Spring Bear: A Review

With the thump of my truck door closing so came a close to our spring bear season. A season that James and I had put in for on a whim and ultimately drew with no points and no real knowledge of bear tendencies. We began the season in earnest, scouting early and often, talking with local biologists and identifying our routes on maps. We read articles online, sighted in our rifle, and put our boots on the ground. However, as the world of bears go, they remain safe from these two hunters until fall.

Entering into this weekend we mark the arrival of Memorial Day weekend and it is only fitting that we enjoy ourselves and do all the things that so many Americans have sacrificed their lives for. This weekend many will head out to barbeques, travel countless miles to visit relatives and soak up the late spring sun. Others of us will take time for ourselves, blessed with the opportunity to be able to hunt throughout one of the most gorgeous landscapes in the entire country. Here, just outside Baker City, we wanted to get out for one last hunt and enjoy the Elkhorn Mountains.

We would meet up early in the morning and drive out to the now familiar country northwest of Wolf Creek Reservoir. Knowing that this would be our last go around James suggested early on that we just cover ground; forget about being as quiet as possible and just go. Now that’s not to say that we were merrily laughing and breaking sticks over our legs but that even with a little pace to our walking we could still be quiet, the heavy winds aiding us in this endeavor, and cover country.

Moving with purpose we began our search through the woods, vigilante for new sign. We walked into several new meadows and young timber stands that were littered with understory debris, the areas that we hadn’t yet focused much of our time on. We would end up coming across quite a bit of old sign from last summer/fall but obviously, it wasn’t what we were hoping for. However, the fact that bears were standing here at some point during the year had us at least a little more optimistic…a little. Despite these mild confidences, as the day would wane on the signs were all the same, old and more or less irrelevant. We could see our season fading in the distance.

We walked for many hours but as the sun began to push towards the high sky and an afternoon of commitments crept up upon us, we began the make our way back, realizing that the woods and our bear friends had out maneuvered us this year. We now knew that Blondie had escaped. And then, upon reaching the road just below our truck we were reminded of why we, the Haines Hunters, go about life the way we do and why we will always push that extra mile. It would end up becoming an encounter that would reaffirm our beliefs and hunting philosophy.

Laughing at ourselves and making the final trek up to the truck we could feel the quiet of the afternoon shake with the rumble of an old truck approaching. The men that drove up to us were, as James would later joke, “how the other half does it”. These men, covered in camo and guns at the ready asked us how the hunt was going and being polite and courteous we joined in the conversation, back and forth about the bears we hoped to see. Now, by all means the guys in this truck were nice gentlemen and even guys you wouldn’t hate to share a drink with but ultimately, their idea of hunting and our idea of hunting are worlds apart.

They are satisfied to drive around in a truck all day, glass slopes, and eat their snack food; banking on the chance that a bear will cross the road in front of them. They are out shape, out of breath, and out of touch. They wear camo for...well, we’re not really sure why. These men will likely go home and tell loved ones that they’ve spent an amazing day in the great outdoors when really, they have done nothing more than what anyone with a four-wheel drive vehicle and some free time can do. I think we can all agree that that is not what most of us are looking for when we go out to hunt. And I’m not afraid to admit that there are certainly times during a given hunt that it may be necessary to huddle up in your truck, drive the forest roads and cover country, but when that becomes the norm rather than the exception, you may have to reconsider your approach.

If there is one thing that James and I pride ourselves on it’s that we are willing to go where others shy away and if there is one more hill that might provide one more vantage point we make the hike up. It has been our mantra from the beginning. We see guys on TV go to guided hunts in Texas, set up “managed” fields for deer in the mid-west, and hear stories of hunting shows that fly their stars to the tops of rocky cliffs to chase chukar; that is not how we choose to get things done.

We put our boots on the ground, drag our asses up and down hills and drainages and when the hunting is over we step out of the truck at our respective homes and our legs feel like they’ve been pounded on for hours. We’ve taken in the backwoods of eastern Oregon and truly spent a day in the mountains. We don’t claim to do it better than anyone else or even the right way; we often just hope that there are more like minded hunters out there. More men and women that live and abide by a tradition that seems to be lost in a world of technology and motorized transportation. Those willing to go beyond, to push themselves, and work for whatever mammal or bird they seek, will be rewarded ten-fold in the end.

James and I may not have gotten our spring bear this year but we can leave with our heads held high. Could we have put in more days? Sure. But the days we did spend out there we didn’t drive around, looking at open slopes and wondering; we got out of the truck, climbed steep terrain, and made the most of our time. And finally seeing our one elusive bear was the culmination of those hours spent on the ground. Were we to have stayed on the main roads it was a bear we most certainly would have missed.

Come Thursday, the official end to the season, there will undoubtedly be some who have a bear hanging in their yard and a charcoal grill will resonate with the sounds of sizzling meat. Perhaps many of those hunters will be ones who were driving along, saw a bear, stepped out of the truck, and shot the bear across the road. Their friends will come over and ask them how they did it and they will tell their story in grand detail and make the most out of what really comes down to a be road hunt. But then there will be those who, as the bear meat sizzles on the grill, tell of adventure and pursuit in the arid forests of eastern Oregon. They will share stories of the miles hiked, the hours pushed through brush, and the culminating moment when the bear was first seen and a gunshot rang out in the afternoon hours. Those men and women will sit back and they will not tell over exaggerated tales of a road hunt but they will tell a story, a hunting story, of two people, in the middle of nowhere, hunting black bear in the Elkhorn Mountains. Those men and women, those hunters, will truly have something to say.

I hope that James and I can tell that story someday but for now, we share the story of our encounter and move on to the fishing season. However, we will not forget the lessons learned this year. We will try our best to take that knowledge and with a little bit of luck return next year, wiser and better prepared, to hunt our elusive black bear and perhaps even see Blondie once again. Let the countdown begin.

Spring Bear: Searching for Breadcrumbs

Alas, it has been nearly two weeks since our encounter with the blonde bear and our luck has not changed. We have not found any more rabbits feet and with the arrival of summer and its accompanying warm weather, our chances to fill our tags are now dwindling. However, that has not dampened our spirits and with a little hard work we will try to make this upcoming weekend, our last of the season, a success.

This past weekend we took advantage of a cool Saturday and tried to make some time for the forest. We had camped out the night before and it was perhaps just what we needed, or at least, what I needed. After a long week of work which had me more than once wanting to simply walk away, the woods came as an ever constant reminder that no matter the stresses there is in the working world, there is always a place of escape. A place where there is no pressure to fill some social norm or fit into some category which others have arbitrarily designated us into. In the woods you return to camp, cold and tired and begin searching the surrounding area for firewood. You build your fire pit up, put a flame to it and instantly you feel the warmth as you put your head back. The stars shine bright and with the dog dancing on the outskirts of the fire’s light, you feel more at home than ever.

James and I enter into conversation about whatever comes to mind but feel no need to cover the silence. It’s that silence that lets you reflect and sort things out and when you finally lay down to sleep you listen to the forest around you, knowing that adventure is just beyond the morning’s arrival. Work, the cause of much pain for me in recent months is left at 3,000 feet and here, at 5,000 feet, I rise above it.

Awaking at sunrise we began our day by glassing the sun soaked slopes, or at least, that had been the plan. What we realized after walking a bit was that the two of us obviously don’t know north from south. When the sun crested the horizon it was on the slopes we were walking, not the ones we were looking across to that the sun illuminated. We looked at each other and with a quick shake of our heads we forged on and tried to get a handle on where our late spring bear would be.

We dropped into drainages, pushed our way through thick re-growth, glided across open grassy mountain meadows, and tried to pick a direction. We wondered the forest like Hansel and Gretel, looking for breadcrumbs, but in the end we were not finding what we hoped for. Several times we did come across what we believed to be bear sign, including scat and what looked like hair caught up in thick shrubs but what we did know for sure was that we were at least 24 hours behind any bear. He had moved through here, looking for something, the likes of which we are still oblivious to, and then snuck away into the darkness of the forest.

At one point James did stop in a moment that seemed eerily reminiscent of our Blondie encounter but it turned out to be that back of a cow elk, just over the ridgeline, and when she showed her rear end it became an obvious case of mistaken identity. Nonetheless, the two of us, always looking for something to do or some way to challenge ourselves, decided that we would sneak as close as we could to her without being seen. After all, she was alone and we had the wind on our side; what’s not to like about that?

Ultimately we would have to keep our distance as we lacked any real cover but for the most part we went unnoticed. We were hidden from her gaze for several minutes but you could tell her sixth sense let her know something was amiss and I suppose you can’t live up in that type of country without having a set of eyes on the back of your head. For her part, she used them beautifully, eventually moving off into the timberline and disappearing into the forest.

As the day would go on we would sit back and gaze upon the Elkhorn Mountains from afar; the highest peaks still covered in snow. We would admire the vast landscape and ponder what a bear would be doing at that exact same time. Perhaps he was doing exactly what we were doing, taking a midday rest. But who really knows? I’m beginning to think it will just be dumb luck if we find him again.

With our daylight hours winding down it was ironic that we finally found our freshest bear sign less than 200 meters from where we had camped the night before. I suppose it was worth checking into but with thick forest all around us and private land within shouting distance the decision was made to return home and try again another day.

With one last weekend coming up I’m skeptical that we will find another bear but I suppose if I wasn’t skeptical, I’d be a fool. Regardless of my mental state that will not stop James or I from pursuing this blonde bear into the last days of May. We will get up into the forest yet again and work and all the other stresses of society will be behind us. Farley will join us at camp as he often does and with the forest as his oyster we will see him turn into the wild dog he was always born to be. Perhaps that brings us just as much of a joy as actually looking for bears. However, we will eventually strike out and head off to hunt, hoping we can bring the little brown dog something back by day’s end. We’ll see.

Spring bear, t-minus: one week.

Arrival of the Hunt

With a turn of the key the ignition switch rotates off and the engine comes to a stop. I sit there and breathe a sign of relief, now knowing that I am but minutes away from beginning what will surely be a full day out chasing birds, watching the brown dog, and getting lost in the sagebrush.

I can see out the window that the shrubs and grasses are moving gently with the wind; a light breeze favors the dog and puts us both in a position to be successful. I know that far too often the trip is preceded and accompanied by winds that serve to twist you into submission. Birds hold tighter, your hands get colder, and the dog loses focus; wind, so often your best friend and sometimes, your worst enemy. Today I feel like I haven’t seen that friend in a very long time, and she looks great.

As I reach for the handle and extend open the door the crisp November air hits me. The dog, invigorated by the smell is now at full attention. I swing my legs out and as my boots hit the ground I begin to stretch and take a deep breath. Farley, not almost unable to control himself is planted on the driver’s side seat, barely hanging on with all fours. He looks at me, longingly, practically begging for me to give him the word. With a few false gestures I finally give him the command, “Alright, go get ‘em!”, and he is off. As I watch him circle the truck his nose is plastered to the ground, littered with the feathers of birds from previous outings. He smells each one, marks a few shrubs and is quickly checking the area for sign of our upland friends. His excitement is infectious.

After a quick scan of the surrounding skies I head to the back of the truck. The sky is sunny with a mix of clouds, both gray and white. Shade weaves its way in and out of the landscape and the sun shines down, providing much welcomed warmth. With the tailgate pulled open I reach over to slide out my gun. I slip it out of its case and with a spare rag I wipe it down, making sure that there is nothing that will interrupt the hunt. I dry fire several times and then lay the gun down. This Remington 870 has now taken down many birds and I’m hoping it will bring us both continued success today.

I strap my bird vest on, snap the center buckle, and pull out a box of shells. I’ve thought carefully about the shells I want to use. Too light and the bird is simply crippled, off to die somewhere far away. Too heavy and the birds get what may be considered overkill. So after many trial runs, the shot shell size and weight are chosen, providing consistent and ideal results. The shells are dumped into my vest pockets and with the weight evenly distributed I am ready to go.

The front of the car is checked once more and I quickly do a rundown to make sure that nothing has been forgotten. The doors are locked and I head back to close the tailgate. It is at this point I can feel how close I am. The shotgun is brought up to my chest and one, two, three shells are loaded. The hollow thump as each shell is loaded and the clicking of the action are Farley’s cue to lift his ears and stand at attention. The sight brings me endless joy.

With one last look over my shoulder I begin to walk and the first sagebrush shrub brushes my leg. Farley is off without warning and he is soon lost beneath the understory. I wait in anticipation, knowing that any moment birds might fly and I will have to be ready. I love this moment more than any other moment. It’s the moment that man and dog are united, working as one, ready to take on the landscape. It’s the moment we all wait for, that we all anticipate, that we all love; it’s the moment the hunt begins.

Spring Bear: An Unforeseen Encounter

The arrival of our second bear weekend was preceded with the knowledge that we would only be able to get into the woods for a single day. With James needing to get things done around his ranch an overnight stay in the woods just wasn’t feasible. So, through a late night phone call we agreed to meet up on Saturday and, with the weather in our favor, the decision was made to meet in the early morning.

More often than not the general consensus would have you believe that getting up at o’dark thirty is the surest and only way to get into animals. However, being of a slightly different breed, venturing into less defined waters is how we tend to get things done.  Sometimes you just have to set reason and logic aside, break out of the bubble and choose the road less traveled. And that’s not to imply that by waking up later we were making such a prolific decision as Robert Frost did in “The Road Not Taken” but rather, that there’s no defined way to go about hunting. Many times, it’s the last minute decisions and changes that make all the difference. Throughout the day you will make many decisions and the road you choose will inevitably lead you to another fork, another path, another choice. So, to follow this wayward logic, we made the decision to hunt the southern part of our unit and throw a kink in our scouting plans. “Heck”, we thought, “we haven’t found any bears where we were looking and, if they’re not here, they must be somewhere else”. In the end, as it would play out, we wouldn’t be second guessing ourselves by the day’s end.

When we drove into this section of National Forest we were immediately impressed. It somehow had a different vibe, a different tone. The slopes were open, the grass was green, and with a slightly overcast sky the day was perfect for hiking. I suppose the first sign that we may have luck that day was when James spotted a bird downhill from us and proceeded to make his way towards it. When the bird picked up and flew away we found what appeared to be the spoils of its morning’s work. On a wet, downed log, there sat the back half of what we deemed to be a snowshoe hare. Almost completely eaten, the legs were draped over the log in a slightly embarrassing fashion. When James reached over to investigate, the meat was still radiating warmth and we knew the kill was fresh. Looking over the carcass for a minute or two James finally pulled out his clever he had along with him and made the move to cut off one of the hind legs. This, I believe, is where are fortune changed.

It has often be said that there are good luck charms in this world, ranging from picking up a heads up penny on the ground to rabbits feet, hung on a keychain. Whatever the symbol or item, we somehow believe that possessing these things will benefit us in some way. For me, it’s a small object I’ve had for over a decade, although I hesitate, even now, to say what it is. Anyhow, while it wasn’t immediately apparent to either of us, cutting the leg off of that rabbit may have just led us to our most unexpected encounter of the season and perhaps, was every bit filled with luck as one could ask.

As we traveled an old logging road I can’t really comment as to what I was thinking. We had seen some elk earlier in the day, called on several predator calls, but traveling through some thick forest we were basically just scanning the woods above and below us. However, it wasn’t long before we could begin to notice a slight change in the woods. We had come into an area where there were slightly larger bushes and just out in front of us, on a looming hillside, evidence of replanted timber. And then, in an instant, without warning, the tone of the season changed.

Standing less than fifty yards ahead of James, a figure loomed large. As James would tell the story the first thing he saw was a large head, low to the ground, half cocked to one side. Broad shoulders presented a larger than life stature and were accompanied by, not a black coat, but one of blondes, tans, and deep browns around the legs. It was in that moment that he questioned whether or not he might be looking at a grizzly but the thought was fleeting. Only then did he realize he was starring down the face of another one of North America’s apex mammals, the American black bear.

From the beginning both were startled; the bear was no doubt enjoying an afternoon stroll when the moment came and James likened the experience to suddenly coming across a clown in the middle of the forest. With everything you’ve been reading and thinking about the main scenario that you run through in your mind is that you are going to see a bear across some ridgeline and have to chase after it to get your shot. But there James was, face to face with a bear, and as a light breeze blew across the road the moment frozen in time was over.

Quickly, James was able to shoulder his weapon and flip open the scope. As of this point, standing about ten yards behind James I still didn’t know there was a bear out ahead. All I had seen and could still see were three patches of light brown through the bushes; my first thought being that there was a coyote out ahead. However, when James rose his rifle there was little doubt as to the serious nature of his movements. For most of the fooling around we had done up until that time the motions were playful and somewhat slow but this motion, was all instincts. It was quick, decisive, and calculated. As James would later relay to me ,when he shouldered the firearm and looked down the scope he was looking right at the bear’s head. In that moment his mind was racing, thoughts bouncing around, decisions being made. In that second he did have a shot, dead on, right through the head, but, “Wait,” he thought, “What if I want the skull? Can I make a clean kill? Is he going to turn broadside?” And then, obviously realizing the gravity of the situation, the bear turned to make a move down the adjacent hill and again, James was presented with a decision. With the animal’s backside in full view he whistled to stop the bear but the shape continued to move away. Holding his finger just above the trigger he decided not to take the shot, he decided to pass and as such, the bear slipped off the hillside and like a lioness slipping into the grasslands, the bear disappeared into the forest.

It was only at this time did James turn to me and acknowledge what I thought I already knew, it was a bear. Thinking back it was all pretty surreal and I couldn’t help but imagine what different places our minds were. In that moment I had stood in the back, trying to guess what the brown shape out ahead was, with the only real thought running through my head that perhaps there was a coyote in the road. Little did I know that in those same few seconds the entirely of James’s bear and hunting experiences were flashing through his head. It was a moment I’m sure he’ll recount for the rest of his life.

From here we would rush off to view the landscape, travel down through the brush, and glass for our blonde bear but he was nowhere to be found. He has disappeared like a ghost in the darkness and for an animal that seems to largely lumber and wander around, the grace with which he lost himself in the woods is now unrivaled in my mind. We would end up talking at length about the shot that never was. Would a serious dangerous game hunter have taken the shot? Would they have run through the same things in their mind? In that moment James did not hesitate, but rather made a conscious decision to not pull the trigger and perhaps, above all else, that is the toughest thing. If you hesitate, that’s one thing; a new situation, not being prepared, but James had the chance to pull the trigger, he just didn’t have the shot he wanted. As he would go on to say, that was a tough one.

By day’s end I was able to joke with James about the incident and even he was able to laugh at himself. I mean, what else can you really do? If you can’t laugh at those sorts of things then perhaps you are taking yourself a little too seriously. We would continue on to talk about Blondie, the now named the elusive bear, and contemplate the likelihood of ever running into a situation like that again. For a unit that sees less than 2% success, had we just missed the unicorn; a blonde bear, impressive in stature, at fifty yards, without any obstructions? I suppose those questions are bound to run through your mind. I think the day was summed up shortly after when, upon taking a quick picture, James would joke that I was taking a, “Picture of Defeat”. I felt for the guy.

For me, the light brown, blonde color I saw was the only memory I have from the incident. For James, the moment will stay with him his entire life. He’ll run through it day after day, night after night and think about what he could have done differently. What if he had just been looking up ten seconds earlier? What if he had taken the shot at the head? Would he have dropped the bear on the spot or would the experience be that much worse with a miss and the knowledge that a crippled bear has now died in the forest? The questions are endless.

When it comes down to it in the end however, no one can anticipate these situations. You can’t read about them or practice at home, they just happen. Will lighting strike twice for James? Will he ever see Blondie again? From my couch here this evening, I hope so, I truly do.

My Search for a....Beretta Silver Pigeon?

I have to admit, my first day in Las Vegas was very conflicting. I had gone to the SHOT Show in hopes of putting my hands on a Ruger Red Label, the gun I had been dreaming about for months, but came away defeated and confused. Ruger had let me down and the hopes I had of one day owning their over under were quickly fading. I was dejected, down trodden, and lost at sea without a beacon to bring me home. And then, through the mist, like a lighthouse to an offshore vessel, my undivided attention was given to another, an Italian; a gun so beautiful and comfortable in my hands that I never wanted to let go. The gun we had found, the shotgun that caused my temporary memory loss for Ruger, was a Beretta 686 Silver Pigeon I. A gun that personified upland bird hunting and one that instantly spoke to me.

After the suffering I had endured at the Ruger booth it was only natural for me to want to move on and at least for the next few days, forget everything and enjoy myself. When I came across the Beretta booth I suppose I didn’t expect much. Of course I had heard their name before but I had never thought I could own one; I mean, let’s be serious, we’re talking about thousands of dollars here. But nonetheless, the Silver Pigeon, 20 gauge, 26 inch barrel over under was a work of art. The engraving on the side was breathtaking and the feel was perfect. I couldn’t put it down and neither could James.

Like any other gun, before I can even look it over I first take the firearm, press it firmly to my shoulder, and look down the barrel. You’d be amazed at how many shotguns simply don’t feel right when you meld your shoulder and stock together. It’s not that a gun is made incorrectly or inferior to another of its class but rather that everyone is different and no matter how much you manipulate your body, if it doesn’t sit right from the get go, it’s probably not the gun for you.

However, this gun felt perfect. As I shouldered the firearm it sat perfectly against my joints, the stock pressing firmly up against my cheek, and the sight line down the barrels was dead on. The receiver was wonderfully engraved with birds and scrolls that made even holding the gun seem like something magical. As I broke the barrels away the motion felt effortless and I could practically picture myself out in the field. What a wonderful piece of craftsmanship.

With James by my side the overall consensus was that this was an over under you could be proud to own. Out of all the guns we had held that day, this one felt right, and there was no doubt that we were on the same page. The long history that runs with Beretta and the comfort in knowing that these firearms have been worked on for centuries was all the reassuring I needed. We chatted with the salesman, wondered around to look at their other guns but were inevitably drawn back to the Silver Pigeon. You just couldn’t help yourself.

By the time we left that day I was completely unsettled. The Ruger Red Label was the gun I had been dreaming about, it was the gun that I had stayed up endless nights to think about buying, but now that the gun was discontinued, there were other options to consider. However, I knew I wouldn’t be doing myself any good by jumping ship so quickly, so, I began the long and tedious search for a new Red Label, hoping beyond all hopes that something would come up.

As I searched all the sites I could think of I found that to get into a new Red Label I would need around $1,600. Not any small chunk of change, I had to begin thinking about how to make that happen. How could I save that kind of money? I can barely afford to feed myself right now, let alone buy a gun that isn’t necessary for me to do what I need to do. But the thoughts continued and even reached a point where I considered signing up for a Cabela’s card just so that I could use that to buy myself a new gun. But in the end, better sense took over and I had to take a step back and look at my situation.

In the weeks after Vegas I was able to track down a Red Label, in a 20 gauge and with a 26 inch barrel, down in Boise, Idaho; when I got there, I wasn’t disappointed. The gun I had dreamed about was every bit as comfortable and beautiful as I hoped it would be. It shouldered great, the weight was right, and the entire piece was calling to me. However, not being a new-in-box gun I just couldn’t commit and decided to pass on the gun. And believe me, that, was tough.

Some people may think it’s crazy to make holding the firearm you’re going to buy a must but when you’re about to spend as much money as I think I might, you don’t fuss around. Basically, buying this gun is the equivalent to paying an entire month’s worth of bills. Ultimately though, it’s not just about the price, it’s about the individual gun, the relationship that is immediately started when you hold it for the first time, and the feeling that this is the right gun for you. It’s feeling that the wood is the right grain, the forestock is the right design, and the receiver plate is in mint condition. If there is going to be a dent or mark on this gun I want to be the one to put it there. This isn’t a time to compromise. In the end I knew I had to make the tough decision but not wanting to rush things I had to walk away.

I stepped aside, knowing that I would need to hold out a little longer. The hardest part about this process had now become the kink that holding and admiring the Beretta had created. That was a beautiful firearm. It wasn’t that much more than the Red Label and when you’re spending that kind of money, what’s a couple extra hundred. And then there are the unknowns. With Ruger cancelling production of the Red Label, will customer service be the same? Will I be able to send the gun in down the road and have it touched up? Beretta is well known and makes thousands of shotguns every year, including this over under. Ruger has one. And that’s not to say that that one isn’t brilliantly made, there are just pluses and minuses to both. The Beretta has evolved as the game has. It has been field tested and reworked to provide the ultimate experience. Ah, what was I to do?

It has now been several months since the SHOT Show and I still have no idea what I want. I want the Red Label, the gun I fell in love with in Montana but can I still find a new one when the time comes? Will it cost me an arm and a leg? Who really knows? And then there is the Beretta; a gun that oozes tradition, craftsmanship, and reliability. I'll be honest, it was beautiful, simply beautiful. The feel was right, the price was reasonable, and the history was there. What a decision.

I’m not sure where I’ll go from here but I’ll keep looking, keep comparing, and hopefully, someday when I have the money saved up, I’ll make the decision; the hard decision that will provide me with the gun I may use for the next 20 years. It’s a commitment. However, despite their differences, a man would be proud to own either one of these guns and so would I. The Ruger Red Label and the Beretta Silver Pigeon are two fine firearms and whatever my decision is, it will be well worth it.