Shotgun Shenanigans Pt.2 Buying and Restoring a 40 Year Old Browning Citori

My Browning Citron, or 525 as they are called in Europe, dates back to 1982 Ive had it for a few years, it was a farmers Goose gun in Scotland before I had it, and although things have worked out pretty well this is another example of 'Do as SBW says, to avoid having to do as SBW has done’. 

I'll explain 

There is only three things that matter when buying a shotgun: it's not fancy wood, high tech coatings, or mysterious voodoo forcing cones. 

Does it fit? Does it fit? and Does it fit?

Length of pull, balance, and check weld are the whole deal. So only an idiot would buy one sight-unseen 

off the internet. 

I paid the farmer and he shipped it to my local gunshop, the owner was a bit sniffy about it as he had several gats for not much more, but I liked swing of its 28' tubes. Did some walked-up with it, shot a massive Hare. Took it to the clay ground and hit a few more than my usual dismal efforts and was well pleased. I kind of own a shot gun because you're supposed to, for the first few years I shot it not a lot and there was no decreeable improvement. Gamekeeping with the BambiBasher it amounted for a few squirrels.  

Regular readers will know from an earlier edition of Shotgun Shenanigans I got Super Plumber started and he became very well versed and very enthusiastic very quickly. So the Citori saw a lot more daylight.

Having an adjustable cheek piece retro-fitted more than doubled the money I'd spent on the gun. A few minutes peering across the kitchen at Super Plumber revealed that I'd been looking down the right hand side of the barrels the whole time. A bit of Up and a lot of Cast later I was in a better place. A few more flying ashtrays met their demise. It gets better. 

20 something years ago I went on a stag-do and at an outdoor centre we did some shotgun shooting. I was absolute murder on Rabbits [the clays that bounce along the ground] the tutor advised me to take up clay shooting and specialise in rabbits. For the next 20 years I'd been completely dismal at rabbits, I have probably hit less across the years than I did that day. Not any more! 

"You're breaking them for fun" Super Plumber 

Conventional wisdom has it that your gun-fit cannot and will not be calculated until your Mount is sorted. 

I'm unconvinced. My mount became obvious only as soon as my head was in the right place, the two are so interrelated, its as though you need to choose your gun in a shop, with a helpful and experienced shotgun shot helping you to see what would be obvious, but won't be,  until you've been shooting for a while. 

 Back in the mists of time, or 40 odd years ago there was a peculiar fashion for coating even nice pieces of wood in a thick layer of polyurethane varnish. It doesn't  look good and when it scratches it leaves white disfiguring marks all over the gun. Fortunately  even fairly stale Nitromors will dissolve it. The recoil pad wasn't original and had lost all of its give, so it was removed with extreme prejudice too.

Much sanding with wire wool later the Citori's true colours were showing through. I couldn't tell you which solvent finally cleared out the chequeing - I used several, a toothbrush and my thumbnail. 

Eleven coats of x High Speed Oil  later [I don't know what high-speed means either] at least I now  know how I would do it differently next time, and it looks OK. Which is a metric shit-ton better than its looked in decades. One side borders on exhibition grade, the other is firewood adjacent. 

                               

How much money I've actually saved is open to debate, if both sides were WOW a lot, if both sides were firewood probably not that much. Having learned what I've leaned.  I'd buy an older gun, with an adjustable cheek piece, from a specialist and pay whatever they asked for gun fitting. 

In the year since I've made it fit I've shot exactly three thousand cartridges more than any year before. It's been a lot of fun.  Super Plumber keeps extolling the virtues of a set of fancy chokes, I'll probably buy a thousand carts instead. 

If only I could find those two screws that hold the trigger guard in place 

Happy new year people 

Your pal 

SBW

 

 

Invasive Deer Sika A First Attempt.

You can see just how much use the Peli Air has had, it arrived about two weeks before the first lockdown.

40% lighter and easily swallows two guns, or a bow and a gun. Been collecting dust ever since.

Here's one I wrote a while back 

Heading North of the Wall SBW?

Are you going to tell us about an enthusiastic stalker who wasn’t allowed out?
No. That would be too predictable
Did you manage to take on some Sisyphean task, in the name of so-called “bargain” transportation?
No. Nearly but it bounced off the bar.
Are you going to tell us about Scotland’s apex predator? 

Did you have trouble leaving the house? 

Will you blame ‘work, that curse of the stalking class’ ?

You know me so well. 

SBW: We’re on our way!

Ahab: What are you talking about you cancelled!

SBW: No I told you one dropped out. We’re literally on our way, like in the van, almost in Scotland 

Ahab: I'll ring my missus and call you back!

A quick primmer, Sika: where they are seen and how to say it.
Cervus Nippon aka Sika a medium sized deer, from Manchuria, and more famously Japan. Hence the name. 
There are released populations as far afield as Ukraine and New Zealand, Eire, and the USofA’s Chesapeake Bay. Travel to Ukraine being somewhat curtailed, NZ being a multi week commitment, so I'm going with Scotland. I’ve never shot or eaten a Sika, so when I ran into Captain Ahab online and he told me he was guiding in the highlands I booked a slot in the un-pressured opening days of the stag season. Most people don’t want to shoot deer still in velvet, and will wait until September or October , I have a pressing reason to, but that we’ll come to later.

Its been said that Sean Connery [wife beater formerly of this parish] had a Scottish accent, but not one any other Scottish person ever had. it’s easily learned as whole chapters of Irvine Welsh’s social commentary Trainspotting are narrated in the inner dialogue of one of the characters Simon aka Sickboy, as an imaginary conversation between himself and Sean Connery - 'precisely Simon' becomes “Pershishley Shimon”. Circuitous route I know, but now we've gained a fair facsimile of the correct Japanese pronunciation 'Pershishly, it'sh pronounshed “Sheeka”'. 

All I need now is that second most powerful hunting talisman, a newbie. 

I've had great results with taking new people, they see deer but never get a round off, I see three and shoot two. The Sika trip also represents my first chance in a while to add a Red Stag to the menagerie of deer I’ve shot. That’s going to need some powerful ju-ju, an absolute beginner…..

Super Plumber seems like the perfect candidate 

I've actually managed to take someone more angsty and superstitious than myself, a man who sees imminent downfall in every puddle, and fundamentally believes it always rains on him. 

The first stalking clothes. Always a hard choice for the newbie stalker: your boots are too short, and your walking clothes are more park than hill. In Scotland there are all four seasons, if not every hour, then certainly every other hour, and to make matters worse the only shop still open in Inverness is a hardware store which only stocks the noisiest waterproofs yet devised. 

Super Plumber is one of those friends you’ve  had for years, talk with on the phone, but rarely actually hang out with. So the 8 hour drive represents a good chance to catch up and do some shopping for  junk food, a car, ammunition and a rifle. 

With our meet up now hastily arranged we drive though the charismatic Scottish countryside, staying in radio contact. After a while a heavily laden estate car hooves into view. Ahab pulls into a lay-by and enthusiastically jumps out, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. The car's hand [parking] brake isn't engaged, as he strides towards us the car rolls away, as it rolls over a bump it's now steering itself back into the road. A look of blind panic crosses his face, and he dives, somewhat heroically, through the door of the car and overts disaster. needless to say Super Plumber are in stitches 

After my own bloody baptism, where the first time I fired a centre fire rifle it was at a living being, I hope to do a bit better for others. 

I’m from the “buy an air rifle and shoot it” school of shooting advice, but there’s a strange anomaly to living on this island, I can own a sub 12flbs air rifle and lend it to anyone over eighteen. But I can’t take it to Scotland where it’s a licensable firearm. It would need a licence I don't have . Fortunately I’ve got a reasonable hoard of 22lr Super Plumber  can practice on until he’s comfortable. 

My posh 22lr doesn’t have any glass and it was either the trip or the glass so it stayed at home, the trick 10/22 will have to do. Who amongst us didn’t start out with a 10/22? I've received a bit of coaching and watched much much more. There’s one central piece of advice thats the only piece of the puzzle worth starting with. Natural Point of Aim, by the time I’d heard of it I’d already developed the bad habits that have marred my accuracy all these years. 

Sphagnum moss, used as field dressing during WW1, twice as absorptive as cotton, can hold up to 22 times its own weight in liquid.

Which also means you're never more than a stride away from disappearing up to your knee, hip, or even neck in icy water. You may get your boot back. 

Mistaking myself for a version of myself from 20 years ago I hop nimbly, or so I thought at the time, over a ditch. My landing foot plunges into the muck, my ankle bends, my calf stretches beyond its tearing point and I plummet backwards into the ditch, which has been generously appointed with sharp sticks and cold water. Can’t say it would have been my first choice of landing spot. 

The pain and cold water that's gone down my neck provide a powerful incentive and I spring out of the ditch like a champ. gaining a sudden anatomical understanding, I could tell exactly what I'd torn. To my great surprise the money pit’s barrel wasn’t knotted like a pretzal and the whole rifle was bone dry. 

It's a long,  slow, and indeed agonising walk back across the clear-fell. `fortunately as im within shouting distance of the road I see Ahab's car crawling down the logging road. he and Super plumber hear me and I'm rescued.  


I confine myself the high seats for the rest of the trip. Sika are heard, but not seen or shot 

Super Plumber nails a Red and sanguine we make our way home. 

More sonn

your pal SBW

Review: Oceania Defence - The 3D Printed Suppressor

The only item that makes the amount of noise it does, that you can legally; sell, or use, without a silencer. is a gun.

In 1884 Hiram Maxim invents the machine gun, very quickly losing his hearing. Around 1902 his son Hiram Percy Maxim invents and starts selling the first commercially successful firearm silencer, receiving a patent on March 30, 1909. A hundred and something years later they still work in the same way. A series of baffles slow the flow of the rapidly expanding gasses. Despite many different advances in baffle design. Volume is still the name of the game, the bigger the space available to contain the gases, the greater the effect.


If you ever wondered about the intelligence and foresight of your elected representatives, the silencer is the perfect proof of what you should have suspected all along. Even the most dazzling intellects amongst them are quite happy to spend your money, acting against your interest, based on what they saw on TV or at the movies. Let's take where I live as an example. 20 years ago Police forces, ever fond of inventing powers they haven't been given by government, were extremely resistant to issuing licences for sound moderators. Until the Forestry Commission's legal department realised gunshots in the workplace were endangering the hearing of their deer managers and asked who was accepting liability. In Northern Europe they're a safety feature, with demands to legislate their use as protection for your dog's hearing. In Southern Europe the tool of an assassin, with no legitimate use.

Over the last ten years moderators/silencers/suppressors have followed the exact opposite trajectory to your pal SBW, getting lighter, and quieter. I've owned a few. So far the choice has been: very heavy and durable, or pretty light and basically disposable. Sealed, or strippable, out front, or both out front and behind the muzzle. Steel, titanium, or aluminium baffles in a tube of the same materials or even carbon fibre. All have their fans. The heavy ones are great for the range. the stalking designs get lighter.Just like bipods, something that was once quite crude and inexpensive can now be the cost of a new rifle. Yep both have crossed the $/£/E 1,000 price point. Yikes.

“The future is already here – it's just not evenly distributed.” William Gibson

A few years ago there appeared a new technology, but at three to four times the price its adoption hasn't been that widespread. I was keen to find out more. Bert Wilson, owner of Oceania Defence in NZ patented a process for 3D printing moderators and partnered with Ram3D. At 190g they are much lighter than anything we've seen before. His UK sales team sold a few to the NRA(uk) who unfortunately for them, and fortunately for me, blew one up. When the rest hit the auction, James at Jagersporting was quick off the mark snapping them up. He sold them off to his customers at a massive discount on the list price.

I spoke to the NRA armourer who told me he knew two people who were using Oceania Defence moderators for deerstalking and I should be totally unconcerned. The current advice is clean in an ultrasonic every 500 rounds.

My totally subjective and unscientific opinion. They are amazing! 190g feels like nothing! Those big steel mods of a few years ago are like banging rocks together while OD have rocked up in a space shuttle.

Last time I looked list was £680 + another £100 for the titanium adapter. pretty chronic if you have to have more than one, almost bearable if you're swapping it between several rifles. [Word to the wise never ever use a mod that's been on a rimfire even for one shot on a centre fire, unburned powder init] 

The one thing I'd do differently is the 'out front' designs can't overcome the fact that the over barrel designs have more volume and anything that moves the balance of a stalking  rifle to the mag well is a good thing . There's already another 3D printed over-barrel design by Roedale in Germany but it's 1100+ euro and almost double the weight. Double yikes! For readers in the USofA  the comparison seems to be the  Banish 30 Gold-V2 which Silencer Central  have for $1300. also about double the weight 

Considering the weight penalty and price hike I'd still go for the Oceania Defence. 

More soon

your pal

SBW

  

Special Farces. Shooting To One Mile At Orion UK

"it’s gonna happen, happen, it’s happens all the time" The Undertones. 

I've never been in the Special Forces, but I have been in a few Special Farces. How I have laughed at others, now not so much. 

Orion Shooting Ground  I’ve made this trip before, I’d come back from Madrid just before the first lockdown, but the trip had been booked and I wanted the opportunity to test my Tiktac at longer ranges.  We’d driven from the south coast, it took hours   

The british army have their Infantry Battle School at Brecon on the border between England and Wales on any given lane or hillside you’ll see squaddies being beasted along by their PT instructors.  There’s a saying in the Brecon beacons, “if it ain’t raining it ain’t training” After sighting in at 200m we’d taken a few pops at the 840m gong, the weather closed in and the 840 target disappeared, it rained and rained,  other targets disappeared,  eventually the 200m disappeared. 

The blogger known as The Bambi Basher gained a leg up in his military career one night in the brecon beacons, too tired to unpack, he lay panting on the ground, at that exact moment the inspector arrived and as he was the only one with his kit neatly stowed, was bumped up a rank.  

Preparation, it’s all about preparation. it's drummed into us as school boys.  

Proper Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance. Errr yes about that.

I’ve seen people make it half a mile to the highseat without their rifle's bolt, I’ve seen people make it 80 miles to the stalking permission no ammo. 60 miles to Bisley without their bolt.  How I’ve laughed.

Now I've joined their ranks.   

My bolt is decocked. Can I cock it? Do I have a cocking tool? Do I have a set of grips? 

That would be no, no, and er no  

Fortunately I’ve bought my Lee Enfield with me. I kind of own an Enfield because I've got an English passport. I take one to a couple of events a year. It quite nice.  On a whim one afternoon  I'd swapped its predecessor, a No.4 two groove Lend/Lease Savage for it. In the mid 1940's it had been hand picked then 'regulated' by Alex Martin of Glasgow as a target rifle.  Sadly, along the way, some goon has coated it in polyurethane varnish, but with all matching numbers, [for the time being], it’s quietened the OCD that the last enfield with its mismatched numbers aggravated. Might get one by Fultons to keep it company. 

Orion is a great facility, the firing point is undercover in shipping containers and the first berm is covered in clays and gongs of all sizes. beyond that there's a one ended valley so wind calls can be challenging, its Wales so the only predictable thing about the weather is its unpredictability. The other 'its Wales so' element is sheep wandering about in the field of fire. Plenty of them. After the pissing rain of the last visit this time its blazing sunshine. 

Subject of which. Terry our instructor teaches long range in a way I'd not seen before. He no longer uses D.O.P.E Data on previous engagements, but instead once Dope is established moves on to D.A.T.T.  Data At This Time.

As for once it hadn't rained in weeks there was dust where we'd usually only see mud. Much like, or exactly like tracking, everything you can see is a record of something that went before it. The glacier made the landscape, the wind polishes the landscape, the landscape swages the wind. The air cools the ground, the ground slows, speeds up, or negates the thermals. One mile is a bastard long way. 

The Target on a hillside, not far from the intersection of two valleys, one blocking the other, causing the wind to double back on itself. A cloud rocks up, and hovers, shading the ground, dust clouds that were rising now don't have the thermal lift so move along at ankle height.  

Since you're wondering. First one hit the big plate fair and square, the spotter said the second one hit the small plate, but I couldn't be sure.

Epic day out, would recommend contact details here 

more soon

Your pal

SBW

  

 

Capercaillie Toppjakt In Sami Land [Northern Sweden] '25

The kitchen, London. southern England 

The Witch [AKA Mrs SBW]: I've known her for 35 years. She’s my oldest friend, but I’m not sure if I trust her. Why does the diary say you're away third week in January?

SBW: I’m going hunting in the boreal forrest with some dude I met on Facebook.

A frozen lake. Sami land, very very northern Sweden

The fizzing crack of a moderated 6.5 Creedmoor echos in the distance  

There are a few conventions in travel storytelling, and in particular travel TV. The women are intrepid, they will be challenged, but having bonded with a local woman over some validation ritual, will rise to the challenge, and by the end the half hour she will be joyful at the edge of her comfort zone. 

If the man is under 50 he's a sort of guide, strangely sage, often quite earnest, he maybe a former marine, but is the least blokeish former squaddie available. He'll have packed his anglophone liberal values along with his Swiss Army knife. Asking a goat herder about the gender pay gap in her village. If he's over 60 he's a reluctant to very reluctant. His most profound complement is to complain that such and such cannot be purchased at home. There will be some griping, mainly about missing the comfort of his own bed. Sometimes to mix things up it's a father and son. Bit of both.  Anthony Bourdain made a fortune and some excellent TV by the simple expedient of having the camera follow him as he met the people for the first time, being curious, and not moaning.  

The trip really begins about 16 years ago I spent the afternoon with James Marchington, and Charlie Jacoby from the Fieldsports Channel. Their friend Ian Spicer had invited us to some range time at the West London Shooting School. This was to be the start of my long fascination with the 6.5mm bullet.  Ian had a 6.5 swede and mentioned in passing that the Scandinavians shoot capercaillie from treetops with 6.5 solids.  Big day for me, formative even, I’d never heard of capercaillie either. I've shot a couple of thousand 6.5's since then, but capercaillie have eluded me. 

The first flight is completely full, and at Swedish customs it turns out the missus isn't the only person perturbed by my laissez faire travel arrangements. 

Customs guy: Why are you visiting Sweden?

SBW: I'm going for a long walk in the snow [ turns out to be slightly prophetic ]

Customs guy: [slightly incredulous] it can be very cold

SBW: I have a very big coat

Customs guy: they say it can be dangerous to get too hot

SBW: I'm more worried about the skiing to be fair

Customs guy:  On your own? It really can be quite dangerous 

SBW: I'm going with a friend from facebook

Customs guy:  Does he have a name?

SBW: Jon

Customs guy: a second name?

I show him my phone 

Customs guy: It's pronounced Yew-n.

SBW:Ah, glad you mentioned that

Customs guy: Where does he live?

SBW: No idea where he lives, never even spoken to him on the phone, and to be fair I'm not sure how to pronounce the name of the airport I'm meeting him at either.

Customs guy: Ah

It's probably someone else's paperwork if I'm eaten by cannibals, and his if he deports me, so he wishes me luck and stamps my passport. 

Our little chat means the next flight and my luggage have left without me.

Airport guy: "Happens all the time, we'll have you on another flight in an hour or so". I get the 'or so' version which is four hours. I message Jon who takes the whole thing in his stride  

Jon: There's a gun shop, and I'll buy my wife a present

Of all the unexpected things that happened perhaps the most remarkable is the food in Stockholm airport is fantastic. I know you don't believe me. Why should you. Someone who gave a shit about their job cooked this from scratch. In England even the salad would have been shaken from a packet by a particularly spotty and ambivalent teenager. 

The next plane is smaller, the airport smaller still, the daylight shorter. 

And so it begins. I’ve only ever been to the top of Europe once and it was mid summer, I've also only skied. once, on a dry ski slope, just over 40 years ago. Surprisingly it's not that cold, maybe one or two degrees cooler than London. 

In Alaska there’s a fella called Wiggy who makes the ultimate puffa jacket. I was having a productive period at work so I'd ordered one the day before Jon messaged me. Seemed fated. 

Jon and I had met on Facebook in a conversation about 6.5mm choices, he mentioned hunting capercaillie, I'd said it was a long held dream to hunt them he'd said 'come along I go every year.' I'd not thought much of it, one day out of the blue he's back in touch "Are you coming?" Seeing as I'd just ordered the coat, I said yes. Seemed fated.

I consulted Bird House as he's done lots of cold weather camping, and I posted a thread on the Stalking Directory. One response seemed wise 'I'd spent all kinds of money on high tech clothes I was freezing my tits off, until I copied the locals and bought a big wool sweater, after that I was fine". I shared this insight. Bird House gave me the look that says "how am I having to explain this to you?'. 

There's a company that advertise on Facebook that say they still sell the pullovers they supplied to Shackleton for his adventures in the antarctic. Bird House has tracked down the weavers that actually make them and have their own website.  Loads cheaper and they were having a new year half price sale. I'm now the proud owner of the biggest, heaviest, itchiest Woolly Pully I've ever seen. I look the part. I could belt out a sea shanty at any moment 

According to the historic weather data we should expect negative 13C during the day and negative 26C at night. I've never been anywhere colder than neg ten so I started to feel some trepidation. 

All the 'Four Season' sleeping bags I could find in the UK were clearly not intended for Sami seasons, minus 4 isn't even a Scottish winter. The Shipping fees and import taxes on my coat from Wiggy's had driven me to penury so I wasn't in the mood to order from him again. Bird House was all about chemical heaters, Jon took the view that expensive sleeping bags were over rated and two cheap bags would be better.  My inner Yorkshireman rejoiced. I've recently become more industrious with clay busting so I've been spending more time in the north with Super Plumber and The Northern Monkey. In yet another of the tedious displays of incompetence regular readers will be all too familiar with, I left the Wooly Pully behind. Attempts at shipping proved unsuccessful. So it didn't join me on the journey.  

In the 18th century before the discovery of the country's mineral wealth, lead to the invention of dynamite, which lead to the armaments industry, Sweden had sunk back from its days of empire. and millions of  Swedes emigrated to the USofA . Many of the things that to me are typically American are of Swedish origin. Lots of people, by people I mean chicks, look like they've stepped out of a Ralf Lauren commercial. The red wooden farm houses, and a preference for sweet foods. 

Of all the many wonderful things Swedish culture has brought to the world, the most annoying and perhaps most baffling has to be Ikea. You never meet anyone over the age of ten who likes it, but we all go there.

I met a Japanese woman who worked for Ikea in Japan. Given the Japanese people's famous preference for a quiet, ordered, sort of calm, I had to ask. 

"How do people cope with the infuriating madness that is a trip to the seventh circle of hell?" 

"Foreign company, all part of the fun" 

At the house Mrs Jon is serving moose meatballs with a crazy delicious 'brown sauce' I'm not sure if I said the right thing when I asked 'this is what the Ikea dinner is supposed to taste like'  She pulls a face 

SBW: Is Ikea not popular here? My children were raised on those horrible meatballs, they loved them?" 

Mrs Jon: " I hate that place, but I have a whole house full of their stuff" 

At this point the evening descends into a kind of gameshow: 

She produces a coffee mug. 

SBW: mum's house

She produces a bowl

SBW: we have those

She produces a glass

SBW: ex wife has those, actually we have some too. 

You know how to make venison meatballs, but while we're passing here's the simple wonder that is 'Brown Sauce". 

Reduce cream until it's thickened, add some browned or dried onions, add mushroom soy sauce, and then if you're so inclined  a little whisky. You'll never endure the tyranny of that muck Ikea sell in a sachet ever again. It's crazy delicious.  It would even go well with cardboard. 

SBW: These are unobtainium in London. I'm under strict instructions, f I go home without one I'll never hear the end of it

Mrs Jon [incredulous] : But what do you slice cheese with ?

SBW: A knife

Mrs Jon [slightly more incredulous, and actually horrified] But the slices will be thick?

In the morning I gift their kids enough Tunnocks and assorted candy to open a sweet shop, and we hit the road. We leave to the sound of "No Mummy this is breakfast" which needs no translation. 

After a short dive we collect Dan from his doorstep he greets me with "It may take some time to get warm in my clothes, mocking him in English" It took him no time at all.

Hunting friends always seem to come in pairs; one reckless, a speed demon,  the other a chill fellow, happy to tootle along more concerned with not digging the car out of a snowdrift than the time of arrival . 

The sport of unending criticism of the other's driving is the perfect middle ground everyone can enjoy. Its international. The Northern Monkey has it that gearboxes surrender when they hear me coming, I have it that were he to re-sit his driving test he would fail. My friends in the north are exactly the same. 

Is it called a smorgasbord when there's only one dish ?  Pretty easy to spot where the capercaillie have been. Past tense. 

The capercaillie is an unlikely animal. About the size of a turkey they're omnivores in the warmer months, but when the cold comes and the ground freezes, they switch to only eating the toppist tops of pine trees. 

Their shit suggests they don't really have the digestive tract for extracting nutrients from pine needles. 

Not content with nearly starving to death their sleeping habits border on the suicidal too. They crash land in a snow drift, and hope to wake up in the morning. Sometimes the weather changes, more snow falls, then freezes, and they are trapped or savaged to death by predators. It's a wonder there are any left. 

They also come with a perfectly placed white dot for rifle shooters to aim at. To make them a bit more sporting they have incredible eyesight, so 250-300m shots are the expectation.   

Where I stalk in the hedgerows of southern England shots are a lot closer,  but even in the highlands where shots are longer, there's usually a farmhouse or a road to be taken into account . The backstop is what defines a take-able shot. In the boreal forest the backstop is tens of thousands of hectares of hopefully empty forrest. Slightly unnerving. 

The trick is to have a flat shooting round, as chances are going to be at 250 - 300m, but and its a big ask, a bullet that's also not going too fast, or expanding, so it doesn't detonate the delicious bird. You're looking for a neat pencil hole, in though the white dot, though the spine and  out the other side. The Super 22's [22-250, 22 Creedmoor, etc] are probably a bit too destructive, 6 and 6.5mm are perfect. Lapua Sxxxxx are popular, and Barnes banded solids sound amazing if you can get any.  Factory ammo is so expensive that Sweden is possibly the only place where you could actually save money by reloading.

[yes I know Lee loaders were made in 6.5 swede, I'm joking, sort of. I feel very sorry for anyone who is buying their Co-Ax now] 

There's a giant network of unlocked huts, both private and public, you're never further than 6km from one. Mostly the last occupant has left you some tinned food,  firewood and matches. Sweden is seemingly run on a slightly different version of the 'for us by us' principle.  Where the 'us' is a much larger group. The extreme weather means there's a general assumption that some things are too important to be left to rugged individualism, of which they have plenty, so there's a sense of community and a government sponsored program of hut maintenance, rubbish clearance and wood gathering for huts both private and public. You can contribute if you want. Jon's taking the very reasonable view that his dad had done the hard yards building it in the first place and that as there were clearly others using it in his absence he'd paid up front. 

Even a long way out into the forrest there are well marked snowmobile trails, which are graded during the snow free months. They are better kept than some of the roads in London. So you can drive really fucking fast.  The boys tell me that the grading program is a kind of school leavers job everyone has had, it's quite well paid but extremely boring. 

Ugnspannkaka the cube-ular pancake of Sweden. While cheese maybe be sliced thin pancakes are served thick. we really don't have anything like this. All the ingredients of yorkshire pudding, but cooked to achieve totally the opposite effect. Where Yorkshires must rise, [minimum 75mm - as defined by the royal society for chemistry] these bad boys are totally solid. Baked and cut into cubes, then fried to make them crispy. It's Sweden so eaten with Lingonberry jam. Bloody good. 

Some things are universal to shooters everywhere.

Jon "I hate my Harris bipod." 

SBW "I hate mine too." 

In unison "the one I want is so expensive "

We confirm zero and take a couple of pops at 300m. Tikka man, what can you say? They are just excellent rifles; sure they lack the posh timber and style of the Shultz & Larsen, but two factory rounds a hair apart at 300m, you cant complain. I would have banged away to make a comforting little group but at this price per bang it seemed un-guestly. 

During the travel show there comes a time when the protagonist must face his fears, like when Chief Brody gets on to the boat....

The sum of all my fears, in plank form. 

I've never in all my life been anywhere where the constant complaint was 'Its not cold enough' they actually apologised about it. Seemed great to me, until we got moving, then I understood. The snow had melted a bit, a new crust had fallen, which had frozen insulating the melted snow and stopping it from re-freezing. On the snow machine this meant ruts, on skis it meant much much more inertia. On the lake it meant 20-50mm of icy water. I lived in constant fear of falling over and getting an icy soaking. 

Fortified by a plate of stodge, and some vigorous coffee it's time to face my fear, strap myself to two planks and waddle forth. 

Jon is wearing his 'I'll just be patient and see how this plays out' face. 

Dan is going for 'You have no idea what you've let yourself in for'. 

SBW 'I'm too fat to die, the dog will miss me"

Getting the first ski on isn't that bad, click in the toe and stamp down on the catch. Which begs the question. How to press the little catch to attach the second ski to the binding when you already have a two meter plank attached to your foot? Even lying in the snow like a divorced walrus its not easy. 

And we're off! As long as I don't have to go downhill it's not as bad as I was lead to believe. A sort of tai-chi shuffle, keeping your centre of balance a little further back and letting the rigidity of the boots choose when your stride completes. Boots didn't leak which was a blessing as we traversed the frozen lake. Managed not to fall onto the sheen of icy water. We came upon a tree where the capercaillie had been feasting fairly recently, so recently some of the turds weren't even frozen. We glassed, and glassed, no birds. 

The odd thing is the way sound is totally different to hunting in the forestry blocks of Scotland. It's all the other way around. As silent, but sounds when you do hear them appear much louder. On the far side of the lake we hear two birds spook, and then we see them. Flying away.

As we're completing the lap there's that feeling of prey, the tree tops are empty and without a thermal its looking for a brown thing silhouetted against a green-ish-brown-ish thing, in high contrast with lots of white. Again, but much nearer, birds spook and there's nothing we could have done.

I'm delighted I've made it all the way back to the cabin, I didn't have to radio Dan to come and get me on the snow machine. I'm pouring drinks and laughing.

Jon: I was quite worried but you were much better than I was expecting

SBW: you say that to all the girls

Jon: I just say what I think, then my wife apologises, really there are Swedish people who are worse than you. Take some lessons. 

SBW: I fell over like seven times

Jon: Three. 

Tires suitably inflated I decide to quit while I'm ahead. 

Jon: This little stove really warms up this cabin.

Dan: If only your wife said the same thing. 

Under a starry sky we drink Rum and listen to Americana, which I'm resoundingly mocked for liking back home. 

Dan: I like music where the song tells a story

SBW: me too

Always wanted to ice fish, I even have an ice fishing joke ready and waiting.

 

"You bought your wife an ice fishing tent for her birthday? I didn't know she ice fished!"

'How could she? She didn't have a tent' 

Jon skis off into what passes for the morning light. Dan and I get to boring holes, first to drain the surface of the lake, then to fish through. Tiny worms, hooked onto lures with LEDs, tiny rods, and fish after fish. There are really small ones called 'thousand brothers' that go back and Arctic Char after Arctic Char come out and stay out.

In the distance the report of a 6.5 Creedmoor.

Dan: He missed

SBW: How do you know?

Dan: Phone would be ringing.  

Dan: I'm worried we've given you a totally unrealistic expectation of ice fishing, we've caught 28 fish that we kept. 

SBW: how many do you usually catch?

Jon: Four would be pretty good. 

Just like a divorced walrus after the tide has gone out. 

 

There's one more species on the list. Beaver. How do you learn to hunt beaver? Youtube. We watch a couple of videos and after dropping Dan off at another lake we go a Beaver huntin'. The signs are easy enough to spot, we find their lodge but in retrospect are probably much too close to it. No Beaver were sighted. 

Still, some worthwhile scouting, there's a big fallen tree that will make an excellent hide overlooking the beaver pond but far enough away not to spook them. 

It gets dark rapidly and we go for a tour of the snow mobile trails before searching a few spots for Dan.

Who is sitting happy as Larry in the middle of a frozen lake, with his one Trout. One massive trout.

Jon: why do you spend so much time fishing ?

Dan; because you're hunting and I need to eat

By the looks of things he's not the first one to have caught it. That must have been some Pike!

There's one last tradition that must be experienced / endured Surströmming sour herring. this is some grievous shit, it actually smells even worse than it tastes. its not the eating, its not the swallowing. It's the burping that gets you. They even have a story about it being banned from some airlines, due to a pressure burst that contaminated everyone onboard's luggage. One Christmas a shortage had been announced on the nightly news, instead of breathing a sign of relief, Sweden flew into panic buying mode, even people who had refused to eat it before were caught up in the madness, it was reportedly changing hands for E500 a tin.

Jon: You can go home and give your wife the tongue!

As we leave for the airport and join the main road, with the rifle packed away, at less than 100m, from a treetop, a reasonably sized, shootable, capercaillie shouts ‘So long suckers’.

Next up the hedgerows of southern England 

more soon

your pal 

SBW