Weather was the big factor, with Central Oregon offering fickle weather patterns that changed faster than a California surfer girl’s goose bumps. First day we were greeted with passing clouds and a freshening wind. It was fresh all right, cold with a wind chill factor that rivaled the inside of my ice chest (the roast beef froze in my luncheon sandwich). By afternoon it blew even harder, maybe 25 to 35 mph gusts. In a field sheltered between two ridges, I used the .223 Remington rifle built on a Dual Port Savage Action. Loaded with the Nosler 40 grain BT Lead Free bullet pushed along at 3,305 fps by 21.5 grains of RL-10x it is delivering .3” - .4” groups. First few shots were misses, I was correcting too much for the wind, so I held dead on with a slight bias toward the wind – splat, splat, splat. The wind didn’t seem to matter much, even out to the other side of the valley, about 250 yards – splat, splat, splat. After a while the rats were depleted, at least that percentage venturing above ground for that afternoon.
Back field offered shots out to around 250 yards, or more when shooting diagonally. Rats seemed to appear similar to a giant natural Mash -a-Mole. A wheel line was busy irrigating, attracting small birds that had to be distinguished from rats on longer shots.
I ventured out across the field to check for carcasses, when I looked back it became obvious just how far these shots were, and I was still 50 yards shy of the other side. In the photo's center is my gray GMC Sierra Crew Cab pickup, behind it completely invisible is my wheeled rifle bench. First day I used the .223 Remington, next day the .204 Ruger. Someday I might buy a laser range finder.
Rat was at the limit of the field, the .204 Ruger took him cleanly. White plastic pipe tee is a poison bait dispenser, from the number of rats I concluded they better buy more 1080 rodenticide.
I moved toward the front of the field where ranges were longer and the wind more pronounced. From my perch on the ranch road the field swept down and away, so I chose the .243 WSSM rifle with a 62 grain Varmint Grenade traveling at 3,580 fps average. Bullets had to cross several bands of differing wind velocity flowing mostly to the right. Held on the squirrels a tad to the left, but still on the body – splat, splat, splat and yuck. Lots of babies, little tiny and small. They disappeared when hit, all that was left was a hole in the soil where the bullet exploded after passing through. If they were cavorting close together, both would splat with one bullet – two-fers. Eagles appeared with their smaller cousins, perusing the carnage and selecting various a-la-cart offerings. A few times they swooped low but didn’t see any movement to trigger their instinct, while back in the valley where I started, a hungrier couple landed and began the clean up. Magpies were not so selective. When the action calmed down I moved again, this time joining Tony who was busily cleaning up errant rats with his semi-auto .17 HMR. Launching 17 grain bullets into a gale seemed hopeless, but he was nailing them consistently. So I uncased the .204 Ruger and joined in. The 26 grain bullets were not much of an advantage, but they consistently hit the little buggers as if Merlin had cast a spell on them. At around 5:45 p.m. the rats knocked off according to their union contract, so we packed up for the day.
Days two and three were much the same, wind, clouds turning to overcast, cold – low 40’s – which kept the barrels cool, and lots of rats if you waited for them to forget what they were scared about. There were occasional showers, a sleet flurry or two that quickly passed, and still the wind blew until my hands and face were chapped and red. One thing I relearned is that the Shilen Select Match barrel in .204 Ruger that I had screwed on to the Savage Target Action is phenomenally accurate. That little 26 grain Varmint Grenade at 4,110 fps doesn’t seem to care about windage, elevation, or much of anything else. Sighted in about an inch high at 100 yards, it hits everything out to as far as I can see ‘em. When there was a miss, it was usually attributable to a gust rocking my table, the rat moving as the trigger broke, or my frozen finger muffing the squeeze. I left that back field looking like a surreal sage rat version of a battlefield scene from the movie Zulu. Everywhere carcasses and blood splats dot the land like a surveyor’s paint markings in bold red. It was a scene rated PG, Parental Guidance and viewer discretion recommended. It is not Disneyana, it is nature at her most elemental; violent, uncaring, devoid of passion or mercy, life eating upon life.
Homemade .204 Ruger on a Savage Precision Target Action. Rifle sports a Shilen Select Match drop-in barrel, Sharp Shooter Supply semi-finished stock and a Bushnell Elite 4200 6-24x scope.Pillar bedded stock has a tricked out stress free epoxy bedding job. The .243 WSSM rifle is exactly the same except for stock color and Brux barrel.
Never give a rat an even chance. At 200 yards the 26 grain Varmint Grenade hits just a tad low on standing rats, I guess. Kinda hard to tell exactly.
It was the final day that made the “hunt” worthwhile. I began with my revisiting the same fields again. When I opened my truck bed cover, the weather laughed until it cried a sleet flurry that quickly sprinkled a white melting mess on my rifle cases, ammo boxes and even inside my spare boots! Everything went back in and the lid was closed. I sat in the truck hoping to warm up as I returned down the valley. Good thing I brought along a roll of blue shop towels, my nose was running from the cold wind. Flurries passed and I started to unload again. I almost made it. Suddenly the wind howled, singing a brassy song through the overhead power lines, then swirled through the open truck bed and dumped another layer of sleet on everything. This time it didn’t let up, the terrain was funneling the squalls directly up the valley. So I gave up. I moved to the front of the valley and parked on a grassy knoll where I could see my friend off about a quarter mile away. He was being buffeted on his truck mounted rotating shooting bench as he tried to hold steady enough to hit a few hardy rats. He looked like a big weather vane sporting a green down parka. At least the sleet didn’t travel this far, all that was left was a minor gale.
From the grassy knoll the arrow on the right points to Tony sitting on his truck mounted shooting bench, the left arrow points to the wheel line. I would cover the area from the wheel line to the left. Shots ranged to 330 yards.
Tony hunkered down on his rotating bench, the Remington .22-250 resting securely on a Caldwell Tack Driver Bag or Redneck Futon as Tony refers to it.
Tony saw me, and hurriedly hiked up to discuss what to do. He wanted me to set up on the grassy knoll, telling me that there are hundreds of rats in the fields surrounding him. He couldn’t reach the ones below me with his .22-250, but said I could with my Vortex Rifle as he calls it – the .243 WSSM. I looked out but didn’t see a single rat. If I took the area to the left of the wheel line, he said, I could nail them without conflicting with him. “Okay,” I said, to humor him more than agree to shoot what appeared to be non-existent rats. So I pulled my rifle bench from the truck, positioned it down-slope, set up the Vortex Rifle then moved my crew cab truck behind it as a wind break. I waited for a few minutes fussing with scope caps, adjusting the bipod and rear bag, ammo box, my tool box seat, and trying to pull in my gut in enough to zip up my coat. Then I scoped the area – my gosh, it was crawling with rats, acres of them! Load and fire, splat, splat, smack. Some did air time into low orbit, some simply disappeared, some turned inside out like victims in an old radio horror show. Many made the “pumpkin smack” sound when hit – kind-a like a balloon filled with hamburger hit by a passing locomotive.
Ammo, ammo, give me more ammo! Who said a single shot conserved ammo – now I know it isn’t true – but I was still wishing I had built all my rifles on the dual port action.
I stumbled to the truck on frozen stiff legs and brought back the entire supply of .243 WSSM’s. At this rate there wasn’t going to be enough. I had to turn down the magnification to 10 power, there too many rats to count or target easily at higher magnification. I turned it up as needed, proving the Bushnell Elite 4200 held it’s zero. One was hit underneath where the bullet fragmented to flip him over stunned, it lay there in my scope trying to run with legs disconnected from it’s CNS. The scope picture flashed white and he was gone – taken away by what appeared to be an osprey (?). I can recognize the bald and golden eagles, but others are obscured by staring into the bright sky and not having a solid knowledge of birds. Another raptor locked talons into a rat carcass, but the wind forced it to land before letting go. The wind blew, no matter, the rats were toast out to the limit of the field, maybe a little over 300 yards. I learned the long range shots were easy, just hold on their backs when they are on all fours, even if the bullet hits low in the dirt the kinetic debris kills them. My barrel had become warm even in the chill wind. Tony was firing as fast as I, with rat spat puffs drifting away in the wind, as unraveling carcasses went cartwheeling in the opposite direction. Two babies popped up, a single shot disrupted them both, a third ran over to snack on one carcass, he was turned into a biological geyser. I was about 200 rounds into the action when I began to wonder about copper fouling, would my bore resemble copper pipe? Never mind, keep shooting – 250 rounds, splat, splat, fur is flying, they are still coming. I was approaching 300 rounds, my ears are frozen, my neck is sore, arthritis being more troublesome than copper fouling, my right eye is focusing funny, when suddenly the rats disappeared. My watch indicated 5:50 p.m., quitting time. I felt satisfied, all three of my home made Savage rifles worked superbly, but next time I’ll bring the 1:8.5” twist .204 Ruger barrel loaded with 50 grain Berger bullets, just to see how it works.
Carnage, among the dens. There was no hiding, a shot would bring another up to see what was going on, what was going on was inevitable.
Tony has regained his status, not that he was ever in danger of being demoted, as we met when I was 12 years old and he 10 – some 53 years ago. We met in a model train shop, now we spend our time separated by 500 miles in gun shops and on-line depleting the world’s supply of gun stuff. I can’t wait until next year, or next month, but will make do hunting California’s ground squirrels in 100 degree heat until then. Both our wives think we are “eccentric” but that’s okay, we can’t hear them complain with ear plugs firmly in place.
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