Jul 26, 2024 5 min read

Some folks like long walks on the beach in order to find their Zen. Others are crossword puzzlers who keep sharp with a daily regimen of mind challenge. To me, the term “working” a crossword puzzle is enough to chase me off from the get go. Work is seldom a form of stress relief.

My wife is a quilter and builds works of art from old rags and throw-away scraps of cloth. She delves into angles and all sorts of geometry and trigonometry in order to create her masterpieces.

At the end of the project there is a swath of devastation and destruction half a mile wide, resulting in some beautiful creation that I never could have imagined stemming from all that effort.

Physically, mentally and emotionally spent, she clears the dining room table and stows all the gear back in the closet until “next time.”

My shooting range is my happy place. My old machine shed has been upgraded with a covering of used field turf on the floor. It is an open-air pavilion that houses our tractors and farm equipment but doubles as a sort of shooting range block house.

Shaded from the sun, it allows the breeze to pass through and possesses good lighting. I have improved the lighting situation with an old string of construction basket lights gifted to me from a neighbor’s construction dumpster, allowing me to hang out long after the sun goes down.

For me, hand loading is that challenge that I “work at” providing fulfillment. Most hand loaders I have encountered are neat, organized, meticulous individuals.

Their wood shops are tidy things of beauty. Their reloading tables are lined with drawers and shelves, labeled with the contents therein. Everything in its place. Anyone who knows me is already laughing at the juxtaposition of me and that description. A pal referred to me as a sledge-hammer reloader, which was probably not complimentary.

I am constantly in search of the shell holder or deburring tool that escapes me, struggling for the organization needed to be both safe and efficient. The struggle is real.

My days are spent wearing out a path from my reloading bench to my range bench across the road, 3-5 rounds at a time. Sandbag up. Breathe. Press. Let the barrel cool. Repeat.

The first project that big brother and I undertook when moving to our farm was to establish a proper shooting bench, not by accident. Concrete base, overbuilt 6-inch x 6-inch frame, engineered lumber scraps for the top.

My search for Nirvana lies in the science behind unlocking the magic formula of barrel harmonics and vibration, velocity and pressure, consistency and accuracy. I love measuring groups with my calipers, locating trends in color-coded targets, analyzing spreadsheets. Notebooks filled with related data make me somehow feel more accurate.

In truth, I don’t reload for the inherent accuracy but rather for the consistency that hand loading renders. Few of my recipes are as accurate as my friend’s pet loads. Acquaintances seem to conjure up a minute angle of accuracy with eyes closed. I find these sorts of results elusive at best. Mojo appears only infrequently, usually following much hard work and frustration. I find trial and error the best instructors. Nothing like good old-fashioned failure to cement the lessons.

I take comfort in knowing it will be unnecessary to scour the shelves of the local sport shops in search of that non-existent box of cartridges that my rifle eats. There is solace in reaching for the rifle, ammunition a known quantity in healthy supply, built with my hands. Results are well-documented, loads proving themselves time and time again. The evidence hanging all about the place in the form of one-shot kills and skull mounts from seasons past.

Tradition certainly plays a role in the reloading saga. As I peruse the shelves above my bench, I am inundated with a trove of historical treasures from long-gone friends and relatives. Most of my equipment was given to me by one acquaintance or another. My buddy, John Hess, endowed me with a complete outfit of top-quality Redding componentry after his dad passed away for which I am eternally grateful. Bob bestowed crates of bullets, powder measures, tricklers, dies, etc., after his uncle’s sport shop went out of business. I continue to dip powder from Uncle Jim’s chest dating back to the 1960s. I’m certain that I derive more pleasure from working up a load knowing that Jim went through the same process in his journey that I am experiencing. Making it immensely more satisfying is that we dip from the same powder horn. Every time I weigh a charge or pull the handle, a bit of my posse goes into the mix.

If you’re interested in getting started in the handloading game, there are cheaper alternatives to break the ice. Several companies make simple setups for under $50 that include all the necessary components sans plastic mallet needed to hammer the dies home. My favorite rig was my first, a Lee Loader in .308 caliber. Although one will still need powder, primers, bullets and casings, it is a great route for the beginner to shorten the learning curve. Of course, there are myriad videos, books, manuals and such to glean from but I’d recommend latching onto some old guy who has 50 years-plus experience to share with you.

Good for the soul.

Some might even dare say, “therapeutic.”

Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.com