By Dave Workman
Editor-in-Chief
It was pitch black outside of my pup tent, into which I had crawled only a short time previously, having watched the final embers of my campfire lose their glow, and switching off my propane lantern after curling up in my double sleeping bag.
At the sound of heavy breathing, my eyes clicked wide open, and my ears were suddenly on full alert. My truck was only a few yards away, where my muzzleloading rifle and 12-gauge pump shotgun were stored for the night, and, besides, neither of them were loaded.
But right next to my sleeping pad, nestled in the holster around which was wrapped a fully loaded cartridge belt, was my Ruger Blackhawk .41 Magnum, at the time wearing a set of Pachmayr rubber grips. Each chamber was stoked with my handloads consisting of 200-grain Speer half-jacketed hollowpoints which resembled lead semi-wadcutters, propelled by a very healthy dose of then-Hercules 2400. I knew from experience my sixgun could deliver those bullets to a bear-sized target at 200 yards, and whatever was snorting around my spartan campsite was a hell of a lot closer.
There was little to no breeze and at that elevation, even for the time of year—I was camping solo on a black powder elk hunt, which I was mixing with a little grouse hunting—it was a fairly mild night.
I didn’t care to unzip my tent flap just to peek outside, but I gently slid the hogleg out of its old George Lawrence holster and had my thumb on the hammer. Long story short, if whatever was outside suddenly decided to come in, it was going to get a face full of hot lead.
This little drama went on for several minutes. I knew all of my grub was safely stored, and maybe whatever it was had caught the aroma of my long-finished dinner.
Finally, my uninvited guest exhaled its way out of my camp and quietly made its way off into the brush. The next morning I looked for tracks, but the rocky ground didn’t reveal much.
It was not the first time I had a close encounter of the tense kind, and there was one common denominator in all of those situations. Always within reach was a fully loaded revolver, either a .357 Magnum or .41 Magnum, and so far, I’ve never had to use either in a defensive situation.
A few years back, after being awakened from a warm, comfy sleep in the back of my truck, I crawled out, got my stove running while keeping an eye on the truck which had parked only about 20 yards away with the motor running, even though at the time I was camped on top of a ridge in a rather large, old gravel pit with plenty of room for several degrees of separation.
The very first thing I did was strap on my sidearm because it is, at best, suspicious for one person to park so near another out in the wilds when doing so was completely unnecessary. My alertness only increased when this nimrod pulled ahead as if to block the forward movement of my truck, before stopping, getting out and moving toward me. At about six feet, I told this guy, “That’s close enough.”
He stopped, then remarked that he had come up here to watch the sunrise.
“Yeah, you can see it just as well from over there,” I observed, pointing to a spot about 50 yards away. He jumped back into his truck and motored down the road. Call me unsociable early in the morning, just do it via telephone from at least one ridge away.
Packing a handgun in the wilds has become second nature, having spent a considerable amount of time over the past 50 years in places some people wouldn’t want to be for any reason.
There have been times when I have seen bears rather close up, and a couple of occasions when I knew there was a mountain lion close by. One night a small herd of cattle wandered into my campsite way up on top of a mountain in Washington’s Okanogan County, and another time a band of elk nearly trampled me on opening day, but none of them had antlers.
The long and short of it is that one cannot predict what may come trotting around the corner, or be standing in the trail looking for trouble.
In the western mountains, there are plenty of things with teeth and claws, and they really don’t care if they put someone in the hospital or a morgue. They are, after all, wild animals. In their world, people are either nuisances or food.
The advantage of the revolver, as I’ve stated in the past, is that one only needs spare ammunition to keep it working. A semi-auto pistol requires a magazine, and if it gets lost or damaged, you’re in a bit of trouble unless there’s a spare.
‘Synthetic Bone’
The grips on my Model 57 Smiith & Wesson chambered in .41 Magnum switch back and forth between two different sets from Eagle Grips, both made from a material called Kirinite. It’s tough stuff described as “a durable, high-quality acrylic material.”
I noticed on social media a post appearing at the Barranti Leather Facebook site showing a McClain County, Oklahoma sheriff’s deputy carrying what appears to be an S&W revolver sporting a set of Eagle Kirinite grips with a pattern originally designed to resemble ivory.
However, one gent participating in the thread dubbed them “synthetic bone,” and I just happen to have a couple of sets with this pattern, both for N-frame Smiths, and I have a couple of them.
It was an interesting description, causing me to take a hard look at these grips, and sonofagun, they actually do look like polished bone.
I’ve had these grips on my sixgun in some interesting places, cold, comfortable and hot. They weren’t affected.
I had never heard of Kirinite until Eagle proprietor Raj Singh told me about the stuff a few years ago. After having them in the wilds, I’m convinced bowling balls could be made from this material, and they wouldn’t show a scratch. The set currently gracing my 4-inch S&W has a notch carved in the left panel, signifying the wounded mule deer buck I dispatched as it trotted away down in an eastern Washington coulee.
As a replacement grip, Kirinite can handle any environment, and whatever color they are, they make any wheelgun snazzy.
