One may ask how it has come about that men’s rifles, both sporting and combat, have been given feminine names. To me, to give them anything but a woman’s name would be absurd. Why is this? Because rifles embody women in every aspect. They come in all shapes and sizes, in differing worth, and in varying degrees of utility. But all of this doesn’t really mean anything. The real reason is that a man can fall in love with a rifle, just as he would a woman. This process (for either rifle or woman) very rarely makes any sense at all. I would contend that there exists not only a perfect female companion for each man, but a perfect arm for him as well. Obviously, tastes vary. Some men don’t mind the rough-edges of a woman who barks loudly, drinks too much, but is always there when the nightfall comes. These men buy Mosin-Nagants, or Kalashnikovs. Then again, there are men that don’t mind if a woman does anything but look stunning; even if she takes all that he has, won’t do anything he would like and stays at home more often than not—just as long as she is the hottest thing in the neighborhood. These are the men that purchase Blasers.
Women and rifles both evoke the most fundamental desires of men. To be free, to share experiences, to behold beauty, to connect. Who has more tales? The wife that lived through the Dust Bowl years and wears the sands of time like haggard jewelry or the Winchester 1894 that rode lovingly in the scabbard of some gaunt Texas Ranger? To be frank, it really doesn’t even matter about appearance, function or value. It is in the minutiae that we find rapture: a crooked smile, a shy glance, a wood-grain, the deep blue of polished steel (or her eyes). When a man ignites a rifle, the rifle ignites the man. The same goes for women. Even a painful retaliation (recoil or revenge) is received with open arms. Rifles, like women, are not always joyful though. Some are cold, distant, and impossible to relate to. These rifles (women) serve their own purpose, not to act at the behest of men. Far too often we love them anyways.
It is also true that most men do not know what they want or need in a companion. Perhaps it would be easier to decide on a rifle? Maybe that is the way to find your soul-mate in the first place. Decide on a rifle; then apply it to life! I sound pretty absurd, I admit. But, in this gun-nut/everything-is-interconnected mind of mine it actually makes sense. I personally have been trying to decide on a rifle for quite some time unsuccessfully. What does that say about me? I am getting better though. Let’s break my choice down to the fundamentals.
Form over function, but not taken too far; I would like a rifle with good aesthetic appeal that still gets the job done, but it doesn’t have to be a tack-driver.
Classic lines; I want something that bespeaks the days of yore, with taste, panache and a good degree of refinement. I can live without the modern contrivances that make everyone else’s head turn.
Walnut and blued steel; again tradition reigns supreme (there is a reason why it is classic). Who needs stainless steel and synthetics when you can take care of a classic and it will look twice as good?
High caliber; I want a rifle in a caliber that is powerful enough to do anything, whether it be taking down a Cape buffalo or grizzly, but not so powerful that it trounces me every time I set it off.
Much to the chagrin of my fellow gun-nut buddies I have pretty much decided on the Ruger No.1 Medium Sporter in 9.3 x 74R. This drives my buddy Andy crazy. Why? Because wearing a pink tutu to a job interview would be more practical. The rifle is a single-shot, which means you have to be absolutely certain of your first shot. It is also composed of walnut and blued steel; beautiful, but not necessarily resistant to adverse climes. But is so perfect! It is unbelievably handy and is light enough to go with you all day without it weighing you down. 9.3 x74R is an ancient caliber created by the Germans around 1910 to give their settlers something sufficient to deal with the fauna of the newly colonized African scene. The final world here is nostalgia. I am sucker for the whisperings of colonial Africa; of pith helmets, campfires, thorn-bush fences, and khaki. The Farquharson styling of the Ruger No. 1 and the Alexander Henry fore-end are simply too much for me to take!
I am reminded of the young British soldier sludging through the trenches of WWII, the American boy sweltering in heat of Vietnam, and the mujahideen hiding from a Hind behind a boulder. They all had girls, and they all had rifles. The Lee-Enfield named Mary. The AR-15 named Susan. The AK-47 named Badria. What shall I name my rifle and what adventures will we undertake? If I decide on your name I will let you shoot her!
