How a Winchester Waited Two Decades to Fulfill Its Purpose

Some rifles speak at once, WHILE others wait for the right hands TO TELL THEIR STORY

Some rifles start their story in the field, others bark, echoing off canyon walls, while some offer a clean kill written in the chamber. Others wait. They sit behind locked metal or glass, or even silently lean in closets. Their muzzles pointed skyward, like a young hard-charging U.S. Marine sentinel; standing tall, patient, and ready to serve when called into action. My Winchester rifle waited twenty years.

In the summer of 1981, my father was playing on a competitive fast-pitch softball team in Southern Oregon. To raise money for uniforms and travel, the team raffled off a brand-new Winchester Model 70 .30-06. The rifle had been donated by the local gun shop, and tickets were a dollar each.

However, sales were so slow they didn’t even cover the rifle’s cost. When the drawing came, the rifle went to a man named Rex Bishop. Rex was a rancher at heart. The kind of man who felt more at home under a wide sky than a roof. 

To support his five kids, one son and four daughters, he drove long-haul trucks. Hunting time was scarce for Rex. Unfortunately, the Model 70 found itself put away in his closet. There, it stood silently proud, waiting for it to be rediscovered. Three years later, Rex was blessed with a grandson.

That grandson was me. 

In 1996, I turned twelve, the legal hunting age in Oregon. During a family visit, Rex called me into his room. When I entered, he was getting something out of his closet. It was the Winchester he had won a couple of decades prior. He told me he’d only carried it once, firing nine rounds through it, sighting it in. Rex then handed it to me. The weight of the rifle wasn’t just walnut and steel, it was much heavier. More profound. It was history, responsibility, and a promise. A promise to hunt with respect and to never pull the trigger without purpose. It was a promise to the generations who had taught me the craft. Carrying it marked the quiet shift from boy to man, where the sound of each footstep seemed to echo that promise back to me, and the slow burn in my forearm reminded me of its weight with every step.

For the next five seasons, I carried the Winchester rifle through thick coastal brush chasing blacktail deer and Roosevelt Elk. Each time I came home empty-handed. In the fall of 2001, I was a senior in high school; I found myself on opening morning hunting alongside my dad. We saw a couple of does and, near dusk, I spotted a tall 3 x 3 blacktail deer. Without hesitation, I quickly took off and tried to close the distance for a chance of a shot but failed. 

The next morning, I begged my dad to allow me to go back out after the deer alone. He hesitated. I’d never hunted without him. He eventually gave in to my pleading and sent me with a truckload of gear and a pep talk on how to gut a deer. Just in case I managed to shoot one.

Well before sunrise, I pointed dads ½ ton 1974 Chevy pickup down the same dirt road we’d been down the day before. I crept down the road with the occasional ting of the three quarter minus gravel being kicked up, hitting the underside of the truck. Parking in the same turn out, I turned the key and silenced the rumble of the truck's 350 engine. Peering through the windshield, the headlights cut through the timber, casting eerie shadows. Pushing the headlight switch to off, the world around me quickly felt darker than I’d ever seen before. I sat for a few minutes to let my eyes adjust, then readied my gear and snuck up the ridge. 

Everything looks different in the dark. I quickly realized I wasn’t where I wanted to be, I picked a spot under a massive sugar pine and waited for enough light to continue. Once my eyes stopped playing tricks on me, I proceeded up the ridge and found a location very near the spot I’d been to several times before. I knew deer moved through this area so my plan was to spend the first few hours of daylight just watching. I sat next to a large stump to break up my outline and impatiently waited. An hour after sunrise, the biggest buck I had ever seen stepped out into the open. A sudden, jarring impact inside my chest was actually my heart forcefully beating with nervous anticipation. Slowly manipulating the bolt, I loaded a .30-06 round into the chamber and shouldered the Winchester rifle. The muzzle nervously moved up and down, forcing me to steady my breath. Shot placement is crucial in making sure to dispatch deer lethally, quickly, and humanely. Working hard to stabilize the barrel, I reminded myself to slowly squeezed the trigger. 

There was no felt recoil. Only silence. It had all happened quickly. As if time had stopped. Lowering the rifle, I realized the deer was down — forty yards away, a perfect 4x3 buck lay lifeless. After twenty years of waiting, the Model 70 had finally got a chance to fulfill its purpose. 

To this day I still carry that rifle. Other guns have come and gone, but that particular Winchester has become part of me. Part of the family. Someday, I’ll pass the rifle onto my son. When he’s old enough, he’ll feel the same checkering under his fingers, and we’ll walk the same ridges together. He’ll add his own marks to the stock. Each with their own individual tales, as every rifle has a story to tell. Some are written quickly. Others, like the Winchester, wait decades for their first chapter to be composed and shared.

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About the Author

Ross Ellis is an avid outdoorsman, former fishing and rafting guide, and eight-year United States Coast Guard veteran. He now works as a corporate pilot and flight instructor, and is the co-founder of Drifter Hydration, where he designs rugged personal hydration systems built for life off the beaten path. Ross  has been featured in Oregon Hunter Magazine, Salmon, Trout, Steelheader Magazine, and AOPA Pilot Magazine.