This Place Ain't For Everybody

In all the years I've been here, from 1972 until this present day-----through four active duty tours here, I have never met ANYBODY who was "middle of the road" about Mountain Home. People either LIKE it or HATE it. Nothing in-between.

I liked the duty here from '72-'74, but my wife didn't like the small-town atmosphere. She always longed for the big city lights and glamour and after a couple of years here, she decided to "go back home to mama." I moved into the barracks, and just stayed busy of course, threw myself into my music in my off-duty time, and played softball for Supply Squadron.

I loved to just "kick around" out in the sagebrush on Saturday mornings and chase jackrabbits and coyotes. When we first got here, the only gun I had was that big Ruger 44 Magnum revolver, which isn't ideal for hunting, and an old 7mm German Mauser for deer hunting. I needed something to hunt rabbits with, and one day while I was browsing around the old Gem State Sporting Goods Store, I spotted a brand new Winchester Model 320 bolt action 22 rifle, (it shot from a 5-round magazine). Had a Weaver V-22 mounted on it, and I was in business.

That was in 1973, and to THIS DAY, I've not had a 22 rifle that shot as well as THIS one did.........I was convinced it had to be what we call a "First-cut" barrel. Now, for those of you out there not deeply versed in firearms.....................

When you look down the bore of a rifle or pistol, you'll see grooves cut in a spiral. This is to put a "twist" on the bullet, giving it speed, stability and accuracy, (like when a quarterback makes a pass, watch that football do the same thing). Gun manufacturers use a special cutting die to CUT those "lands and grooves", but the die "wears down" a little with the completion of each barrel, and so the dies are changed out about every dozen barrels or so.

By the time that die has cut it's 12th barrel or so, accuracy will still be "acceptable", but not as good as in the beginning of the run. Those grooves will not be as sharp and crisp. To the naked eye, they ALL look good, though-----and they ARE.......but obviously, the earlier cut, the better. There is no way to tell, even by the serial number. That's why you can have two identical guns......even CONSEQUTIVE SERIAL NUMBERS..........and the 2 guns won't shoot alike.

Anyway...........this little 22 would take down jackrabbits at virtually any distance, and it didn't seem to matter what brand of ammo either. The consistency was phenominal! Had there been a way to verify it, I'd have bet MONEY it was a "first-cut-barrel."

But I needed that money to hire a lawyer during the divorce. There were some unexpected bills that seemed to pop up out of nowhere, and I had to sell off a few things, INCLUDING that little 22. Afterward, when I got my head above water again, I looked up the guy I'd sold the gun to and offered to buy it back. NO WAY. He'd been out shooting it, and when HE'D discovered how well it shot--------well, it just wasn't for "re-sale."

My first impulse was to go find another Model 320, but the way MY luck had been running lately, I'd probably get one with a 9th or 10th cut barrel...................which is STILL "within factory specs"---------(if the guns don't meet certain standards, they'll shoot poorly and, people won't buy your brand anymore). But I KNEW that my old 320 was an early-cut and THAT's the one I wanted!

Wasn't gonna happen.

In the fall of '74, I went deer hunting with a couple of guys I worked with in Supply, Marv Wimmer and Steve Aggerholm. I was packing that old Mauser I'd bought back in Tacoma, and we went 5 or 6 miles above Paradise Lodge, just south of Featherville. We'd spread out, about 100 yards apart, but still keeping each other in sight. I was walking along a shelf, Steve & Marv were further down below, and you know how sometimes you "feel" like you're being watched???.........

There he was....no more than 30 yards to my right, standing on a big rock, the most beautiful cougar you'd ever want to see! Well..............what do I do?........

I haven't got a cat tag, if I shoot him "just to shoot him", some game warden's gonna hang me out to dry.........(not that we HAVE any of them like that around here!.......) The shot would ALSO spook any deer that might be in the area, and that IS what we came to hunt!

On the other hand, I ain't turning my BACK on this dude, either! If he COMES for me, the bullet hole will enter through the FRONT of his body and I can claim "self-defense."

So, for the next minute or so, we just stood there and stared at each other at 30 yards. Then........I guess he didn't think I was worth any effort, he turned away and started up the ravine.....STOPPING every few yards to check on ME. Then he'd turn and put some more distance between us. This went on for a good 15 minutes or so until he was over the hill and out of sight.

I eased the Mauser out of my shoulder------thumb still on the safety...........wow, what a beautiful animal! I was glad I didn't have to shoot him. BUT........I wasn't gonna hang around HERE any longer either, in case he decided to double back. I scooted back down the hill and rejoined my buddies.

Freshly divorced, I needed to breathe some new air if I could, and had put in for an overseas tour. Just before the fall deer season, I'd gotten an assignment for an 18-month tour in Italy. This would be good, and I think it's only natural to want to break away from everything and everybody. She had custody of our son, of course, as they almost always do, I'd had a child support allotment going, and there was nothing left to keep me HERE. Italy sounded good. ANYTHING sounded good right now.

I had to re-elist though........in order to have enough time to TAKE the assignment. No problem, and I got a re-up bonus to boot-----enough to buy a beautiful new Gibson Hummingbird guitar, a Colt Python (357 Magnum), and some spending money. As the winter of '74 came on, I worked my job, partied a little after hours, and practiced a lot of music in my barracks room.

That Gibson and I got real close on a lot of nights when it seemed like nobody in the world care what happened to you. That instrument was therapy. Still IS sometimes. Even today, when I'm playing alone, or in public, the world around me disappears. When I'm hunched over the neck and my fingers are on the strings, I don't know what day it is, what town I'm living in, where I might have to be tomorrow, it just isn't important until after the show or the jam session is over. Looking back over my entire life, learning to play music was one of the smartest things I've ever done.

I was also very intrigued about this upcoming overseas assignment to San Vito Air Station, Italy. It required a Top Secret Clearance, which took about three months. I'd never seen anything like it!..........the paperwork I had to fill out, asked me EVERYTHING.........STREET ADDRESSES where you lived from BIRTH!...........Man....you can't remember all that.

I called mom & dad long distance, and even THEY couldn't remember exact house numbers from that far back........so when I didn't know for SURE, I'd make as accurate a guess as I could.

When I finally got the clearance, I got the paperwork back and they had CORRECTED my "guesswork"............When I was 6 years old, we lived at 3602 San Bruno Ave in San Francisco, and our landlady's name was Mrs Gomez, and a year or so PRIOR to that, I'd had my tonsils taken out at St. Mary's Hospital.......

I DIDN'T KNOW THAT..........and it made me mad that I'd had to jump through all those hoops trying to provide them with as much info as I could----------and they were gonna just dig it all up ANYWAY!

I never needed any sort of "Top Secret" clearance in the Marines..............what in the heck was I gonna be DOING in Italy? I guess I'd find out in January!

December of 74, found me driving out the snowy gates of Mountain Home for what I THOUGHT would be the last time. I was taking a 30-day leave before heading for Italy. I'd be driving to mom & dad's, in Medford, Oregon, leaving my car and some other things there until I got back from overseas.

I stopped at the Mobil station, topped the tank in my '68 Ford Torino, said goodbye to the station owner, Raleigh Tyndall, and headed west. It would be an interesting trip, and I would SERIOUSLY unholster my pistol, for the first time as a civilian, before I got there.