What was your most memorable shot?

[JungleShooter]

• Bottom-of-the-bargain-barrel Hatsan breakbarrel.

• First airgun ever.

• And I had been missing most shots on pigeons.




So, one day I read an article by Tom Gaylord — the airgun guru aka B. B. Pelletier — he is still posting a blog every couple of days, here:

Tom Gaylord (B.B. Pelletier) | Blog | Pyramyd AIR

Tom Gaylord (B.B. Pelletier) writes for Pyramyd Air and gives readers tips and tricks to help them enjoy the outdoors.

www.pyramydair.com

I read about a totally weird sounding technique how to shoot springers: the artillery hold.
Sounded fishy to me. Like a whole harbor of fish trawlers, actually.


But I had been missing so many shots — I was desperate.
So, why not try it.



Shortly after, a pigeon comes into view that decides to perch in a location that is both
• far away (54y), and
• in a location where a pigeon falling to its death would raise a few eyebrows. To say the least.

But, since I had missed so many times before — hey, no problem, I won't hit it anyway — let's give it a shot!


➠ Floating the Hatsan bargain breakbarrel in the artillery hold I had just learned from Tom, I take the shot.

And the pigeon falls. DRT!!


Who would have thought?!?
I certainly didn't.

And I did get a whole set of raised eyebrows, and some other things got raised against me, too.



And that's the tale of
the unexpected deadliness of the artillery hold....
Have been using it ever since. Thanks, Tom!

My most memorable shot....

Matthias

 

[SDellinger]

143 yard shot on a pigeon with a 22 cal 14.3 gn Crosman using my FX 400 Royal.

 

[Firewalker]

1976, it was just a tick over 100°F and nearly 100% humidity, the sun was brutal and the little wind there was just made the heat all that worse, like sitting in front of a big blow dryer.

My dad let me buy a used Crosman 760 with wood furniture from a local garage sale with my savings.

He gave me strict orders to not shoot any birds, song birds, he said. Laws, blah, blah, blah...

I'd been practicing my Sniper skills on a squad of Jerry's camped out on a dirt hill that used to be a vegetable garden until the sun dried it up.

10 pumps, insert pellet, aim, slooowly squeeze and POP! Another potato-masher thrower spins off into the cornrow valley.

To hot to be in the sun. Just after a lunch consisting of Jiff peanut butter and Welch's grape jelly topped off with a glass of red kool-aid, I wedged myself under the porch in the back of the house and got set up to finish the battle against the invading army!

It was then that I noticed a bird on the transmission line way back in the yard that served as the property line for our neighbor and us, it must have been a good mile and a half in my snipers eye, perhaps a full football field distance to the untrained.

Thinking quickly, I touched my purple and sticky, grape flavored finger to my red stained tongue then wiped it on by front site like I'd seen on a western the night before on TV.

10 pumps, never taking my eye off the intruder, pellet from the plastic container, into the breach, throw the bolt and cheek it up...

Familiar routine, sight, squeez, POP!

The pellet was clearly visible against the Robin egg blue sky, it arched then dropped right onto the top of its head. The yellow beak spun 180° away from me but to my surprise and soon to be dismay, the pellet not only turned the light switch off, but it froze the bird in that position.

As if in slow motion, the dark figure started to rotate on the wire, a full half turn, then stopped, still clinging to the line, wings folded neatly and its yellow beak pointing like a Jart towards the ground, it remained quite literally, dead still.

At first, amazement washed over me as if the sweeping rainfall sprinkler had just passed over me on its unending cycle.

Within seconds, my victory fled in horror as the familiar deep bass of my dad's work truck filled my ears and I remembered his stern warning about shooting birds.

My heartbeat became visible in my eyesight, panic tensed every muscle in my small, prepubescent body as I realized that every avenue of escape had closed me in to the earthen tomb I was sure to be buried in when my father walked into the backyard and saw my prey, dangling from the wire with a steady drop, drip, drip of crimson tracking across yellow.

Door slam, keys jingle, boots against concrete, I had to escape! I managed to pry a thought from my paralyzed mind and pulled my way out from under the porch and brush off the clinging dusty sand from my shirt and shorts.

I ran to the garage man door, I entered just in time to meet dad face to face just past the threshold and sweep past him with gun in hand.

I put it on the second shelf with care and sat the plastic container beside it as he waited for me to jump up in his arms.

I stayed rooted to the cool floor, he knew something was wrong. I asked him about his day as to distract him from my quickly approaching spanking and his confiscation of my beloved air rifle.

I could clearly see the bird of concern hanging on to the wire as it were the main act at the circus, perfectly framed by the doorway.

Noticing my eyes darting around him, his curiosity peaked and he turned...

His left boot lifted from the floor and landed at a neat 90° from his right and as his head swiveled around, one clawed foot, then the other, let go of the power line and the dark dart decended.

Just as dad's right boot lifted off the concrete, the yellow beak penetrated the low trimmed bushes and vanished.

1/4 second later, curious eyes swept the wire and ground for evidence of foul play. Finding none, dad asked me, "Whacha lookin' at, boy?"

I grabbed his hand and we inspected the green army men scattered around the dirt hill, all with holes and amputations.

A loving pat on the head, a quick hug and a peck on the cheek, he turned and walked across the crunchy yard into the house.

Half way there, he turned his slightly and said, "Good shooting David!".

Many decades later, this skilled mechanic with callused hands and a slight beer belly is knocking on the exit door, weighing in at 110 pounds. Shrinking more each day, this will be his last birthday.