By Dave Workman
Editor-in-Chief
Several years ago, during an early fall black powder elk hunt, I was relaxing in my solo camp somewhere west of civilization in Washington’s northern Yakima County, pretty much right along the county line with neighboring Kittitas County, when a carload of interesting folks sort of slowly rolled up.
It was a nice afternoon, and I might have looked like easy pickins’ but when the driver watched me get up out of my camp chair, it was immediately obvious that his eyeballs locked on the big holstered Ruger Blackhawk on my side, within an inch or two of my palm. I stared at him and glanced at his passengers, who all seemed to simultaneously conclude that whatever they’d been thinking suddenly was not a very good idea. The car went into reverse, and a moment later my visitors were nothing more than a cloud of dust.
Funny part about it was that I got up intending to help the driver in the event he was lost or at least had taken the wrong turn, but when he backed up and beat a hasty departure, I concluded this might not have been a social visit.
Another time, the same sixgun was present when I happened to stop for a breather while hiking up a trail when another party of potential troublemakers—I could hear them coming from a distance—came round the bend and suddenly became very polite and quiet. They quietly nodded and soon faded away into the timber.
And there have been what most likely were completely innocent encounters with people in the outdoors who were just driving by and spotted a .45-caliber Ruger single-action sixgun hanging from my cartridge belt in a holster. Once asked by someone way back in my distance past why I was carrying a big hogleg, I cranked up the sarcasm a notch and asked, “Were you ever eaten by a bear?”
“Heavens, no,” was the reply.
“Neither was I,” was the comment that sort of ended the conversation.
For my entire adult life, I’ve known people who invariably were packing hardware as soon as they left the pavement. Before the advent of cellphones and bear spray, but well within the era of bad manners and drunken rowdies, the presence of a sidearm—especially a great, big Wyatt Earp-sized cannon that is impossible to not see—has been an almost 100% guaranteed deterrent to most unpleasantness.
Later this week, regular contributor Jim Dickson will be discussing the .45 Colt-chambered Anaconda he recently tested with an 8-inch barrel. A wheelgun like that is certainly strong medicine against problem bears, and my own Colt Python on the trail, stuffed full of .357 Magnum handloads, does elicit a certain degree of respect. Maybe Hollywood has had something to do with it, but whatever the situation, you’re ahead of the curve when only a few words are spoken with strangers.
I’ve hunted and camped alone much of my life. It’s not that I don’t like company—it’s actually fun to sit around the campfire and converse with pals—but I’ve only had a few really good hunting partners over the years. One of them is gone, another is stuck working in another state when deer seasons roll around, and it has simply worked out that way.
Whether your choice is a .357 Magnum, .44 Special, .44 Magnum, .41 Magnum, or a .45 Colt—single- or double-action—the presence of a good sixgun as a simple utility tool is a conclusion I reached in my teens. Fortunately, I’ve managed to accumulate several nice handguns of major calibers over the years and one of them always goes along for the ride.
On a couple of occasions, they’ve been instrumental in putting venison in the cooler. Another time, my Blackhawk provided the incentive to a coyote to find another part of the forest to prowl.
The wheelgun’s mystique is also part of the equation. Out where I live, the years have brought an increasing number of transplants from other parts of the country who simply haven’t been exposed to people who are armed in the woods. To some, it may seem menacing. To others it is simply unusual. To my longtime outdoors pals, it’s about as reflexive as putting on their pants and boots.
It probably just boils down to a desire to not be eaten or otherwise molested.
So far, so good!
