The Palit Journals

Thursday, August 2, 2007

For the want of a screw, the hunt was nearly lost.

The rifle for this Africa hunt is my Tikka T3 in the ever so reliable 308 Winchester. I am a one-rifle man. I believe a man should own only one rifle at any point in his life. He must learn how to shoot dime-sized groups blindfolded. He must feed it the right ammunition. He must keep it clean and well oiled, like a newborns, umm, rump!

He must try very hard not to do silly, maudlin things like naming it after a girl. So of course, I use nothing but my own carefully weighed and well-tuned handloads for Buffy - she of the unerring aim and, er, undead-slaying skills. With180 gr Hornady Interbonds, 42 gr. Varget, Federal 210 primers in Lapua match quality brass, she can do sub-MOA at a 100 yards.

Buffy also lost a trigger guard screw a few days before the hunt. Now mind you, this is a screw that keeps the stock attached to the action as well. This is not a good thing to happen days before the hunt of a lifetime. Certainly not a very respectful thing for a man to do to his rifle. Tsk.

Disaster, quite naturally, comes with company. What happens when you take a Finnish rifle, imported by an Italian company into the United States? Give up? You get a spare parts nightmare. No one has these strange little screws in stock. Not Brownells, Midway or any of the many online retailers. A frantic trip to the local Gander Mountain yielded nothing more than some very sympathetic gunsmiths. Finally, my hunting partner and good friend John manages to find someone at Beretta who has these screws. A few phone calls, credit card charges and one overnight package later, I now have a spare set of the worlds most expensive screws.

Buffy lives, and the hunt is saved.

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Butterfly, meet tummy

A few more hours. A few more sleepless, bed-turning hours, and if all goes well, I will set out for the Dark Continent. Africa. The Highveld is where I'm headed, for two full weeks of plains game bow and rifle hunting with Uhuru Safaris, a small, family run outfit. The more I read about hunting the continent, the less I feel I understand. It's not tree stand hunting for deer at the edge of Illinois cornfields, that much even a novice like me has figured out.

This is going to be like nothing I have ever experienced. Imagine, if you will, waking up at the crack of dawn. Stealing a march on sunrise, and heading out into the wild, open country on a beat-up land-rover. Stalking stately Kudu as they glide through the mist. racing to catch up with herds of Blue Wildebeest, or creeping up to the Gemsbok - desert warrior. Alright, I give up - I cannot. It's not registering. I'm going to Africa, I'm going to Africa . Say it again - AF-RI-CA!! The mind reels, and refuses to comprehend the enormity of what's about to happen. My wife notes that I've been rather quiet all evening. Preoccupied to the point where I messed up our ritual Chipotle dinner order. Got the salsa mixed up, put guacamole on the wrong order. This never happens to me. I could barely taste my dinner. I'm thirsty and my heart keeps racing for no real reason.

Hello butterfly, meet tummy.

The wait is killing me.

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