The Scope

July 30, 2004



Pitiful, that is what it is.

Once upon a time, I could score 94 or 95 out of 100, consistently, on a rifle range, 50 feet, open sights, no rests or supports of any type.  Crap.  Those days sure are over.

Not sure right now what the Australians get over run with every so often, whether it is jack rabbits or frogs falling from the sky or what, but here, in Fairfax, chip monks are taking over and after trying traps, water and even gas bombs down their ground holes, finally I decided a rifle was the only course of action.  Yep, time for ye-old-hunter to resurface after being dormant for years and years (doesn’t everything come around again, eventually?).  It is in my blood, so how hard could it be to resurrect what once was?

Well talk is cheap and not really wanting to kill the little, cute, bastards (thus the attempt with trap adduction and transport) I put off actually buying an rifle although I looked at plenty.  Anyway, for my birthday, my friend Murray, gave me a Daisy air rifle with a 4X15 scope.  Just load the BB’s, pump it up and shot away. Right?  Wrong!

The blessed scope.  I don’t remember ever sighting in a scope in my life.  Certainly never had a weapon with one on it although I know my Dad did.  How did it slip his mind to not tell me what a pain in the ass it was sighting in a scope.

Sure is a good thing that BB’s are cheap, cause I already used a ton of them trying to get the Daisy (what kind of name is Daisy for a rifle anyway?  Should be something like Spike or something.), with me behind the scope and the trigger, to hit a 50 cent piece size bull's eye at 20 feet.  I know, pitiful.

Like I said, I never tried to sight in a scope before and for a while, wondered why I had such a little lighted area I could see when looking in the scope.  Well, surprise, surprise, move your eye back from the scope itself and the whole scope area is lit.  What a dummy.

So now, most of the time, I can actually see the BB leave the barrel which is rifled by the way, and miss the bull’s eye.  So back to the sitting position, with rest,  mind you, for the front of the rifle, adjust right and left and up and down and repeat.  Too far left and too high.  Then too far right and down.  Over and over.  Have actually hit 50 cent piece size target exactly once out of maybe 20 or 30 shots.  I know, pitiful is what it is.

Anyway, I learning.  After today’s session (third one, so far), I understand I can only turn scope adjustment set screws a little bit at a time, not some 1\8 turn or 1\4 turn like I was doing.  But it is a poor workman who blames his tools and the real problem is me. 

If you could look in the scope as I see it, you would not believe how much the barrel end is moving around, even on a rest I constructed to steady the front end.  What the hell happened?  Isn’t it like riding a bicycle or something and you never forget?

Oh, I know, how can I expect to just pick it up and expect to hold her (rifles are she’s?  Thus the name Daisy?) steady like I used to but I remember the “take a breath, hold it, exhale slowly and then squeeze the trigger”.  I doing that, but unless I take me a short breath and hold it for 1 second, I’ve done moved the barrel end right and left, up and down so much, it is just pitiful.

Damn chip monks.  Why couldn’t they just get into the traps like I wanted them to and step on the little trap door lever.  But no.  They figured it out like the squirrels, which I caught plenty, and paw the bait through the sides of the trap.

Pitiful.  That is what it is.

Well, I might be old and wear trifocal glasses but no damn chip monk is going to get the better or me.  This is my land and no damn squatter is going to fill it full of holes without me trying real hard to fill them full of BB holes first.

And so, tomorrow, back to the scope sight in effort and hopefully better control of Daisy. Never know, I might actually get another one, by chance, dumb luck, whatever,  in the bull’s eye (how come “they” picked on the bull and call it a bull’s eye?  Why not a tiger eye or grizzly bear eye?)

As to actually shooting the evil chip monks, I plan to be a sneaky bastard and lay out in the yard all covered up like when you turkey hunt or something and wrap rags around Daisy’s barrel like I seen in sniper movies and then just wait.  Course would be my luck to miss and put a hole through a house window but I tell you something has to be done.

Well, pitiful is what is it and I hated to admit it to you but seems like I just had to be honest and not let you carry on with the idea that I was old dead-eye-dick like I used to be or maybe you never knew it to begin with.

Anyway, just for grins, maybe you ought try sighting in a rifle again or then again, maybe not.  No sense ruining good memories.  Wish I had not tried it but too late now.

Chip monks.  Not sure what to do with the ones I actually, eventually, and I will, kill.  Not really big enough to take a claw off of and hang around my neck like I have seen in movies where hunters do that with grizzly bear claws.  Could skin, tan and make gloves and even a coat, that is, if I get them all but I won’t and won’t eat them either.  Really, just wish they would leave and move on, West, someplace.  Got this giant golf course right behind our house but they have to hang out here.  It is the nut trees, I guess.  Squirrels I can handle as there population seems to remain constant from year to year for some reason, but the chip monks, well,  they are multiplying like the old proverbial rabbits.

Guess I finally see the point to shotguns.  Wonder if there is a air BB shotgun I could get?  Know where to get hand grenades, cheap?  They seemed real effective when I practiced with them in the Army.  Or dynamite?  I have always wanted to explode some dynamite.  Crap, who am I kidding.  I have to do it with the Daisy.

And I used to, open sight, hit targets from 100 yards.  Pitiful, that is what it is.  Feel like giving up my expert marksman Army medal and all those NRA rifleman patches I earned so long ago.

Worst of all, guess I should stop calling myself a Stultz.


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