Months of anquish came to an end yesterday, via the U.S. Postal System. A weatherbeaten Pony Express rider slid to a stop outside my sod hut here on the lone prairie, reached into the saddle bag and produced a carefully wrapped package. It's contents? A new .30 cal. point die courtesy of Larry Blackmon.
As the saddle sore rider quickly scarfed down his plate of beans and a bisquit, I recounted my tale of woe to him. Several months ago I had dropped my point die, damaging the punch on the 'business end'....the part that bears against the base of the cored jacket as it's pushed into the point die. Unnoticed by me, the punch recieved a large nick. This was apparent as a transverse mark on the base of the bullets. I caught this after about 5 bullets were pointed, but it was too late. The impact causing the nick had also moved some metal to the outside of the punch, forming a lip that measured about .0004 (4 tenths). When the punch made it's way up the die on those first few bullets, this 'lip' made a nasty scratch in the die about .350 long. This scratch was apparent on each jacket.
Aaaaarrrggghhh!
Only the fact that all my rifles were either disassembled/ had no loaded ammo/ or a combination of the two prevented me from doing serious bodily injury to myself. I briefly considered using the scalpel I use to trim bedding, but figured if I didn't finish the job, Nancy would be pretty pissed at the mess I'd made and then I'd have other issues to deal with.
The Pony Express rider seemed oblivious to my plight, however. Instead, he recounted the treacherous ride he'd made all the way from the Cajun bayous with my precious package. Only a steady supply of fast horses and courage born of years of dodging trouble had kept him ahead of the Grim Reaper as he coursed steadily North West into The Forbidden Zone.
Now with his stomach filled and a new supply of pheasant jerky stowed in his hat, he and his steady steed veered due West. "I've got some 45 Long Colt ammo for a sodbuster near Wakpalla to deliver", he stated matter of factly. "Gotta go..the man's letter says he's got some varmint claim jumpers surroundin' him and that he's low on cat'ridges. And you know how dicey things get when you cross the Missouri breaks after dark." A quick slap of the reins and he and the hoss disappeared into the setting sun.
As I handled the new die, I reflected on a John Wayne line that pretty well summed up my predicament:
"Life is hard, son. It's even harder when you're stupid".
"Hi? Larry? Yes, this is Al Nyhus, Larry. Good..good. And you? Glad to hear it. Larry, I've got a little problem. See..I dropped my point die and the end of the punch got a small nick in it. Then what happened was......"
The Duke was right. -Al
As the saddle sore rider quickly scarfed down his plate of beans and a bisquit, I recounted my tale of woe to him. Several months ago I had dropped my point die, damaging the punch on the 'business end'....the part that bears against the base of the cored jacket as it's pushed into the point die. Unnoticed by me, the punch recieved a large nick. This was apparent as a transverse mark on the base of the bullets. I caught this after about 5 bullets were pointed, but it was too late. The impact causing the nick had also moved some metal to the outside of the punch, forming a lip that measured about .0004 (4 tenths). When the punch made it's way up the die on those first few bullets, this 'lip' made a nasty scratch in the die about .350 long. This scratch was apparent on each jacket.
Aaaaarrrggghhh!
Only the fact that all my rifles were either disassembled/ had no loaded ammo/ or a combination of the two prevented me from doing serious bodily injury to myself. I briefly considered using the scalpel I use to trim bedding, but figured if I didn't finish the job, Nancy would be pretty pissed at the mess I'd made and then I'd have other issues to deal with.
The Pony Express rider seemed oblivious to my plight, however. Instead, he recounted the treacherous ride he'd made all the way from the Cajun bayous with my precious package. Only a steady supply of fast horses and courage born of years of dodging trouble had kept him ahead of the Grim Reaper as he coursed steadily North West into The Forbidden Zone.
Now with his stomach filled and a new supply of pheasant jerky stowed in his hat, he and his steady steed veered due West. "I've got some 45 Long Colt ammo for a sodbuster near Wakpalla to deliver", he stated matter of factly. "Gotta go..the man's letter says he's got some varmint claim jumpers surroundin' him and that he's low on cat'ridges. And you know how dicey things get when you cross the Missouri breaks after dark." A quick slap of the reins and he and the hoss disappeared into the setting sun.
As I handled the new die, I reflected on a John Wayne line that pretty well summed up my predicament:
"Life is hard, son. It's even harder when you're stupid".
"Hi? Larry? Yes, this is Al Nyhus, Larry. Good..good. And you? Glad to hear it. Larry, I've got a little problem. See..I dropped my point die and the end of the punch got a small nick in it. Then what happened was......"
The Duke was right. -Al