The trouble with black-powder guns

He is easy to pick out of a crowd. At dinner he slowly twirled his fork around the plate and his eyes were glassed over with no signs of life behind their empty stare. His fingers had some black soot on them, and he was unusually irritable from losing so much sleep the night before.

When someone thoughtfully asked, &#8221Did you see anything yesterday?“ he simply snarled some inaudible gibberish and retreated into the adjacent room. Upon reaching the solitude of the vacant room he melted into the couch and replayed the dreadful scene over in his head one more time.

This poor soul has experienced a muzzleloader mishap. Even after centuries of engineering, today’s muzzleloaders would still leave Daniel Boone scratching his head in disbelief. What seems to be a simple three-step process of powder, ball and cap can often result in a problem that requires at least three minds to diagnose.

The troubling fact of the matter is that Ol’ Mossyhorns usually doesn’t stick around very long after the hammer drops, even if there is no resounding &#8221bang.“ Literally dozens of troubles plague those of us who trudge into the woods with a black powder rifle slung over our shoulder.

A few common mistakes that I have made and seen are: loading the sabot with no powder, not loading the gun at all, only putting in powder, not installing the primer, installing a used primer, clogged breech plugs, moisture in the barrel, and countless other combinations. I am the world’s worst regarding the cleanliness of my black powder rifle, and this is where the root of many problems begin.

Late muzzleloader season runs for a chilling week in the middle of December. After the final evening on stand my fingers are purple and there are rings of frost around my nostrils, therefore I find it easier to slip my smokepole into its case and forget about it until October. Doing so last season caught up with me this past weekend when I wasn’t even on the paper at 50 yards! I had to use a socket wrench and a breaker bar just to unscrew my breech plug and the inside of my barrel looked as if it may have seen some action in the Civil War. However, after some intense scrubbing and a few practice shots, I can now comfortably shoot about 10 yards farther with my muzzleloader than I can with my bow. My individual lack of black powder savvy is the exception though; I have several friends who can accurately shoot their muzzleloaders just as far as some centerfire rifles.

I had a little go-cart when I was young that would start and run about one out of every three times I took it out of the barn. After a couple of hundred cranks my Dad and I would eventually become frustrated and roll it back inside. However, when the little Briggs would fire up, I would have the best time cruising around and all the hassle would seem to be worth the effort. My track record with black powder rifles is slightly better, and when everything does function correctly, muzzleloading can be second to none.

Opening morning of the early season usually greets hunters with a thick blanket of fog that keeps the deer comfortable and moving. Without the ability to see very far, deer are regularly heard before they are seen. Oftentimes it becomes hard to distinguish the sound of approaching hooves over the racket of hickory nuts and acorns bouncing off of tree limbs like pinballs on their descent into the leaves below.

There are no typical mornings afield, but a mid-October hunt often unfolds much like the following. A raccoon stumbles by after a night of gorging itself on crawfish, and its ringed tail slowly fades into the mist as it ambles back to its den. Just as slowly as the raccoon left, deer will show up with their heads down in search of fresh acorns. Initially, only one doe’s slender front legs and head are visible, and then as she moves forward, several additional pairs of legs and twitching ears will accompany her. With the wind calm, they stick around in the quiet security of the thick fog. The fawns gallivant around like children at recess, and the old does pause often to test the cool air while their long jaws shift from side to side. Always moving, the group’s cameo appearance doesn’t last long and they work their way deeper into the woods.

Just when a nap appears to be in order, the sound of steadily moving footsteps comes from behind. The temptation to turn around is excruciating, but withheld. The churning of hooves on leaves becomes closer and closer until abruptly ceasing. Through the platform of the tree stand, the left side of a polished rack is neatly framed between the metal flooring. Clothes begin to constrict against the chest, and breathing without filling the air with clouds of steam becomes a chore in itself. Then, as if on cue, the buck finally continues his determined gait straight ahead.

With a weak hand the hammer is thumbed back while the barrel slowly follows his departure into the vapor. When his white antlers reach the brink of haze that separates a good chance from a great memory, the rifle unleashes a cloud of blue smoke. Although confident in the shot, the seconds that follow as the smoke hangs in the air are full of uncertainty. All doubts and tribulations are set to rest once the twinge of black powder dissipates and a white underbelly stands out against the soft hues of the forest. A handful of dew-soaked antlers are great compensation for a little muzzleloading perseverance.

– Geordon T. Howell is the Daily News outdoors columnist. To comment on Howell’s column, contact Managing Editor Mike Alexieff at 783-3235 or malexieff@bgdailynews.com