My oldest friend...

When we were giving all of our pictures and stuff to the wedding video people, Nicole looked at our respective piles of pictures and said, "Sweetie, look how many more friends I have than you." After faking some pain, we both had a good laugh. Having moved around frequently when I was very young, and moving in to Orderville when I was 11 (after everyone in my class had been in the same class since kindergarten), I never had very many close friends. After a couple of years I reached a point where I got along really well with most everyone in my class and school, but most of those relationships effectively ended when I left for the Army and later for my mission. Even after my mission, close friendships have been few and far between, and 2 of my 3 best friends (Dave Yates and Kari Lorimer) I've had since my mission I have all but lost touch with (I'm married to the other one). So this blog post is about my oldest best friend.


We met when I was 17 or 18. We spent countless hours together on hills overlooking sage flats, watching hay fields over the hood of my truck, and in untold other places around south-western Utah. His name is Thumper. He is a Savage 112-BVSS with a Sightron 6-24x target/varmint scope and a Harris bipod. My dad actually bought him at the same time I bought a .220 Swift, but I traded/bought him from my dad a year or so later. He's a pretty impressive guy: He can make a heck of a dent in a half-inch steel silhouette from 500 yards; his 168 grain, hollow-point, boat-tail match bullets are steady enough to poke holes in a person-sized box 1400 yards away unless the wind is blowing fairly hard; he inspires spectacular aerobatics from varmints as far away as you can hit them; and he always does exactly what you expect him to do. These qualities make it much easier to get used to the extra weight in that big fat barrel, heavy target stock, and long scope. In fact, I never really minded the extra weight when considering the benefits.


We don't spend as much time together as we used to, but we're still very close. Every time I settle in behind the scope, it's just like it always has been. There's a comforting feeling to the thickness of the grip, the numerous nicks and scratches in the finish from our adventures, and the solid feel of the butt-stock against my shoulder. The image through the scope is always crystal clear, bringing things up close and personal. By up close and personal, I mean really close: my dad and I used to shoot the tacks out of our targets when we were finished shooting for the day. Up to 300 yards, we challenged each other to call our shots precisely. Even the box with a shirt on it that we set up 1400 yards away was identifiable with the magnification turned all the way up to 24x. The click adjustments on the target/varmint knobs on the scope always move the point of impact exactly where I expect them to. The trigger always breaks cleanly just where it always did, with just a touch of surprise, in that half-held breath when the cross-hairs are still.

I learned a lot from Thumper. Hours of sitting behind his scope waiting for woodchucks, squirrels, and other hay-eating varmints to come out of their holes taught me patience. Hundreds of rounds of a solid kick in the shoulder taught me to hold steady even when you know something is going to be uncomfortable or even painful. Those same hours helped me create a close bond with my dad as well. So, despite the fact that all of my other guns have been sold or traded, I can never part with Thumper. He may be joined by a handgun or two again in the future, and another fat-barrelled gun or two, but he is still, and hopefully always will be, my oldest friend.