Mike Sawyers | The most beautiful firearm ever

When I call my late, great-uncle Ben Posey of Lewis County, West Virginia, a hillbilly, I use that term lovingly, proudly.

You know how it works. People who share a common bond, whether it is place of origin or even allegiance to a certain athletic team, can use terms for each other that would be considered fighting words if uttered by someone outside the circle.

Because I’m papered (West Virginia birth certificate) and because of the love I have for my native state, if I call a West Virginia friend or relative a snake eater they know I’m paying them a compliment. PRO TIP — Don’t try that if you are from Pittsburgh and wearing a shirt that sports a picture of a panther.

Anyway, Uncle Ben gave me my first shotgun, a break-open, single-hot, Stevens 20 gauge. It was banged and dented and marred. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

I was in the 7th grade or so and only two digits were needed to describe my weight. That shotgun was extremely lightweight, I’d say 5 to 6 pounds. It had a steel butt plate and it kicked like a ticked-off mule.

We lived in Altoona, Pennsylvania, at the time and Dad would take me to shooting matches. The oldtimers soon learned that when I shot the scattergun it would make my hat fly off. One time it knocked me down.

“You better tie that hat on boy,” one of the adults would holler as others chuckled. But then they would buy me a soda pop and a hotdog with sauerkraut on it so the tradeoff wasn’t bad. But, it is true that the shotgun killed on one end and crippled on the other. That was confirmed by my constantly bruised shoulder.

The first thing I shot with the Stevens was a ruffed grouse. I was squirrel hunting with Dad and he was showing me how to walk through the woods making as little noise as possible when a grouse flushed and landed nearby in a tree.

“Shoot it,” Dad said, so I did.

A Wisconsin hunter walking behind a short-haired pointer and toting a $2,000 over/under that dropped a flying grouse at 30 yards could not have been any more proud of his accomplishment than I was when I limb-sluiced that ruff.

After that, many a squirrel fell from a tree after I pulled the trigger and then rubbed my shoulder.

By the time I was married, I had a Remington 870. That shotgun and the Stevens went to Utah with us when we moved west so I could attend college.

Unfortunately, I lost the shotgun to Utah’s Logan River. To read that story, see the chapter The Lost Shotgun in my book, Native Queen, a celebration of the hunting and fishing life. Thus, the old 20 gauge was activated.

I was not as efficient in harvesting game with the single shot as I was with the pump gun, but I managed to whack some geese, ducks, pheasants and even some doves one shot at a time.

I keep thinking that I should pull the Stevens out for a spring gobbler hunt. I’d have to discipline myself to take short shots, but it would be so very neat to add one more significant memory to the most beautiful firearm ever.