Walnut and Steel

The stories carried by an old lever gun

I laid it down on a fallen oak tree as I caught my breath.

There are prettier rifles. Newer rifles. Rifles that shoot farther and weigh less. Rifles that come wrapped in camo and carbon fiber.

But mine.... Mine is made of walnut and steel.

She's not perfect anymore. The stock has scars from brush and falls. The bluing has faded where hands have held onto her November after November. If you walked by it at a gun show, you probably wouldn't give it a second look.

I never could.

Before the .30-30, I had a single shot .22 Hornet. At the time, it was the smallest legal deer round although I never had the opportunity to tag a deer with it.

Somewhere around 8 or 10, I guess Dad decided it was time for something bigger. I don't remember there being a ceremony. Don't remember a speech. One day, I simply found myself being handed the ol' lever gun.

Now, Dad has never been much for long speeches. He didn't need to tell me I was growing up or explain what that rifle meant. I had heard stories about it my whole life. He just handed it to me and somewhere down the road, I realized he was trusting me with more than just walnut and steel.

I can't tell you where the first scratch on this rifle came from. Probably came from pushing through laurel beds, being used as a prop, or just sliding around in the truck. I just know somewhere along the way, some of these marks started belonging to me.

My first deer with that rifle came on a chilly drizzly Georgia afternoon. I remember those old camo coveralls I was wearing more than I remember my actual age. Dad and I were still hunting when I spotted a doe slipping through the woods.

It was one of those moments where everything was happening at once. My heart was pounding. My mind was racing. Somehow, I felt like time had sped up.

Dad was right beside me.

"Take your time," he said. "Squeeze the trigger when you're ready".

I settled the crosshairs from that Tasco Pronghorn behind the doe's shoulder. I remember trying so hard to slow things down that I probably took way too long.

I finally squeezed the trigger.

The doe piled up within 75 yards.

Dad just laughed.

"I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to shoot."

At that point, that rifle was no longer only carrying Dad's memories.

It had started collecting my own.

Since that hunt, that old rifle has ridden many miles on truck seats, leaned against more trees than I could count, crossed creeks, pushed through mountain laurel, and shared more November mornings than any hunting partner ever could.

Somewhere along the way, all the scratches stopped bothering me. They simply became reminders that this rifle was doing exactly what it was intended to do.

I've tried other rifles over the years. Ones that, on paper, were better in every way. Maybe "better" shouldn't always be measured on paper.

That's probably why, when season rolls around, I still find myself reaching for that ol, lever gun.

One day, Lord willing, I'll hand this rifle to Layla.

By then, I hope she's heard just about every story this old lever gun has to tell.

Maybe she'll understand why I kept reaching for it year after year.

And if we're lucky, maybe she'll end up having a few stories of her own to add.