It wasn’t my first gun. There were a couple of Red Ryders and a bolt action .22 that preceded it. But it was my first deer rifle, and as my hunting career has taken shape, that’s made it the only first gun that truly matters.
It didn’t come in a box when my dad traded for it in the late seventies so it didn’t come in a box when he gifted it to me at Christmas in the late nineties. After breakfast was finished that morning and all the presents had been unwrapped, Dad got up from his recliner and grabbed the rifle from where it was hiding in a corner. It was a Remington Model 700 ADL chambered in .270. I recognized the rifle’s monetary value the minute he handed it to me, but it took me years to understand what it’s truly worth.
Today the Remington sits in the farthest corner of my gun safe. It’s not retired; it’s just been relegated to that spot because it’s spilled more blood than every other rifle in the safe, combined. Before he passed it down to me, my dad carried the gun for years, killing two or three deer a season. Then I hunted with it exclusively for a decade or better. I didn’t kill my first buck with the rifle, but I did kill my first mature buck with it. I shot my best buck to date with it, too – a seven-and-a-half-year-old, sixteen-point monarch of the Oklahoma hardwoods.
After reading another author’s reminiscence about his first deer rifle, I pulled the old Remington out of the safe to stroke it and was reminded that firearms were built differently in the 1970s. There were no synthetic stocks or matte finishes in those days. It was all satin and high gloss, which means that every smudge on the rifle’s barrel and every ding in its stock stands out in sharp relief. But still, the rifle is sleek. Elegant, even. I threw the rifle’s bolt and squeezed its trigger, then shouldered it for old times’ sake.
The moment I did, the instant my cheek touched the comb, the thought struck me that my dad must have done the very thing I was doing, dozens of times. I’m positive that he, too, pulled the rifle from his gun safe on occasion to remember deer seasons past. I’m sure that from time to time, he shouldered the rifle, just like I did, and when he did, I’m certain that he felt the full recoil of memorable mornings and afternoons afield, just like I do. After all, his memories are etched deeper into the rifle’s stock than my own. That epiphany only increased the worth of an already priceless possession. When my father gave me his gun, he didn’t just give me the gift of my hunting future; he gave me the gift of his hunting past.
About the Author: Kyle Wright pastors a church and counsels addicts and alcoholics at an inpatient rehabilitation treatment center. It’s heavy work. The time he spends in deer stands and turkey blinds lightens that load. Writing does too.
