Gran Hunting in Iowa

It was mostly my fault. When I think back on it, which is not often and I think you will come to understand why I would love to put it all out of my mind. It started (naturally) with my love of antique firearms. I am getting a bit ahead of myself so please let me set the stage for you. The story begins many years ago 1977 if I remember correctly. I was a couple of years out of college, had a good job and was beginning to amass my gun collection, of sorts.

One afternoon I was perusing the stock at my favorite gun shop when I spied the newest object of my affection. It was a Zulu single-shot .12 gauge shotgun. The Zulu was a unique gun made in the later half of the 1800s, the early years of the cartridge era. It had an iron barrel, a plain walnut stock, but the loading mechanism is what made the Zulu unique. The Zulu had a gigantic block behind the barrel that flipped to the side allowing one to load a shell. Pulling back the massive hammer, then pulling the trigger the hammer struck the firing pin in the loading block and Boom! Rotate the block, pull it back and the shell moved enough to allow extraction and a new load. The exact name for this loading mechanism is the Snider Conversion. Simple, fool proof, cheap.

The Zulus were converted from French 1857 muzzle loaded percussion muskets; then converted to breech-loaders by adding a Snider hinged action. They were sold to Belgian surplus dealers who cut down the stocks and bored the barrels smooth. Sold as cheap shotguns and named "Zulu" to invoke images of fierce warriors hunting in the wilds of South Africa they were exported and sold all over the world. They were especially good for immigrants moving into unsettled territories in places like the American frontier, Africa, and Australia as the Zulu was cheap to purchase and cheap to shoot. And the Zulu was practically indestructible.

Well this poor devil was quite the specimen. The stock had been broken and repaired with a copper sheet and nails. The barrel was shortened I suspect some one used the weapon as a club after their shot had been fired. Hmmnnn. Well I believe the price was well south of a hundred dollars so I ponied up the lucre and headed home. Knowing that these guns were from the muzzle-loading era meant that shells would need to be loaded with black powder. No problem. I scouted up some old paper hulls and set about hand loading some .12 gauge black powder loads. I didn’t have a good set of wads so I used newspaper and I under loaded the amount of powder to get more shot in each shell.

The next weekend I was home in Lenox, Ia and set out to do a little squirrel hunting with my Zulu. I found a promising place in the woods and took a seat. My vigil was soon rewarded when a squirrel perched on a log just a few feet from my hiding place. I raised the venerable old gun and fired. A plume of black smoke poured forth from the barrel. The squirrel did not even flinch. Not a hair was disturbed. This was a total hand loading failure. Back to the drawing board. I acquired some plastic shot cups, cut the amount of shot down and increased the amount of black powder. Now I had a real antique shooter on my hands.

Fast-forward a few years and another state. Karen and I were living in Kansas on 5.5 acres of hay ground. Spoiled husband that I was I had mounted a trap thrower in my back yard where I tested my shotguns. That fall I organized a pheasant hunt up in Iowa with several friends, old and new. There were two Ms and one Mr. X. The names are changed to protect the innocent and keep us from killing the guilty. Anyway Karen, X, and I made our way north from KC where M1 and M2 met us at my in-laws the Howlands. X as it turned out had never been pheasant hunting. Uh oh, my fault but it violated my first rule of safety… don’t hunt with a novice. That is also rule 2 through 10.

Saturday morning after one of Martha’s famous breakfasts the mighty hunters were off to chase the birds. It was a beautiful day and we had our fair share of good shooting. The only cause for concern came late in the afternoon when strung out in a line we were approaching the end of a nice piece of cover. I remarked to the group to be alert as the dog was showing “bird sign.” Which he did by moving his bobbed tail round and round like a propeller. X nonchalantly remarked that he “was ready his safety was off.” As a group M1, M2, and I stopped and in no uncertain terms instructed him in the proper way to hunt, which is NOT with the safety off. To be sure. No bird came up and no harm was done. The hunters finished the day and our nice walk made way for the feast that the Howlands always provided my hunting friends. Not to mention the few libations hoisted downtown after dinner.

On Sunday the weather turned nasty. It was cold, the wind was up, and an intermittent mist made walking miserable. I suggested a road hunt. This of course back when I was only a few years removed from my meat hunting days on the farm. I was not yet the Farquhar-dressing gentleman of the fields I would become in my later years. Here’s how it worked: M1 was driving his company car that day so he was in the drivers seat. Two hunters would relax in the back while the hunter up front had the gunner’s position.

I started out up front with my old Zulu because it had a short barrel and could be brought into action quickly. I have always had what my Dad called squirrel eyes, which meant I could spot game when no one else could see it. After a few turns around the back roads we had collected 3 nice rooster pheasants. It was time for X to ride shotgun. Literally.

X slid into the catbird seat and I sat right behind him so I could watch the ditches. M1 crept slowly down the road. The windows were down and the heater at full blast. Suddenly I spied a tail feather sticking out from under a thicket. “Stop!” I commanded in a stage whisper. “Back up about 30 feet. X do you see him? He is right below you in the ditch. Open your door slowly and swing your gun around.”

BOOM!

The gunshot inside the car sounded like a cannon on a battlefield. Each of the hunters jumped in terror. Silence filled the interior of the car along with a cloud of roiling black smoke. X, wearing heavy gloves, had tried to pull back the massive hammer on the Zulu while still inside the car. His thumb slipped and the gun fired. Oh God.

“Do you still have your foot?”

“Yeah the barrel was between my feet on the floor.”

“Oh my holy Jesus.” M1 and M2 were both in such shock they could not speak. Then it dawned on M1 that some fool had just shot a hole through his company car. Not cool. Needless to say that called an end to the day’s hunt. I exchanged places with X. I could see the gravel road through the neatly blown hole in the floorboard. The shot had missed body parts and also the gas line by mere inches. When M1 started the Torino back towards town the black powder flared up and began to burn. I poured hot cocoa on it and extinguished the sparks.

Back at the house the girls wanted to know “did you shoot anything?” “Sure 3 pheasants and a Gran Torino.” “Oh my God is everything alright?” “Well, the Torino ain’t that’s for darn sure.”

We pulled the wounded beast into the garage and I put my thinking cap on. I went under the seat and cut out a small square of carpet. M1 got under the Torino and pushed the metal back in place then I cut out the hole and over sewed the new piece in place. We threw the mat away and took one out of the back. Heck the boss never looks back there anyway. It looked as good as new. The powder smell would leave in awhile, I assured M1.

Rest assured we never hunted with X again. In fact I think X was cured of the hunting bug quite completely. I retired the old Zulu and a few years later I traded it for something else nearly as old. So you see looking back it was sort of my fault. I have always been relieved no one was injured and the damage to the car negligible. After the shooting of the Torino I have stuck to rules 1 through 10 assiduously. The thing is I never could find a good recipe for cooking a Gran Torino.