Somehow, more than ten years has gone by since we had the second installment in this series. With a multitude of requests for another go-round, I am more than happy to oblige. We’ve had some interesting new developments in the cartridges world in the last decade, and there are some classic which are still being championed. So, with tongue planted firmly in cheek, I present Part III of What Your Favorite Cartridge Says About You.
The .22 Long Rifle
What is wrong with this world? People are fighting over terms like Ballistic Coefficient, shoulder angle, bonded core and other such silliness. Guys walking around with ammo holders on the rifles, and even wearing extra belts just to hold some ridiculously huge cartridges (what’s with that?). We all know that whether revolver, pistol or rifle, we grab the same ammunition nearly every day of the year: a 40-grain bullet at somewhere just above 1,200 fps. Feeling spicy? Grab them Stangers. Headache? Please pass the subsonics. But please spare me all the magnum nonsense. And just who the hell is the Creedmoor chick the kids are babbling about? Now get outta my way, I'm going squirrel hunting.
The .257 Weatherby Magnum
You are favorite son of a highly competitive family, and though most of the family is larger than you, you’re a scrapper. Apparently, no one told you that you should stick to pronghorn antelope, whitetails and mulies—you just keep killing stuff, no matter how much the other kids poke fun at your round shoulders and big fat belt. Listen, you clearly remember the 1940s when the biggest concerns on the playground were the .250-3000 Savage and the .257 Roberts, and when that .25-06 punk showed up at school. And now they think you'll back down from the .25 Creedmoor? Or you might tremble at the sight of your great-nephew—that new RPM kid? No sir, you were the apple of Roy’s eye, and you have no problem using performance-enhancing tools like monometal bullets to stay competitive. Yes, despite the fact that you’ve celebrated your 80th birthday, and attempted to legally change your name to Mike Dickerson, you still remain one of the best sellers in the lineup. Here’s to many more years of service, sir.
The .25 WSSM
You were cool once. You’re absolutely certain of this. You were the topic of magazine articles, you went to parties, hell, you were even on television. Now, things have changed. You don’t get invited to anything anymore, people ignore you on the street, and your parents no longer wish to speak to you, or even speak of you. You feel abandoned; while all your old friends now prattle on about how the quarter-bores are coming back, no one told you that you’d left. You call your own phone twice a week to make sure it works. Even your younger siblings seem to have forgotten you exist. Maybe it’s because you’re so short …
The 7mm PRC
You sir, were built to perform. Yes, you were born into a highly competitive situation, but you burst on the scene and showed the world how the game was supposed to be played. You don’t need a rim, or a belt, and you certainly don’t need to have the title of magnum in your name; the other folks know what you can do without needing to declare it. Sit down, kids, this is how it’s done. You’ve got the goods: a proper twist rate, plenty of case capacity, bullet weight and you’re wonderfully efficient. When you show up at the range, you make others nervous. No matter, you just keep on reachin’ out to touch someone. Whether it’s 1,000-yard steel, a bull elk across a canyon, or bear over bait—you’ve got this. Remington? Never heard of her.
The 6.5 Creedmoor
You’ve finally come into your own, and despite the naysayers and non-believers, that man bun really does look cool. When it comes to getting the job done, you roll up your sleeves to show off your sweet tribal tattoos, turn your straight-brimmed ball cap backward, crank up the Kenny G and send another 140-grain ELD-X to victory. Deer fall over dead just knowing you’re in the stand, and steel starts ringing before the mag is even loaded. Who needs magnum recoil, when you can kill out to a mile by just pointing the rifle in the general vicinity of the target? Forget those who’ve moved to the PRCs, you know you’re going to hang on forever, just like Boy George & Culture Club. Fly your freak flag and dance like no one is watching, unless it’s Richard Simmons.
The .404 Jeffery
You are sadly aware of the many injustices in this world, as you listen to the .375 H&H boast about being so universal and readily available, and to the .458 Win. Mag. claim to be the quintessential stopper. You sit at the back of the room, reserved and quiet, sipping your gin and tonic, knowing who’s done what. While that Rigby fellow in his pressed safari jacket is telling anyone who’ll listen about his resume, you wipe the bottom of your glass on your field-stained khakis—we don’t want to leave a ring on the bar—and nod for a refill. After all, you’d done the lion’s share of game control work, while others got the glory in print. Even that Rigby chap needed a lifeline from the cheeky Ruark, all the while you made it on your merits. And these days, you can deliver the goods even better than you did back in 1905. Your shoulder may be slight, and you don’t have the big, bad belt, but you are slick. Yeah, you sport a five-o’clock shadow, and you might not own a tuxedo, but you’ve got it where it counts, sir.
360 Buckhammer
You are the new Lord of the Levers, or so the boss told you. It has been rather confusing, though, as the other rimmed cartridges are sneering at you, and the .35 Remington won’t even make eye contact. You’ve forgiven the .30-30 Winchester for the atomic wedgie, and you’re still grateful that they didn’t do to you what they did to the 350 Legend (that wasn’t pretty). It’s okay, because you’ve got that sweet last name, and though the .348 Winchester insists your next hunt is on Brokeback Mountain (you still can’t find the directions), you’re just happy to be in the big leagues. Just watch out for the .45-70; he doesn’t play nicely with others.
The 6.8 Western
Born into a seriously competitive family, you take no lip from anyone. Your siblings fill the traditional roles—the eldest is the star, the chosen one, and the middle kid is completely lost—while you are the wild child. You can do things your brothers can’t, and your individuality shines so hard you even took a different stage name: ‘Western’. The family resemblance is surely there, but you bring a whole different skill set, breaking the time-honored rules. You’ve been scorned for even trying to tread on your older brother’s territory, but hey, he can’t do what you can do. Yes, family functions are awkward, and you’ve been blamed for some nasty stuff (it was definitely not you who wrote “Jack O’Connor sits to pee” in the driveway), but you don’t care—you will carve your own place in history.
The .220 Swift
Like a Rolex watch, you are timeless, even if you are admittedly from an era long past. As you dial the AM radio in the Bel Air for a clearer reception of Elvis’ ‘Baby Let’s Play House’, you reminisce about a simpler world, where you were one of the initial offerings in the new-fangled Winchester Model 70. Your slicked-back hair is now white, but your wrenches are all neatly arranged on the pegboard. You own a Nokia flip phone. You own lead additive for your gasoline. And you know what each glass jar of screws contains. These young punks talk about velocity until they’re blue in the face, as you snicker into your turtleneck, knowing you damned near invented high velocity. Throats and barrels be damned, you are proud of your name and legacy.
The 9.3x62 Mauser
You wear your Teutonic roots as a badge of honor, thoroughly convinced that all of those silly British cartridges are unnecessary. After all, you have taken every species of African game ever to walk the continent, all the while fitting neatly in the Mauser 98 rifle. The infuriating comparisons to the .375 H&H Magnum are enough to make you sick. Don’t they appreciate the fact that you get the same job done with one more cartridge in the magazine, and a considerable drop in recoil? “Shot placement is key”, after all; you’ve got that inspirational little quote in a frame atop your shrine to Otto Bock. For 120 years you’ve been proving that point all over German East Afr … that is, Tanzania, putting nyama on the table and offering a do-all package that nearly any hunter can use accurately. Every measurement in your life uses the metric system, as the hot mess that is the Imperial cartridge naming system is a waste of valuable time. Dankeschön und waidmannsheil, Herr Bock; and please pass me another kölsch.
