My second year living in north central Montana, having moved from the Chicago suburbs, I heard wind of a PRAIRIE DOG CONVENTION coming to town… count me in! Checking at the local sporting goods store, I quickly had a local contact, calling him right away. Yes, they could use some help, and would I be willing to guide a famous writer, driving him around dog towns for two days in my personal truck?YOU BET!
Chapter 1: 3rd Annual Convention
I believe it was the 3rd annual convention being hosted by the local town, at least that’s what I remember reading on the hotel welcome sign prominently displayed outside for all to see. Around a dozen noted writers, most all of them I knew from pouring through gun magazines, would be making the trek to our little town to hunt on the nearby reservation. At the sporting goods store, the manager gave me a peek of the ammo which had been sent in by many of the large manufacturers… there must have been three or four pallets stacked high with cases and cases of .223.
Besides guiding one writer for two days of shooting, the event was looking for more help on the final night, hopefully a master of ceremonies for presentations after dinner. Having had a bit of experience as a public speaker, my offer to MC the evening was quickly accepted. Upon hearing that, some ideas to make it memorable already were twirling around in my mind.
As writer after writer checked in with their rifles at the hotel, each local guide was matched up with one for the next two days. I was assigned a pretty famous guy whose writings I’d been following for years. Beaming with excitement, I brought along one of my reloading manuals to get as many autographs as I could. They were all very pleasant and happy to sign for me, most of them writing a little note, not just signing it.
Chapter 2: Day One
Arriving early in the morning, I met Jack, my assigned writer, right away. We loaded his two really nice and heavy rifle cases into the back of my truck along with an incredible amount of ammo, too. This was going to be a blast! We headed out to the reservation just about an hour’s drive west/southwest of town. I’d been hunting the area for a now, and knew it well enough to come off as an experienced guide, though I’d never done such a thing before. One of the guides was a fish and game ranger from...
the reservation, and as we all parked in the fields, he explained how the day would go. Locals were guiding most of the writers, but he would be with the man who put the event together, as well as a real famous writer. We were all assigned areas, and I knew mine well, so I was confident about showing Jack a great time. Formalities covered, we were all released to get to the hunting grounds.
Excitedly, we uncased both rifles, stowed them in the cab between us, and got a case of .223, setting it on the floor of my truck.
As we pulled up to our area, it was obvious the land was teeming with prairie dogs. Excitedly, we uncased both rifles, stowed them in the cab between us, and got a case of .223, setting it on the floor of my truck. Both custom rifles were really stunning, not basic guns at all, and the scopes… they were just as exotic. Between the two rifles and scopes, they probably cost almost as much as my truck! I was really impressed… and then the shooting started.
In all of my hunting adventures, typically at first, I have a hard time even seeing the game. When I was lucky enough to hunt chamois in the Tyrolean Alps, my Austrian friends would point and count off one… two, three… no five chamois. I couldn’t even see one! It was because I was expecting to see them perfectly broadside against the skyline; not just a portion exposed, standing behind some rocks, which were almost the same color as my quarry. But after several days, I too could see almost all of the game my friends called out.
It was the same with me the first year in Montana when I began my doggin’ career. At first, I could only see ones standing fully up if backlit by the sun. Ones crouched down, sun shining fully on them, or perhaps just partially out of the hole, were as good as invisible to me. So I understood right away when Jack initially had a hard time seeing the less than obvious ones. I was so proud to prove early on that I had a knack for spotting and calling out their placement.
But after several days, I too could see almost all of the game my friends called out.
“Jack, see that dark clump of sage with the light rock just to the left about 175 yards out? Now go out about fifteen-feet in the nine o’clock position. There are three mounds in a line....
The left mound has one peeking out, and the middle one has two pups… one looking to the right, the second one on the backside of the mound, facing away.”
"Now I got them!” he thankfully replied
“Now I got them!” he thankfully replied.
Two quick shots and two dogs were hit, but both crawled back into the mound.
“Did I get ‘em?” he asked.
“Yes, but both rolled at the shot, and then scampered back in.” He was hitting his target, but it was obvious the bullets were too tough, expanding, but not producing ballistic havoc on their targets.
Sadly, this continued like this for the rest of the day. A high percentage of the targets were hit, but a very high percentage of them made it back inside the mounds. This performance was nothing like I’d experienced with my handloads. Surely the speeds were near identical to what he was shooting, so it must be the tenderness of the bullet, or lack, thereof...
That evening at home, I was quite upset with how the day had gone and the lack of really humane performance. Yes, Jack’s shot to hit ratio was very good, it was just what happened afterwards that was not very impressive, nor desirable. Tomorrow had to be different, so to my reloading room I headed after dinner. Several hours later, I’d loaded up enough rounds with a thin jacketed 50 grain hollow point varmint bullet to fill a gallon jug to the top. These bullets had been outstanding for me the past two years, and I was certain they’d serve Jack as well on the second day. Tens of thousands of rounds had been sent… how do I, a local guy, suggest to a famous writer, that he should try some of my handloads?
Chapter 3: The Difference a Day Makes!
Jack didn’t seem so perky the second morning, perhaps the results from the day before had bothered him as well. Again, we went out to the hunting area, and again we experienced a solid hit, then making it into the mound. After a dozen or so going like an instant replay of the day before, I got bold and popped the question.
how do I, a local guy, suggest to a famous writer, that he should try some of my handloads?
“These are some of the rounds I...
use all the time. The bullets have awesome terminal performance. I think you’d really see a difference. How’d you like to give ‘em a try?”
I reached in to grab four rounds, and then handed them to my writer.
“Sure, why not, I’m tired of making solid hits, but I’m not pleased with the results so far.” Jack seemed rather frustrated but not at all offended, which I worried he might be. Pulling out my jug from behind the seat, I reached in to grab four rounds, and then handed them to my writer. He loaded up, and took a bead on target about 150 yards out. At the shot, the top went left and the bottom to the right.
“Holy cow! Did you see that?” Jack hollered out in excitement!
“Sure did… now go for the ones just past there, to the right, in front of the rocks.”
POW-Whop-Airborne… POW-Whop-Airborne. I’d just converted a famous writer to the advantages of a very tender bullet. He couldn’t stop talking about the fireworks display he was seeing. Sure, the factory ammo he was using would’ve been great for much larger critters, but it wasn’t well suited to busting smaller targets the size of squirrels. For the rest of the day, he eagerly reached into the jug of dynamite I’d brought along for him to try. Late in the afternoon, when he grabbed for the last few rounds, I knew my handloads had been a hit in more ways than one. As he fired the very last round, I was surprised when he announced he was done shooting for the day.
“That ammo you brought for me was spectacular! It gives the results you should demand on target. The first day was not so pleasant. But today was a blast! I’ll not be shooting the other ammo, so I’m done for the day. Thanks so much for bringing your handloads for me to try.”
I was really impressed with his attitude and proud to have ‘shown him the light’ when it comes to ethical pest control.
Chapter 4: Master of Ceremonies
I was really impressed with his attitude and proud to have ‘shown him the light’ when it comes to ethical pest control.
Always having had a humorous viewpoint of most situations, I came up with a doozy to pull on the group of famous...
writers that evening. Locals were also welcome at the dinner, so many of the guides had brought along a friend or two. As a part of the presentations, there’d be a chance for the locals to write down a question for their favorite writer, and I’d get to read them to the audience.
After a nice meal, we got down to some presentations for outstanding performances.
After a nice meal, we got down to some presentations for outstanding performances. Things like most misses in a row, longest shot, doubles, triples, most in a day… things like that. Of course there were drawings for prizes and that went over really well. Then we got to my most important part, the question and answer portion. There were maybe 40 people in attendance, and I’d earlier been given a stack of around ten or so questions. I was a little nervous, standing up in front of almost a dozen famous writers, but I just grabbed the list and started reading the questions one at a time.
Nearly all of them were directed at a specific writer. They were asked about things like their favorite caliber, their thoughts on the best rifle for the money, adventures in Africa or faraway places. Canadian moose hunting, elk in the west, Alaskan big horn sheep, and pig hunting down south, were some of the topics. It was pretty dry for the most part, and the crowd with food in their bellies, and no small amount of beer was getting a little anxious for the evening to end. Then I got to the bottom… the very last question. Quickly skimming it first, and seeing it was more than just a simple question, I knew right away that things were going to perk up. I began by speaking up a bit and clearly projecting so all could hear…
“My name is Rachel-Lynn, and I’m a real Montana cowgirl who loves to hunt. Though I’m only 24, I’ve read your articles with great interest for as long as I can remember. You have such a riveting writing style; it makes me feel as though I was right there next to you during your incredible adventures…”
I began by speaking up a bit and clearly projecting so all could hear…
Oh my- the crowd was really perking up. One after another writer sat up in their chair, hanging on every word I read.
“Your hunts out west really get...
my hunting blood going. All of the great things you’ve accomplished, the incredible trophies you’ve taken.”
Everyone in the room was intently listening to every word. The audience was captivated, their minds running wild. Most of the writers fidgeted nervously in their chairs.
“I’d really love to meet with you in person afterwards, and hear more about your exciting adventures. I’m staying here at the hotel, and have taped my room key to the back of this paper. Please come see me later tonight.
Signed, your biggest fan.”
The room had gone silent. As I turned the sheet over, there was a cross of masking tape on the back, but it was hanging loosely, barely clinging on… and of course the key had fallen off!
I spoke up quickly, breaking the deafening silence. All eyes were darting around the room, looking for the young Montana Goddess of Hunting, but none was seen.
“Well darn. First she didn’t write which writer she was fascinated by… and then everyone knows that masking tape is not very strong. Now we’ll never know who Rachel-Lynn wanted to meet!”
After a tense pause… the room bursts into laughter! While half of the writers let out a sign of relief, the other half looked very disappointed. I’ll not name any names, but that night, many hearts were broken…
Of course I wrote that note, and clumsily stuck some masking tape on the back, making it look like a room key had been taped to it. While I wouldn’t admit to it, many came up afterwards, laughing and shaking my hand. So my first formal event as the master of ceremonies left many still wondering… if that last note was for real.
It actually doesn’t really matter, as more than a few aging writers left Montana wishing they could have met their biggest fan!