthly. But 100% natural.

​

Can you tell what it is yet?

I believe I encountered my very first glow worm! Never in my life, let alone the past 3 years of living in 'the wilds' have I been gifted such a fascinating experience as this. I wonder how many others can say they have witnessed such a phenomena.

 

[milegajo]

Sunday 1st June 2012

I step out of my door into the woods, be it to smoke or to answer the call of nature, and you can ordinarily spot a species found on the general license.
Recently it has been two young squirrels,, one seen at a time. They have been edging closer to where we have the chickens penned and they appear to be nibbling the germinating grain that has been spilt. I'm also not happy that they will soon be stealing the crop of hazel nuts. In spite of this, I must confess to growing a little fond of seeing them scamper about in the light of the dawn and so I have been slow to unleash the Scorpion.

I overhead my partner comment that there were both squirrels to be found and so the T10 was awakened from it's fleece lined sleeping bag.

The approach is now well covered by the foliage and through the leafs poked the snout of the Scorpion. A standing shot, so I took my time. Once I was steady, the squirrel obligingly raised his head to munch on his vittels. A Superdome was launched and four stiff legs rolled skyward. Unbeknownst to me his buddy was close by and I saw a flash as he bolted right to left. I edged closer and observed him seemingly analysing his chums odd behaviour. His back was towards me and he wasn't going to lift his noggin. I fired where his head would be if he lifted it in alarm at say, the sound of a pellet rocketing towards him. But I overestimated his reactions. The pellet sailed over and he escaped into the canopy above.

​

I was amazed at the amount of blood spatter on the floor where he fell. 11.1 ft/lbs at 20 yards with a domed pellet appears to be exceptionally effective indeed. I couldn't be more pleased with the accuracy of the Scorpion T10 and the obviously swift despatch it imparted.




Much later in the day I pushed my luck going for a mooch for rabbits.

​

Luck I pushed too far. A shame too as I had special plans...

​

The best opportunity presented was a Deer that passed within 40 yards of my position. The Scorpion is good, but not that good...

​

Still, I got to play with my new Hitachi HDC-1495E. My mobile phone camera simply doesn't do my subjects justice, plus I also have a airgun application in mind for it, to be revealed in due course.

Tonight, I may break out my long neglected Night Vision set up and reveal the secrets of the darkness...Ultra covert hunting!

 

[milegajo]

Thursday 4th July 2012

Aesop's fable of The Wind and The Sun was a fitting way of describing the weather and I this day.

The Sun smiled just long enough to tempt me out to prowl with visions of hungry quarry eagerly filling their bellies and, like I, making the most of the warmth.

Having changed both my gun and ammunition, a re-zeroing session was in order.

As a rest, I use my rucksack gamebag stuffed with the gunslip and angled on its side (it has a stiff back pad). This allows for some absorption of recoil as well as accuracy ordinarily derived from the use of a bipod. The dark green colour of the bag also breaks up my profile and aids camouflage when I stake out a potentially fruitful spot.

The breeze was gentle but at times grew strong enough for me to need to time my shots with the lulls. I got the scope near where I wanted it, then glanced down the valley to my left.

You could see the rain rolling in. Whilst not the best news, I still enjoy the build up and the visual progress as it hunts me down. A fun game as a kid was to attempt to outrun the cloud and try to dodge its bombs until you collapsed in a sodden giggling heap alongside your chum, or dived under a tree shaking your fist at the sky with a triumphant "Better luck next time!"

I elected the latter course, minus the taunt.

Without fancy scope covers, I improvised.

The shower passed, but now I had a cold patch of mud upon which to lie, dirt invariably smeared the beautiful woodwork of the TX200 despite my best efforts to keep my mitts clean.
The wind had strengthened and was now without the pauses. Rather than achieve my desired groupings, I settled for hitting a milk bottle top consistently at 35 yards.

It was now between 15:30 and 16:00, too early for rabbits I knew, but rabbits weren't what I wished to add to tonights menu. I was after my elusive feathered friend Mr Pujin.

The trees I had in mind were two fields over. In no rush and enjoying my freedom, I took my time to take it all in and savour the experience. With the temperament of the Gods recently, who knows when another opportunity might present itself?

In retrospect; I should've legged it.

The first cloudburst was another shower I weathered under a dense hedge and tree. I couldn't be sure if another was heading my way due to a mist that hung above the village and decided to chance it.
I paid dearly for my mistake.
I got caught without cover. I huddled into a hedge only to have drips down my neck, then arms and as my hat became saturated, the peak. I had to move. I then completed my unwanted bath by wading through knee high grass as I hurried to the shelter of a large beech. This soaked my trousers and the water travelled down my wellingtons and made itself at home in my socks. I stayed put weighing up my options. I could jack it in and go home, I was wet but not quite sodden, which I would be if I walked back in this rain. The rain could pass, or remain.
My answer came as the rain slackened visibly and audibly ten minutes or so later. I pressed on and arrived at my usual hiding place. This bush would not provide the required waterproof shelter should another strong downpour surprise me and it was coming back now with no sign of abating.
I again pressed myself against the broad trunk of a large tree. This time an Ash clothed in Ivy. Aside from the odd drip I was safe and dry.
After what seemed like a damn long time, the rain finally passed. I tentatively emerged and clambered up a hill that brought me almost level to the tree favoured by the pigeons. Range, a perfect 35 yards. The one beyond, 45 yards.

Three buzzards now circled, one landed to bask in the sun as the clouds parted. I used him to test the digital zoom on my new camera.

Pigeons, crows, magpies, ducks and the trio of very vocal buzzards took to the skies.

Three pigeons landed in the target trees. All behind cover. None looked likely to ever move into an exposed position.
It was a good enough chance to tempt me out stalking. I attempted a head shot, but having advanced down the hill, the angle was approx 72 degrees which made it hard to keep the rifle steady on the shoulder as well as contending with the change to the POI. I hit a branch and scared them all off.

I did what I could. Changed positions. No Joy.
Returned to my previous vantage point and after a very long time and one fleeting opportunity, a pigeon presented itself. Back facing me, I put the duplex reticle between his shoulder blades, took my time, and fired. He fluttered, hit a few branches then glided/dived to the floor and hit the deck hard. Hooray!
No. Wait. He picked himself up and flew off.
I was gobsmacked.
Still wet as a fish, here I was 4 hours after I began, with nothing but a skidmark for my efforts.

I did march towards the tree the pigeon escaped to, but he comfortably flew away, seemingly unharmed.

I waited under that pigeon forsaken tree until 21:00. Sadly and slowly I wandered home.

All appeared to be having far better fortune hunting than I. Ever hopeful, I kept my wits about me. A good thing too as approximately 20 yards to my front, by the woods that border 'zeroing' field, a pair of ears and a rump were feeding!
I levelled my rifle and aimed right at the head without lasering it. DUNCK! Too high. Now here's where I should have suspected something. I did, but incorrectly thinking him to be an inexperienced Kit. The rabbit hunkered down rather than bolt. I reloaded purposefully and aimed again giving it a half inch hold under. He didn't respond to my squeaks, but eventually rose his head just enough and the next shot forced him to leap into the air.

Any elation fled as I inspected my prey.
The Eye did not look right. It appeared then a hollow victory. I flipped him over and my fear was confirmed.

Myxomatosis. Sores on the eyes, below the openings of the ears and the anus. Possibly the one that got away before. Probably that one is now dead and this, another victim of that unsightly and cruel affliction. He was laid to rest in the woodland from whence he came. Something inside me rebels against eating diseased meat, regardless of what scientists may say or the popular opinion of the day. I believe the Fox won't care to make such distinctions. A well fed Fox will also not stray from his territory and happen upon my chickens!

This particular hunt was, if nothing else, an experience. I returned home. Wet and for the first time, Hungry.

 

[milegajo]

Monday 9th July 2012

It is said 'seeing is believing'. The cloudless sky was such a sight today. I took many photographs, if only to remind myself in the coming days that whilst to us Earth bound mortals it may be raining, one need only to rise high enough to know that no matter how grey the day, behind and above it is always radiant warmth and endless blue sky. This glimpse would be most valued, so I wished it preserved lest the memory fade.

I had no intention of making hay, but I certainly wished to make the most of the Sun shining clear and unobstructed.
Into the ancient woodland I strode, ingesting the sights, sounds and spirits that danced before and around me. (Whilst the rains have brought a bumper crop of Psilocybin mushrooms this year, those I do not, and did not, ingest I can assure you).

The omens were good as I left the path, I had just knelt, when a flash of a rabbit bolting for cover was caught in my peripheral vision. A most fruitful part of the woodland to be sure. Indeed one only needed to keep his attention and eyes open before fruits were literally uncovered.

Wild Strawberries though rather tart, are in my opinion still very pleasant, and encouragingly prevalent here. It would appear if my potatoes and peas finally succumb to the onslaught from the sky, my family may yet dine on meat, mushrooms and strawberries!

I emerged from the bracken and leaned my head through the hedgerow and just over the fence in order to view what may be dining in the shortest patches of grass. Nothing within range, but at least four currys and stews were nibbling over 100 yards away. I elected to remain in my cover rather than stalk. My late evening energy levels being one factor, the prevailing wind another. My approach would also be risky. To do so back through the woods would require enormous concentration so as not to emit an audible warning, to hop the fence and approach would require equal skill in not providing a visual warning.

Put simply, I couldn't be arsed.

My right eye watered. My vision blurred. Nothing moved. The Sun dipped below the horizon and the yonder currys and stews evaporated with it.

Poo.

I began to calculate when I should break both my cover and the endeavour. Then something moved quickly to my front. In a flash, a Vindaloo zipped from the hedgerow at top speed out into the field. He passed within yards of my position but my goodness he was not going to stop. An errant canine and his jingly collar loped around and soon faded back into the trees.

I just about had enough. Rather than creep back through the obstacles and pointy things in the woods I clambered gingerly over the barbed wire fence and plonked my backside down. A welcome change from the hour spent standing.
My eyes and attention drifted to my phone as I communicated my bad luck. When I glanced up, I was being watched. Perhaps I had been observed for longer than I knew because the Madras had seen enough and promptly disappeared. This produced another flurry of verbalised angst, but it was too hasty. Again, I raised my eyes. The Madras was back. I swiftly and silently raised my weapon and calmly gathered myself.
I knew this would be my only and best shot. I adhered to the marksmanship principles to the letter, and got my reward.

Death was delivered speedily and precisely. In the back of the head between the ears and out to the front behind the eye.

Massaged and bagged. Patak's friend and I sauntered home along the old drovers road that runs through the trees. It is an exceptionally old track. My mind was transported to times past when a traveller along this same road at this very hour would have quite possibly been seen as nothing short of a suicidal fool. My memory conjured the many legends that surround this place.
The hangman who once plied his trade at this junction (the custom and rationale being that the spirit of the victim would forever wander the earth lost and confused between this and the afterlife).
One dark night he was summoned to execute two whimpering, pathetic beings. The first was dispatched swiftly, the night being unpleasant and the hangman keen to return to the warmth of his bed, his skilled and practised hands made short work of the deed in the darkness. The second struggled and fought, scratching at him, begging, imploring him to stay his hand, but it was to no avail.
Curious as to why this one was so keen to live, the hangman, despite the inclement weather and driving rain, paused to lift the hood. The light of his lantern revealed his deepest, darkest, fear to be brutal and plain reality. The second victim who's life he had so swiftly ended... was his only son.
The hangman, mad with grief, returned to his cottage, drove a spike in the wall and turned the noose upon himself. It is said the cottage still remains, one wall still standing and from it, high towards the top, protrudes the nail.

The other legends I will tell, another time.

Thankfully I arrived home safely and in one peice, though it was touch and go as the mud nearly claimed my welly!

 

[milegajo]

Wednesday 1st August 2012

Since the 21st May 2012, I have been employed on the renovation of a cottage in the local village. This has not only removed me from my woodland habitat and tending to a very mini 'smallholding' but has also greatly reduced the time available for me to procure meat by hunting.

I have missed this time greatly.

I have not, however, failed to notice some disconcerting warnings in nature. As I pruned an overgrown Hazel tree in the grounds of the cottage in the middle of July, I was surprised to find rather developed though not yet ripe hazelnuts. Nuts, in general are an autumn harvest. The hazelnut, according to Richard Mabey's "Food For Free" should not start to be seen until early August and not be ripe until the husks have dried in mid-September-October.
Elderberries, out since the beginning of July and already many being stolen by the song birds. I say 'stolen' because I and my partner specifically went easy on the flowers so we could make some elderberry cordial to stave off the coughs and colds of Winter. A month early in fruition.
Hawthorn berries, from which I like to make very nutritious fruit leathers, again, a month at least ahead of schedule.
Black berries, some ripening in the middle of July when according to Mabey they are supposed to just begin to develop now in August.

Squirrel activity has risen noticeably in the past month and I know that they are after my long awaited crop of hazelnuts. I purposely skipped coppicing them last winter as they take 3-5 years to recover.

In the mornings and evenings there are at least two nut raiders leaping from branch to branch. The one that fell to the BSA Scorpion T10 clearly forgotten and the warning unheeded.
Now I'm sure it is not unheard of for squirrels to be making preparations for winter in July/August but combined with my other observations I must admit I am ever so slightly fearful of what Boreas and Pan may have planned for this year.

I pondered my misgivings, unable to yet divine what the warnings message may be. A dry yet very cold winter?
An extreme, prolonged winter possibly even early, in contrast to the last?
Or perhaps just another dry warm one that never seems to properly arrive before it leaves?

As I sought for answers to the clues the Gods were giving, the two nut nickers returned. This time the SMK TH208 was quickly unwrapped and awake. They played a double act that kept me guessing and made full use of the thick foliage and cover.
I half ran, half crept from trunk to trunk. They paused once each and allowed a shot however, with range and and often acute angles hard to judge then compute into hold under/over, I missed both. I did not miss the third. Just as this male thought he had evaded me, he dithered too long in a Hazel and Zeus struck him down. A dull thud with not even a flicker. He simply fell to Earth like a leaf should in Autumn.
As you can see in the picture, some of those have fallen earlier than expected too!

The SMK TH208 has been very impressive and I can see it earning a permanent place in my stable for this very purpose. Watch this space for an in-depth review.

 

[milegajo]

Saturday 4th August 2012

The trees are a-squeak with the news.
Whiskers twitch. Eyes and ears scan for the slightest trace of danger, though it is said the senses are of little use against this dark beast.
Three have fallen in quick succession. Struck down without warning.
All that is heard is a CRACK. Followed shortly by a drop, then a dull thud.

Thankfully this monster that roams the woods is a creature I have control over. It was I who introduced it. I call him,

'The Black Death'.

The first to fall to 'The Black Death' HW97kt .177 synthetic.

I need not seek them. They come to me, and The Black Death wakes from his slumber to perform his vocation with a talent shared by few.

They want my nuts.

​

They want my berries;

​

The early, if premature fruits of nature.

This clash of wants (mixed with my flawed notion of possession, as though such a thing were even possible) is the bringer of their destruction. The human digestive system, so evolved that it will process nut, berry or flesh, singularly, or for a very tasty dish, collectively.

There is no need for emotion. No justification required. No serious excuses concocted. Food and Death are woven together to fuel the tapestry of Life. It matters not what fodder you deem fit to dine on. Cut a leaf, and life will expire.

​

An RWS Supermag 9.4gr .177, 5x magnification, barely 4 yards up, 2.5 mildots holdover.

I have my own personal rituals that assuage any guilt the mind may wreak when my servant takes life at my biding. Ironically, it was as I thanked the lifeless form of this creature in my hands, stroking her fur and softly urging her to find her gods and leave this world, that another presented itself.

​

Both were oblivious to my presence. The second stayed hidden and elusive until, after much patient observation, a clear shot finally presented itself. The head was obscured, so up through the armpit and into the heart the Supermag was delivered, as directed, by the HW97kt.

​

The flat headed pellet makes for rather bloody kills, but none have survived such a traumatic blow and that is comforting.

Whilst I may be the master of 'The Black Death', with power to determine the time of the demise of these beings, I do not rule the skies. After the meat is consumed, the Gods of the heavens have made honouring these animals through the preservation of their skins, very challenging. Rain is a blessing, however, when the ambient temperature is too warm to warrant a fire inside, and outside it is wet with precious little covered space, pelts quickly rot. When the signs this has happened occur, it is with a tinge of sadness they are offered to the Earth.

For now I keep a weather eye, the other, in the Trees.

 

[milegajo]

Friday 17th August 2012

The last shades of summer are melting off the leaves to be replaced by the first tones of the brown livery of autumn. The repetitive and defiant monsoon that has surely been sent to purge the Earth and cleanse her of us let up briefly to present an opportunity I seized with both legs.
I have a hankering for the breast of the bird that morning and evening calls to me. The wily pigeon that has a habit of being present only when you are unarmed. Its getting to be uncanny and frustrating. The trees are alive with these chameleon birds. Their ability to conceal themselves matched by a strange talent for 'throwing' their voices like a polyphonic surround sound ringtone makes locating my prize most challenging indeed. Stalking is simply off the cards unless lady luck is in your pocket.

I sat at my chosen spot, and I waited.
A clearing in the trees allowed a clear shot and view of the roosts.
My static hunting is not only good sense regarding calorie expenditure, but serves as a meditation. In broadleaf woodland such as those found in the UK, the abundance of life means it is ordinarily only a matter of waiting before something edible ambles past.

I was not the only one who was aware of this.
Being still is a very simple yet effective method of avoiding detection.
I had a couple of potentials, but the leaves still cause plenty of obstruction. If you shift, you often alert the lofty prey and its bye bye yum yums. My gastric juices began to urge me to reconsider. I had heard the rustles of a squirrel amongst the hazels and soon a male bounded into the branches of one of the trees in the clearing. He was clicking and twitching at another male who returned his aggression from his concealed position.
The HW95k stepped in a settled the confrontation.
The .177 AA Field hit the intruder in the head. I followed through the shot and watched as he keeled round the branch and hung by one leg, blood dripping quickly from his head and nose. Quite obviously a mortal wound. Yet still he hung on. I would have to shoot him down anyway if it was nerves keeping him in suspension, so another AA Field impacted the back of his head and down he thumped.
A superb display from the HW95k newcomer.
I reclined back against my tree. Showers came and went. As did the pigeons.

You soon learn the sound of a tree rustling in the breeze versus the sound the rustle of a tree rat in the branches.
Off to the right such a sound emanated. I believed I could only see the body, and yet as I glanced through the 3-9x40 Hawke Sport HD he was in fact peering under a branch staring straight at me.
What I sent back took his life.
The Pellet certainly hit his head, perhaps between his eyes though the entry was hard to find. Another swift despatch for the HW95k. Two Squirrels do not make a pigeon. They do make a good curry though.

I hung about for my pigeon, but to no avail. The rain returned and I trudged home, I may not have got the quarry I was after, but I did find what I was looking for. Peace and Dinner.

 

[milegajo]

Saturday 18th August 2012

The repulsion of the nut raiders continues. The SMK TH208 is at the forefront of this battle, the close to medium ranges of the woodland perfectly suiting the .22 calibre. I have switched the rifle to a trial diet of Crosman Premier Hollow points and the accuracy appears to be excellent.

I spied my tenacious adversary as I was entertaining our one year old. I prophetically mimed aiming and shooting the creature amongst the bouncing leaves saying the words "Daddy go Bang Bang", to which little one replied, with a most earnest look on her face, "NUM NUM!"

With my dearly beloved already making preparations for dinner, I snatched up the TH208 as soon as I was able and stalked after the marked animal.

The squirrel was relocated and one near vertical shot brought it down with such a thump, I winced in sympathy.

The SMK TH208 is proving to be a very capable tool.



A neat heart and lung shot, with mud staining the side he hit the mud.



The entry of the .22 pellet in the muscle.


Passing through the body and trapped by the tough skin.


The extensive clotting on the lungs with a dark hole betrays the cause of death.


Though minimal, the 'Hollow' point does show some expansion. It appears to be open to debate as to whether these pellet s truly increase impact trauma.


Deformation from possibly the rib or a vertebrae.


Later in the evening I sniped a squawking squirrel approximately 30 yards away through a clear patch of wild ground. This ground was thick with thorns and despite shedding my own blood in the attempt to retrieve him, he was obviously intended to grace the plate of the woodland gods. As Trophy hunters say, "No carcass, No Kill".

Once again, the SMK TH208 has disproved its critics. If a rifle that kills cleanly and accurately is not good, I fear I may need re-educating.

I am very happy indeed with it.