TH208 Scope Cam Hunting

Got this after going out 'hunting' straight after getting in from work at 17:00.

Didn't get to eat. (See vid) 

Some woman brought her dog for walkies right in front of the warren I'd been sitting at for 2 hours (turns out she's the landowners horse training assistant). 

 The only shot I got was this one an hour later, 

5x Magnification, he emerged slightly closer than the lasered 10 yard marker making him about 8 yards away. The shot should have impacted just below the crosshairs into the heart/lung region. That scoot he did was adrenaline before the lungs gave out of course, he expired behind nettles, thistles and an impenetrable barbed wire fence.
I should have gone for a Head shot as I always do but I was unsure of the lightweight Thunderbolt Pellets and penetration so elected for the softer tissue. The state of my metal funnel pellet trap should have assured me they were more than up for the job.

Self Reliant Airgunning - Pellet Production

It has been the one bug bear of mine. That little niggle about airgunning. The tie that keeps me reliant on the world of money and the marketplace.
I speak of ammunition, its consumption and its loss.
We use a lot of pellets!
Accuracy demands that each pellet is near identical in shape and weight, and soft (for the rifling). Killing cleanly requires the material, after accuracy is obtained, to still pack a punch, thus a metal is deemed best.
It is therefore safe to say this means a man in the woods cannot extract or find the materials from the surroundings without mining the ore (if it even exists locally), smelting, casting, moulding, and swaging.
Unfortunately, if one is to stay safe from harassment, bow hunting, despite its 'renewable' ammo, is not an option on this island of ours, and catapults firing stones that are rarely uniform is a challenge I have yet to master.

On and off I researched various methods of banging out homemade ammo, but none were acceptable;

Corbin Pellet Presses and Swaging dies -Too expensive, too bulky and hardly cost effective to have shipped from the US of A.

L.E.M Spitzer moulds - poor accuracy results, becoming rare, none found in .177, production long ceased.

But lo! Whilst browsing for airgun bargains I came across an advert for a product aptly named "Airgun Pellet Maker". A chap had knocked up a prototype and posted a video of it on YouTube (I remember seeing it when it was first posted). He finally bowed to demand and has begun manufacturing them for sale.
He also lived locally so I popped across and we did a deal on a set. One .22 swager, one .177 swager and a dual calibre casting block.

That was on a Monday when the weather was poor and work was called off. I didn't get an opportunity to play until yesterday.

I was gifted some blanks to press and play with so I thought I'd do those and see what sort of weight the products were and their consistency on my new junkie scales bought for the job. Each were on the dot identical.

.177;

.22;

Now being as I'm using a springer, I've turned the weight of the .22s down to 18.4gr. The .177 I'm happy with as I want the punch.
The measurements include the tail flair, each fit beautifully in the barrels of the TX200 and TH208.



Pics of my play time.

Casting Block and eBay Lead Ladle;

The Blanks;

The Melting Pot;

The Finished Pellets;

The 'Workstation';

The lead was obtained from the old roof of this house I'm working on. The swager is to the right of the casting block seen in two parts. I intend to do a bit of a review of it with better pics outlining the method and process.

First test through the tx200 .177 10 yards.

Those two flyers, I think, were me tweaking the scope, zeroing as I went, and experimenting with holds. I was pretty impressed

Melting the old lead In a pellet tin on an old SMA Dried Milk Can using charcoal made in the woodburner;

Ran out of charcoal and had to use wood. I needed more oomph so...;

The process is alot of fun. Not everyone's cup of tea, but for me the value is more in the capability. Both the ability of recycling my shot, and forming it.

Hoorah!

Now to find the lead mine....

The Hunter's Chronicles - Monday 9th July 2012

It is said 'seeing is believing'. The cloudless sky was such a sight today. I took many photographs, if only to remind myself in the coming days that whilst to us Earth bound mortals it may be raining, one need only to rise high enough to know that no matter how grey the day, behind and above it is always radiant warmth and endless blue sky. This glimpse would be most valued, so I wished it preserved lest the memory fade.

I had no intention of making hay, but I certainly wished to make the most of the Sun shining clear and unobstructed.
Into the ancient woodland I strode, ingesting the sights, sounds and spirits that danced before and around me. (Whilst the rains have brought a bumper crop of Psilocybin mushrooms this year, those I do not, and did not, ingest I can assure you).

The omens were good as I left the path, I had just knelt, when a flash of a rabbit bolting for cover was caught  in my peripheral vision. A most fruitful part of the woodland to be sure. Indeed one only needed to keep his attention and eyes open before fruits were literally uncovered.

Wild Strawberries though rather tart, are in my opinion still very pleasant, and encouragingly prevalent here. It would appear if my potatoes and peas finally succumb to the onslaught from the sky, my family may yet dine on meat, mushrooms and strawberries!

I emerged from the bracken and leaned my head through the hedgerow and just over the fence in order to view what may be dining in the shortest patches of grass. Nothing within range, but at least four currys and stews were nibbling over 100 yards away. I elected to remain in my cover rather than stalk. My late evening energy levels being one factor, the prevailing wind another. My approach would also be risky. To do so back through the woods would require enormous concentration so as not to emit an audible warning, to hop the fence and approach would require equal skill in not providing a visual warning.

Put simply, I couldn't be arsed.

My right eye watered. My vision blurred. Nothing moved. The Sun dipped below the horizon and the yonder currys and stews evaporated with it.

Poo.

I began to calculate when I should break both my cover and the endeavour. Then something moved quickly to my front. In a flash, a Vindaloo zipped from the hedgerow at top speed out into the field. He passed within yards of my position but my goodness he was not going to stop. An errant canine and his jingly collar loped around and soon faded back into the trees.

I just about had enough. Rather than creep back through the obstacles and pointy things in the woods I clambered gingerly over the barbed wire fence and plonked my backside down. A welcome change from the hour spent standing.
My eyes and attention drifted to my phone as I communicated my bad luck. When I glanced up, I was being watched. Perhaps I had been observed for longer than I knew because the Madras had seen enough and promptly disappeared. This produced another flurry of verbalised angst, but it was too hasty. Again, I raised my eyes. The Madras was back. I swiftly and silently raised my weapon and calmly gathered myself.
I knew this would be my only and best shot. I adhered to the marksmanship principles to the letter, and got my reward.

Death was delivered speedily and precisely. In the back of the head between the ears and out to the front behind the eye.

Massaged and bagged. Patak's friend and I sauntered home along the old drovers road that runs through the trees. It is an exceptionally old track. My mind was transported to times past when a traveller along this same road at this very hour would have quite possibly been seen as nothing short of a suicidal fool. My memory conjured the many legends that surround this place.
The hangman who once plied his trade at this junction (the custom and rationale being that the spirit of the victim would forever wander the earth lost and confused between this and the afterlife).
One dark night he was summoned to execute two whimpering, pathetic beings. The first was dispatched swiftly, the night being unpleasant and the hangman keen to return to the warmth of his bed, his skilled and practised hands made short work of the deed in the darkness. The second struggled and fought, scratching at him, begging, imploring him to stay his hand, but it was to no avail.
Curious as to why this one was so keen to live, the hangman, despite the inclement weather and driving rain, paused to lift the hood. The light of his lantern revealed his deepest, darkest, fear to be brutal and plain reality. The second victim who's life he had so swiftly ended... was his only son.
The hangman, mad with grief, returned to his cottage, drove a spike in the wall and turned the noose upon himself. It is said the cottage still remains, one wall still standing and from it, high towards the top, protrudes the nail.

The other legends I will tell, another time.

Thankfully I arrived home safely and in one peice, though it was touch and go as the mud nearly claimed my welly!

The Hunter's Chronicles - Thursday 4th July 2012

Aesop's fable of The Wind and The Sun was a fitting way of describing the weather and I this day.

The Sun smiled just long enough to tempt me out to prowl with visions of hungry quarry eagerly filling their bellies and, like I, making the most of the warmth.

Having changed both my gun and ammunition, a re-zeroing session was in order.

As a rest, I use my rucksack gamebag stuffed with the gunslip and angled on its side (it has a stiff back pad). This allows for some absorption of recoil as well as accuracy ordinarily derived from the use of a bipod. The dark green colour of the bag also breaks up my profile and aids camouflage when I stake out a potentially fruitful spot.

The breeze was gentle but at times grew strong enough for me to need to time my shots with the lulls. I got the scope near where I wanted it, then glanced down the valley to my left.

You could see the rain rolling in. Whilst not the best news, I still enjoy the build up and the visual progress as it hunts me down. A fun game as a kid was to attempt to outrun the cloud and try to dodge its bombs until you collapsed in a sodden giggling heap alongside your chum, or dived under a tree shaking your fist at the sky with a triumphant "Better luck next time!"

I elected the latter course, minus the taunt.

Without fancy scope covers, I improvised.

The shower passed, but now I had a cold patch of mud upon which to lie, dirt invariably smeared the beautiful woodwork of the TX200 despite my best efforts to keep my mitts clean.
The wind had strengthened and was now without the pauses. Rather than achieve my desired groupings, I settled for hitting a milk bottle top consistently at 35 yards.

It was now between 15:30 and 16:00, too early for rabbits I knew, but rabbits weren't what I wished to add to tonights menu. I was after my elusive feathered friend Mr Pujin.

The trees I had in mind were two fields over. In no rush and enjoying my freedom, I took my time to take it all in and savour the experience. With the temperament of the Gods recently, who knows when another opportunity might present itself?

In retrospect; I should've legged it.

The first cloudburst was another shower I weathered under a dense hedge and tree. I couldn't be sure if another was heading my way due to a mist that hung above the village and decided to chance it.
I paid dearly for my mistake.
I got caught without cover. I huddled into a hedge only to have drips down my neck, then arms and as my hat became saturated, the peak. I had to move. I then completed my unwanted bath by wading through knee high grass as I hurried to the shelter of a large beech. This soaked my trousers and the water travelled down my wellingtons and made itself at home in my socks. I stayed put weighing up my options. I could jack it in and go home, I was wet but not quite sodden, which I would be if I walked back in this rain. The rain could pass, or remain.
My answer came as the rain slackened visibly and audibly ten minutes or so later. I pressed on and arrived at my usual hiding place. This bush would not provide the required waterproof shelter should another strong downpour surprise me and it was coming back now with no sign of abating.
I again pressed myself against the broad trunk of a large tree. This time an Ash clothed in Ivy. Aside from the odd drip I was safe and dry.
After what seemed like a damn long time, the rain finally passed. I tentatively emerged and clambered up a hill that brought me almost level to the tree favoured by the pigeons. Range, a perfect 35 yards. The one beyond, 45 yards.

Three buzzards now circled, one landed to bask in the sun as the clouds parted. I used him to test the digital zoom on my new camera.

Pigeons, crows, magpies, ducks and the trio of very vocal buzzards took to the skies.

Three pigeons landed in the target trees. All behind cover. None looked likely to ever move into an exposed position.
It was a good enough chance to tempt me out stalking. I attempted a head shot, but having advanced down the hill, the angle was approx 72 degrees which made it hard to keep the rifle steady on the shoulder as well as contending with the change to the POI. I hit a branch and scared them all off.

I did what I could. Changed positions. No Joy.
Returned to my previous vantage point and after a very long time and one fleeting opportunity, a pigeon presented itself. Back facing me, I put the duplex reticle between his shoulder blades, took my time, and fired. He fluttered, hit a few branches then glided/dived to the floor and hit the deck hard. Hooray!
No. Wait. He picked himself up and flew off.
I was gobsmacked.
Still wet as a fish, here I was 4 hours after I began, with nothing but a skidmark for my efforts.

 I did march towards the tree the pigeon escaped to, but he comfortably flew away, seemingly unharmed.

I waited under that pigeon forsaken tree until 21:00. Sadly and slowly I wandered home.

All appeared to be having far better fortune than I. Ever hopeful, I kept my wits about me. A good thing too as approximately 20 yards to my front, by the woods that border 'zeroing' field, a pair of ears and a rump were feeding!
I levelled my rifle and aimed right at the head without lasering it. DUNCK! Too high. Now here's where I should have suspected something. I did, but incorrectly thinking him to be an inexperienced Kit. The rabbit hunkered down rather than bolt. I reloaded purposefully and aimed again giving it a half inch hold under. He didn't respond to my squeaks, but eventually rose his head just enough and the next shot forced him to leap into the air.

Any elation fled as I inspected my prey.
The Eye did not look right. It appeared then a hollow victory. I flipped him over and my fear was confirmed.

Myxomatosis. Sores on the eyes, below the openings of the ears and the anus. Possibly the one that got away before. Probably that one is now dead and this, another victim of that unsightly and cruel affliction. He was laid to rest in the woodland from whence he came. Something inside me rebels against eating diseased meat, regardless of what scientists may say or the popular opinion of the day. I believe the Fox won't care to make such distinctions. A well fed Fox will also not stray from his territory and happen upon my chickens!

This particular hunt was, if nothing else, an experience. I returned home. Wet and for the first time, Hungry.

The Hunter's Chronicles - Sunday 1st July 2012

I step out of my door into the woods, be it to smoke or to answer the call of nature, and you can ordinarily spot a species found on the general license.
Recently it has been two young squirrels,, one seen at a time. They have been edging closer to where we have the chickens penned and they appear to be nibbling the germinating grain that has been spilt. I'm also not happy that they will soon be stealing the crop of hazel nuts. In spite of this, I must confess to growing a little fond of seeing them scamper about in the light of the dawn and so I have been slow to unleash the Scorpion.

I overhead my partner comment that there were both squirrels to be found and so the T10 was awakened from it's fleece lined sleeping bag.

The approach is now well covered by the foliage and through the leafs poked the snout of the Scorpion. A standing shot, so I took my time. Once I was steady, the squirrel obligingly raised his head to munch on his vittels. A Superdome was launched and four stiff legs rolled skyward. Unbeknownst to me his buddy was close by and I saw a flash as he bolted right to left. I edged closer and observed him seemingly analysing his chums odd behaviour. His back was towards me and he wasn't going to lift his noggin. I fired where his head would be if he lifted it in alarm at say, the sound of a pellet rocketing towards him. But I overestimated his reactions. The pellet sailed over and he escaped into the canopy above.

I was amazed at the amount of blood spatter on the floor where he fell. 11.1 ft/lbs at 20 yards with a domed pellet appears to be exceptionally effective indeed. I couldn't be more pleased with the accuracy of the Scorpion T10 and the obviously swift despatch it imparted.




Much later in the day I pushed my luck going for a mooch for rabbits.

Luck I pushed too far. A shame too as I had special plans...

The best opportunity presented was a Deer that passed within 40 yards of my position. The Scorpion is good, but not that good...

Still, I got to play with my new Hitachi HDC-1495E. My mobile phone camera simply doesn't do my subjects justice, plus I also have a airgun application in mind for it, to be revealed in due course.

Tonight, I may break out my long neglected Night Vision set up and reveal the secrets of the darkness...Ultra covert hunting!

The Hunter's Chronicles - Monday 25th June 2012

My buddy Mawders and I, when not hunting, can often be found messaging each other discussing it and arranging the next opportunity. Such is the degree of our shared infatuation.
This evening had been scheduled in the diary, so come rain or shine, it had to happen. Upon his arrival just after 17:00, there was time for a chat over a coffee, then it was straight off to the fields.
Being in PCP rehab, he was to have the TX200 MK3 .177, I the Scorpion T10.
The customary zeroing session demonstrated the stunning accuracy of both rifles at 35 yards, then off we mooched following our usual pattern.

So early in the evening it was quite normal not to see much about, but as we emerged from behind a hedgerow, the number of targets soared. Just behind a gate a pigeon grazed. As I exclaimed "Pigeon", out of surprise more than to alert my hunting partner, I startled it as it had done me. It was as I apologised to Mawders and blamed my forceful pronunciation of 'P', a decent sized rabbit zipped across the gate by our left. Mawders squeaked in desperation. It was no use. The rabbit was long gone.

Ducks quacked. Pheasants ambled by.

Along a track, I spied another bunny. It was unaware of our presence. Not only a standing shot, but one complicated by the squares of the wire fence. I took the shot. The resounding crack betrayed a pellet strike, but as I arrived on scene all I found was a tuft of fur stuck to a nettle. I poked the barrel of the T10 into the undergrowth to find a sheer drop a good few feet within. Darn it!

Ever the optimist, Mawders staked out the bunnies and went prone by some young birch trees. I wandered into the trees that overlooked the pond hidden by the bushes.

My gamble paid off. Numerous pigeons flew in to roost. All landed deep in the foliage fouling my line of sight. Eventually, one landed in my kill zone and paid dearly with a heart and lung shot. He flapped once, then fell in a semi controlled dive crashing 5 feet away with a heavy thud. I pounced with such enthusiasm and elation that I failed to take into account the nettles I was thrusting my bare hand into.
His eyes were blinking and having fired the last shot in the mag I had to think quickly.
Wring its neck.
This I attempted, but being used to the sturdiness of a rabbits anatomy, I ripped his head straight off. That was a bit far and a regrettable mistake despite making good my intention.

Keen to capitalise on the pigeons, Mawders and I shifted positions to sit and watch the leaves rustle in the wind for 20 minutes...nothing. Poor Mawders.

The light was waning fast now and with it the hopes of the TX200 to even the scores.

We returned to a spot favoured by the bunnies.
I hung back. Mawders got excited and had to lie down. I watched from my vantage point and soon not just one, but two, then three bunnies loped into view. I buzzed them with my ranger gizmo - 56 yards. Hmm Mawders, you need to get crawling buddy...
For what seemed like an age, we waited. The two young kits reckless bounding in the short grass. The older rabbit watchful, but occasionally shifting closer to our position.
The TX200 cracked. All three unharmed bunnies raced to the hedgerow for cover.

Completely forgivable. I sincerely doubt I would have successfully made that shot, certainly not if .177 was alien to me and I were used to the drop of .22 pellets.

We called it a day shortly after.

But the night held a very special gift. As we chit chatted by the cars at my place. In my periphery I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a reflection of the car lights. When the car lights extinguished, the light remained... intriguing!

My curiosity demanded a closer inspection.

Ok, so the weirdo in the caravan is now reporting 'strange lights'. You'd be forgiven for zoning out and wandering off elsewhere. Yes, it was eery. Unearthly. But 100% natural.

Can you tell what it is yet?

I believe I encountered my very first glow worm! Never in my life, let alone the past 3 years of living in 'the wilds' have I been gifted such a fascinating experience as this. I wonder how many others can say they have witnessed such a phenomena.

The Hunter's Chronicles - Sunday 24th June 2012

I stared through the window in a state of abject indecision.
The image presented, for once, was one of paradise. Glorious rays of sunshine tumbled through the leaves of the blossoming trees to shimmer and dance on the woodland floor.
The outdoors begged me to venture forth. My legs equally implored me to remain seated.
If we had not suffered a run of abysmal weather, my legs would have firmly won and I may have spent the rest of the evening soaking in the tranquillity.
My stomach, growled for flesh. It reminded me of my as yet uninitiated acquisition. The BSA Scorpion T10 Tactical .177

Aside from a very quick chronograph session snuck between showers two days after her arrival, she has been thus far neglected. It was time to test her and the 11.1ft/lbs she was punching into those RWS Superdomes.

Off into the heart of pigeon land I strode. A long while spent eyeing up the giant swaying perches towering above. By pausing, listening and visually scanning for signs of life every few steps, I caught sight of a squirrel scurrying along a fallen trunk. I awaited its appearance the other end but when it was evident none would arrive I crept forward.

It's impossible to be completely silent in woodland. Nonetheless I managed to take this tree rat completely off guard. Within seconds the crosshairs were trained on her noggin and a 'phut' from the T10 bowled her over the side of the log. As I approached to inspect my prize, I could have ejected faeces from my rectum when she popped back up, a grotesque picture of mortal injury. Blood flowing from a seemingly fatal shot.  Serious 'Terminator' squirrels. Thankfully, the next round was chambered and already impacting the skull ensuring a swift demise and passage to the afterlife. Her mate, mortified, barked his disapproval at me from the branch of a neighbouring fir. His horror lasted but an instant as he too joined her on the banks of the Styx.

The BSA Scorpion T10 was evidently in fine fettle. Two close to medium range shots delivered with superb accuracy. Light and extremely 'pointable', target acquisition is fast and easily held steady. Despite having the older style magazines, reputedly troublesome, it cycles faultlessly and smoothly.

But more was to be asked.

Deeper into the temperate forest I went, eventually finding myself in a 'dead' zone of forgotten land as the woodland borders a cattle field. Here I discovered many treasures. The first, a tree favoured by crows. I scared them away upon approach, but so fond of it were they, that within minutes they had returned. By this time I was concealed behind a cotswold stone wall, perfectly positioned to scare the Bejesus out of one of them by hitting a branch that swang just in front of the pellet with impeccable timing. Just as well. Crow burgers will have to wait for another day.
The ground was so riddled with warrens and tunnels, traversing it was akin to navigating across a swiss cheese.
My next discovery was of a small patch of bracken that allowed a quiet concealed approach to the fence and a view of the hedgeline. Rabbits lined the way. Three at least were very happily digesting their 'five-a-day'. As I believed myself lacking in my rabbit RDA, I thought "I'll av one of them"...
So I did.

Someone appears to have neglected to have attached a colourful label for me to consult whether this product is organic/suitable for vegetarians/free from anthrax. Which is doubly frustrating as how will I know who to sue?!!
Still I'll live on the edge and cook it up anyway...

The wild, truly the worlds most fantastic 'supermarket'.

The Hunter's Chronicles - Monday 18th June 2012

As I type, the iron stench of rabbit blood rises to my nostrils from the keyboard. I hold my breath as I raise a biscuit to my mouth after its hot chocolate bath.
I can not complain. Nor do I wish to seem to.
It was something like a lust for blood that set my weary legs to purpose at 20:00 this evening. After drawing a blank Friday, you can add some shaken self belief into the pot of motivation.
If I am critical and honest, I was rusty. Too hurried, too rushed. I wasn't 'present', rather, I was already at the next likely spot of opportunity.
I did have one eye on the clock and the fading sun, but I was completely missing out on the experience of the hunt. Until I took steps to remedy that fault, I paid dearly. Rabbits hopped into cover unhurriedly, my presence comfortably noted. Crows flapped away almost begrudgingly. Pigeons sung their soothing song from the deep safety of their ivy covered nests. I was an alien. A disconnected being to be avoided and observed without ever presenting a threat.

It could almost be seen as though the Gods were both laughing at me and trying to send me a meaningful message when I almost literally stumbled upon this chap nonchalantly munching his greens.

Ravaged by myxomatosis he was blissfully unaware that anything untoward could be harbouring any ill intent in his vicinity. My 'LRF' read 7 yards. I'm sure he was closer. I aimed as though it were and missed, then realised 7 yards is the minimum read out. In spite of his diseased condition this one was not to die this day. I reloaded, and upon the click of the safety catch, he bounded off into the woods on my left. Ahh well.
My lesson had been learned with gratitude.

In the next field I was as focused as a Cat. My attention paid dividends as I utilised the double edged sword of the long grass to my advantage. As my hunting buddies know, there is a right hand curve in the hedge line and beyond it are normally one to two very nervous bunnies. The curve means that a right handed shooter such as myself inevitably presents his body before the business end of his rifle. But not today. The two ears were spotted, the eyes obscured by the abundant growth of his fodder.
A sharp crack of pellet on bone and the head disappeared. I reloaded and approached softly. He flipped once as I drew near with enough co-ordination to warrant another dose of lead in the back of the head between the ears.

I had designs for this little fellows insides.

I journeyed on quickly to my little natural hide and slit him 31 yards from it in the hopes of baiting the crows. Crows, that at this time of the day, were no where to be seen. My plan was further thwarted by the arrival of these fine beasts.

Thankfully they didn't hang around long, nor did they pay heed to my rabbit.

I waited. And waited. I used my phone to go on youtube and play crow calls from videos at the highest volume my phone would allow. But no corvid appeared to have heard.

Then my backside and right leg lost all feeling and sensation.

I exited my hidey hole, analysing the tree branches for any sign at all of an avian presence. When my gaze lowered, I found it was being returned. Correctly I guessed, from 25 yards away. The second standing shot of the evening, this one far more straight forward with satisfyingly conclusive results. A very loud smack, a quick hop and mid air curl and it was very evident that this little blighter was half way across the River Styx long before I got to his body.

To date, I have been most pleased with the performance of the RWS Superdomes .177 pellets gifted to me by a forum member. Thank you kindly Rob, they are devastating!
Other MK3 TX200 owners may like to note that RWS Superdomes do not appear to sit as tightly in the barrel as RWS Superfields and this seems to aid the excellent delivery of energy and velocity. I would honestly put them on a par with JSB exacts.

My 35 yard grouping compared very favourably against a BSA Superten .22. Granted the Superten owner was unaware of how seriously I was zeroing....

Haha!

Until next time friends...