An heirloom was passed down to me on my 14th birthday. “There’rre a l’ot of great memories I’ve had with your uncle. Some of our best have been shared with this,” my dad sentimentalized as he handed over the greatest gift (still to this date) I’ve ever received: an 870 Wingmaster.
My 139 lb frame clenched the glossy walnut stock for dear life; I could barely wield it. As any 14 year old boy would do in my situation, I was going to make it look like I was man enough. So I huffed and puffed up my shoulders. Then, for good measure, I fashioned a tough scowl and dropped my pubescent voice down an octave, “She’s a beaut…quite the ticket, Dad…Thanks…I’ll be sure to thank Uncle Steve too (who it belonged to prior).”
No doubt my dad saw right through the front I put up: behind the transparent veil was a bright eyed boy in awe.
A boy I still was. Yet this informal ceremony was telling. In the midst of my growth spurt, I was handed the keys to manhood; the two years of training wheels with a 20 gauge shotgun had been removed – it was time to man up with a 12 gauge.
“Season is starting soon. You better practice shouldering it,” he wisely advised. Shouldering I needed, for with this new, great power comes great responsibility. Not only did it help with muscle memory, but the reps gave a sliver of aid strengthening the meager muscles that provided little definition to my boney physique. Two weeks later I learned, firsthand, what a man had to handle on my favorite day out of the year, Waterfowl Opener. Little did I know what she had up her sleeve.
Hell hath no fury than her’s…
In an instant, she’ll give your ears a deafening tongue lashing and a poignant punch to your jaw that, if you’re not braced for it, can put you on the ground. Keep pumping her for more, and she’ll give you the same thrashing.
Despite her slender stature, she’ll chew through anything you put in her mouth. Her two favorite meals are entrees of lead and steel. The faster you go about it, the more hot and agitated she gets.
She’s a widow maker.
Her foes have been likened to the tough tenacity of a B-17 Flying Fortress (Canadian Goose). And then there are the swift, agile commanders of the sky that emit sonic booms when they buzz the blind like an F-22 Raptor (Ringnecks). Yep, she owns them. How about upland game’s Han Solo that masterfully wiz through the densest thickets and, once clear, disappear in hyper-drive in the blink of an eye (ruffed grouse)? Yeah, even those rarified gems too.
Let me tell you, though, we’ve put on some exhibitions of folly (mostly in the grouse woods – seriously, there’s a reason why I mentioned Han Solo). Much more, though, have we put on some tremendous displays of wing shooting to make even my old man (the finest shot I know) utter the words, “W’oww, nice shot!”
To mention a few:
The One Pellet Woodie: The taxidermists dream come true by folding a handsome, trophy drake wood duck with one pellet that went through both its eyes – keeping its plumage perfectly intact.
The 80 Yard Hail Mary: A crippled, cupped up goose finished off 80 yards away before it continued its mile long crash landing trajectory, which would require the skybusting sh**heads across the lake that wounded it to enlist Sherlock Holmes with a nose of a bloodhound to retrieve – yeah, I’m going to say it, I HATE skybusters…
The Fallen King: Folding a fully decorated King (Canvasback) blazing at a good clip is one on every waterfowler’s bucket list.
More on their specifics in future posts. Let’s get back to her…
She’s a best seller.
In fact, she’s one of 10 million made. “The Legend”, a friend of mine who also sports an 870 in the slough and field commented that, of those, 9.9 million are still in use today. Like his shooting prowess, I reckon he’s dead on. Field & Stream echoes, “If you think of a gun as nothing but a tool, then the 870 is the greatest shotgun…(and) is every bit as reliable and durable as its costlier competitors.”
Her interworking is simple and predictable; there’s no fussing around, she’s all business. Her frame is of basic blued steel, not adorned in Ceracote. Her highlight accents are of aged walnut, not synthetics. Her action is basic, not Inertia Driven.
She’s a classic.
It isn’t with tragedy that I share in the sentiment of Gehrig when he considered himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth – I do feel very fortunate because of her, though. Nor is it with the mindset like Brady and Manning who will play until they suck. Rather, it’s because it’s the right time.
I’m not suggesting a full on retirement because she’ll be coming back like Jordan and deliver the steal and clutch shot in Game 6. Rather, she’ll serve as backup when I add a newfangled semi-auto to the arsenal. Even better, she’ll break in the new hunting apprentices that want to learn the sport (she’ll show them a thing or two!). In fact, if you recall earlier that it was my uncle that gave me the gun originally. Well, his son (my cousin), Andrew, wants to pick up the sport, so she’ll give him the proper introduction – talk about full swing of keeping it in the family!
Speaking of family, she’s faithfully served us for 40 years (almost half of that with me). Though she’s not as quick as she once was; it’s understandable considering the wrath of elements she’s been exposed to: sleet, mud, rain, sand, snow and unhealthy dose of ice. She’s seen me through some of the most tumultuous situations I’ve ever experienced – some near death. She’s also delivered some of my greatest achievements; most of which now hang on the wall.
Laying at rest in the center of them all, though, will be her (when she’s not serving as backup). For without her, there would be none. Many a man have christened their firearms in epic fashion: Boone’s “Tick Licker”, Crocket’s ”Old Betsy”, Roosevelt’s “Big Medicine”, Buckingham’s “Bo Whoop” and even Capone’s ironic “Police Positive”. She doesn’t need that pizazz. Her name is written proudly with waterfowl and upland game trophies on the wall.
She’s a Wingmaster.
Update – 10/13/2018:
A new era began two days after I posted this exactly three years ago: it was the first hunt my cousin, Andrew, went on. Andrew’s father is the uncle that passed his Wingmaster on to me. It was only fitting, that Andrew wielded the same one.
It has been in his hands on hunts ever since. This past offseason, I decided it was time to remove it from my wall of memories and give it to him: the person that it should go to all along. Before handing it over, there was a condition he had to keep.
He had to join at least one of us, from the Association (our duck camp hunting party), in the blind each season. It’s the real reason why he goes to The Association’s annual “Waterfowl Weekend”. There doesn’t have to be ducks for Andrew “Noob”, as we call him. As long as there’s a place for him in the blind, that’s all he needs: camaraderie.
There’s a lot Noob will learn in the coming seasons. How to shoot won’t be in the lesson plan; his first Waterfowl Weekend shouldering his inherited family heirloom he downed two limits of divers in consecutive days. None of us in the Association were surprised.
He’s shooting the Wingmaster.
