Jul 19, 2025 4 min read

By Dave Bates

For the Observer-Reporter

Each summer, for the past few years, I have developed a renewed interest in improving my marksmanship. A .22 caliber rifle suits the chore nicely and does it at a fraction of the cost of a high-power rifle. That being said, I have always relied on a bolt action of one sort or another.

My old Marlin Glenfield that mom and dad bought me for Christmas in 1978 sufficed for most of my shooting chores over the first couple of decades. My cousin Jimmy got a discount on the rifle back when he worked at J.C. Penny’s in Washington Mall. I knew nothing of enhanced triggers or sear polishing and simply shot the thing. Little did I know there was a whole other world of shooting implements unbeknownst to me.

When Uncle Jim passed away, I ended up with his Remington 541 Custom Sporter. It had a super-sweet trigger and a longer barrel, so it shot rather well compared to my formative shooting irons. Not only did it shoot incredibly well, it looked even better. The 541CS was a large-framed .22 rimfire that handled like a full-sized rifle. The 541 had the classic lines of a 1970s-era rifle complete with blue steel and walnut, conservative but beautifully functional checkering and the crisp white line spacers of that bygone era. The piece absolutely exuded class. Once I began shooting “the gun” it became “the only gun.” Uncle Jim had installed a trigger shoe over the regular trigger blade and it made “good” into proverbially “great.”

It is said that once you fly first class, it is tough going back to coach. When it comes to sweet shooting rifles, much the same could be stated. Alas, one thing led to another and I found myself reuniting my favorite .22 with my favorite cousin, the man who should have owned it in the first place, my cousin Jimmy.

I was sitting at my bench punching paper one afternoon when Jimmy pulled in and made his way down to the range. As I finished off a magazine I slid over so he could take a seat at the bench for a few rounds. As kids, our families spent nearly every Sunday afternoon together at our shooting range behind our house in Clarksville. Uncle Jim was frequently putting a new gun through its paces but he always saved a few rounds back for me at the end of his sessions, no matter what the firearm of the day was.

Jimmy’s first words were, “That’s a beautiful rifle. My dad had one just like it.” I said nothing and watched him load a fresh magazine. After another few rounds he said, “It even has a trigger shoe like my dad’s.”

Jim is a far better marksman than me and learned his craft well in the Marine Corps. His groups were much tighter than mine and he knew he had wrung about as much accuracy out of the little .22 as could be wrung. He may have guessed it at that time but never let on if he did. We finished our visit and Jim departed for home.

Jim had barely gotten over our ridge when my phone rang. He was on the other end. After several uncomfortable seconds of silence he asked, “Why is there a gun case laying on the backseat of my truck with your 541 inside?” I replied, “It’s your 541 and some day I might ask for it back, but I doubt it. Consider it on permanent loan until then.” He said thanks. We hung up. Neither of us have made mention of the fine little sporter since that day.

I have been perusing the gun shows since that day, hoping to find a replacement for the 541. I doubt seriously that I ever will. Even if I would happen to find one, I doubt it will be affordable enough to even consider.

The gift of Uncle Jim’s rifle was my most favorite present I have ever made in my entire life. Giving up something that meant so much to both of us made it all the more special in seeing it returned to the proper hands. The only thing that could make that gift more special would be for one of our children or grandchildren to carry it afield some day when Jim and I are no longer walking this earth.

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