[ramonmark]

The story of the twin blondes.

Growing up my first hunting rifle was a semi-custom blonde in a 7mm Rem Mag. I believe it was a browning and it had a Beautiful blonde stock, it was called Birdseye walnut I believe? I’m not a wood guy, I’m probably wrong on that part. Anyways, dad and grandpa called it the Blonde. Dad would haller “did you clean that blonde, or, “have you practiced with your blonde lately?” Sometimes my friends would be present and when hearing this they’d give me a weird look which required explanation. To make things more confusing, my brother had one that was almost identical but it was chambered in a 280 express. His was also called the blonde. Quiet the imagination on the Oldman’s part.

A long time ago, before my father was even a thought in my grandfather's Mind, my grandfather was tasked to take a few ‘professional’ hunters on a hunt. These fellas had loads of cash and very expensive gear and they were after Dall sheep. Many people, both famous and regular joes used grandpas experience as he had hauled out quite a few trophies over the years. There was one guy, whom will remain nameless, was an up and coming famous American hunter and he had a huge chip on his shoulder. Whereas, the other fellas were a real pleasure to be around. I can’t remember if there were 3 or 4 guys. But as the story went 2 or 3 of these hunters got there prize over the course of their hunts and the only one left to get his sheep was the fella with a chip on his shoulder. The night before the last couple days of the hunt, this fella asked my grandpa to take him out as he was getting very frustrated with his luck.

The next morning grandpa left the other fellas and camp and the two of them flew to a little secluded lake he knew of.. Grandpa told this guy that he had only taken a handful of hunters into this area and each one of them left with a trophy. This guy seamed to cheer up a little on the inside but was still his pleasant self on the outside.

The two of them climbed up to a spot grandpa nick named ‘trophy ridge’ to glass for the sheep. Near the end of the day they spotted a brute of a sheep on the same hill they were on, but he was quite a bit higher than they were currently positioned. They decided to wait as the sheep appeared to be making his way down towards them. He would disappear behind rocks or bushes and appear a few minutes later but always at a closer distance. About 45mins later this sheep appeared broadside. And he was almost straight up. This fella asked grandpa what he though and he told him. “I’m guessing he’s around 400 yards away and it’ll be one hell of a shot, you’d be better off not to try as you’ll probably miss or worse yet wound it.” This guy was not impressed. He must have been used to people kissing his arse. He swore at grandpa and told him the sheep was maybe 200 yards away. Anyways, as this guy aims straight up and is getting ready to shoot grandpa mentions to him that he should be careful, his scope is awfully close to his brow and he might get a nasty bite. The guys said some more profanity and basically told grandpa to watch and see him take this sheep. He pulls the trigger and…. Miss. It was way under and hit a crap load of rocks on the ridge above them. The sheep disappears. Grandpa looks back at his companion and sees he’s holding his eye and a large amount of blood is pouring between the fingers clutched to his face. Grandpa just started to laugh, he couldn’t help it. This guy was giving grief to all the other hunters and he was just a pain in the neck to be around. Now this justice was served. Grandpa said he looked like Yosemite Sam jumping up and down on his hat after being fooled by the rabbit! This fella notices grandpa is laughing at him and before he can say anything a small rock about the size of a golf ball goes, PLOP, right in the middle of his head. This guy just stands there staring and very confused. Grandpa can’t take it anymore. He literally fell to the ground holding his stomach and starts to cry in a fit of tears.

After this whole fiasco is over they make their way back to the lake to depart. Grandpa helps bandage up this guy’s brow and head, then they start to load up there gear into the plane. This guy is still fuming. He hasn’t said one word to grandpa on the way down the mountain, not even when he was getting treated for his wounds. After all the gear was loaded up and they were preparing to push the plane off, grandpa noticed this hunter’s rifle leaning against a tree. He tells this guy, who is sitting in his seat pouting, his rifle is still one shore. This must have been the straw that broke the camel’s back. He jumps from his seat, trudges through the water and approached his rifle. He picks it up from the barrel and takes a swing at the tree and.. snap. He breaks the stock in half. Then he tosses the rifle and stock in the drink.

When grandpa and the other guys were preparing to leave one of the other successful hunters awarded my grandpa with a beautiful blonde rifle. My 7RM Blonde. My grandpa learns from over hearing the others talk, that the matching rifle was owned by the butt hurt fella, and it was supposedly dropped and lost down a cliff. Grandpa bit his lip and laughed to himself.

A few days later grandpa returned to that lake and after a lot of effort he fished that rifle out of the water. He sent that rifle to Grundmans gunsmithing in the states (I may have spelt that wrong, I still have the letters they sent back and forth somewhere) and had another beautiful blonde stock made for it. That rifle, the 280 Express Blonde, was given to my father to give to my younger brother when he was born. My brother caused my mom a lot of agony and pain during the labor, which turned into a c-section. He said he found it fitting to give a pain in the arse rifle to a pain in the arse baby.