By Scott Linden I was boxing up a couple of shotguns to return to the importer and as I clicked the forearm into place on one, was magically transported to the place I last shot it: a narrow defile that could have inspired the set designer on a Lord of the Rings movie. Massive rock walls towering on both sides, a narrow slit and rocky path at the bottom. It was the gateway to a memorable chukar hunt with a good friend. That’s what guns do for me....
A long and fascinating bird season has just ended. I accomplished a career-long goal, hunting all-new wild places for wild birds. One way to reminisce is in the cleaning and care of the guns that were my closest companions during that odyssey. It’s time to give them the attention they’re due … especially as they’ve served me so well. The side-by-side that gathered dust in the safe for years was pulled out on a whim, and in the waning weeks of chukar season dropped birds in three states without...
We are a race of hunters. It is how we became human, and what keeps us honest as humans, acknowledging our genetic heritage of finding and bringing home meat for the tribe. We’ve evolved beyond sharp rocks and spears, blunderbusses and muzzleloaders. But we are still, first and foremost, users of tools – it’s what puts us apart from most species - to feed our family. Without the tool, there would be no hunt. Without the hunt, there would be no soul. That deep-seated need to hunt is in...
“Just a tool” … or are they? By Scott Linden I have a confession to make. I am not a gun geek. To me, they are tools. But of course, as such they need tender loving care – which is why you’re reading this article here – there are no better products to protect my tools. But I live for bird dogs, so if it’s history, heritage, performance or aesthetics, that’s where I make the emotional and financial investment. That said, guns are an integral part of...
My childhood home, like many, was painted to match the patchwork like pattern of beige colors found throughout suburbia, homes peppered with smiling families, neighborhood children filling the air with laughter, flooding the cul-de-sac with BMX bicycles and Big Wheels. Our home was built in time to enjoy the 1985 World Series. Dad would drink from his lucky Royals cup, the smell of mom’s popcorn perfumed through the house. Shawn, my oldest brother, cheered loudly like the rest of Kansas City, after Dan Lorg produced the game six winning hit....
The first time I saw my father’s brand-new shotgun, he was using a small white towel to wipe down the twin barrels. The long blue metal stacked tubes glinted with the bouncing light off the room. The shotgun was less than a day old. He had saved his money for months. When the time had come, he went down to the local gun shop where he had first laid eyes on the Ruger Red Label. He had never owned an over/under. His shotguns consisted of an off-brand 20 gauge pump...
