water snake – The ExhaustNotes Blog

By Joe Berk

The gun that has been in my family the longest is a Model 62 Winchester chambered in .22 Short, Long, and Long Rifle. I remember it being in the gun cabinet when I was a little boy and being told never to play with it (you can guess how well I listened to that advice).

I could go into a bunch of technical details about the Model 62, and I’ll provide a little bit of that below, but that’s not my intent with this article. I decided to instead focus on the rifle, how it shoots and handles, a little bit of its history, and what it means to me.

The starboard side of my Winchester Model 62 rifle. It’s a sleek and lightweight .pump-action 22.

A port side view of the Model 62 on the range at the West End Gun Club.

When Dad had the rifle up until the time I went into the Army (and that would be in 1973), the rifle’s metalwork was flawless. Then I disappeared from the scene for about 10 years (the Army, work, and other things). I guess during that time my father stopped paying attention to the rifle. Dad passed in 1982, and when I came home for the funeral, the metal parts had taken on the patina you see here. New Jersey is a unforgiving and humid place; if you don’t keep your toys oiled, they corrode quickly. But the Model 62 still looks good and it shoots well.

Shooting in RAW (the camera, that is), a macro lens, and even lighting bring out the inherent beauty of this fine old rifle.

I like the Model 62 Winchester’s straight grip stock. It felt right to me when I was a kid and it influenced my future preferences in firearms. I have more than a few rifles with that same straight grip stock now…a Winchester 1886 .45 70 clone made by Chiappa in Italy, several Ruger No. 3 rifles, and a few Marlin lever guns.

The Model 62 is what we call a “takedown” rifle. A single thumb screw secures the stock and trigger group to the rest of the gun. It’s a cool approach.

The Model 62 taken down. The stock and the trigger group detach from the barreled action with a single thumbscrew on the left side of the receiver.

I rotated the photo 90 degrees clockwise to provide a better look at the rifle after take down.

A macro view of the aft portion of the Model 62 after it has been taken down. The large thumbscrew in the center of this photo allows disassembly.

The Model 62’s barreled action after take down.

The sights on the Model 62 are old school. They’re Lyman front and rear. Nothing fancy, but they work well. A simple gold bead up front, and a drift adjustable rear with a stepped ramp for adjusting elevation. But I’ve never had to adjust them. Either they came zeroed from the factory, or the guy who owned the rifle before Dad adjusted the sights, or Dad adjusted them.

Winchester used Lyman sights front and rear back in the 1930s. This front sight has a brass bead. It tarnished enough so that it looks black when I align the sights, and that works for me. Bright brass beads reflect light and pull the shots to one side.

The Model 62 rear sight. Simple, elegant, and traditional.

I think my Nikon 810 and the Sigma 50mm 2.8 macro lens do a good job in bringing out the rifle’s vintage beauty. You can see it in the next few photos.

The Model 62’s bolt lifts up and slides to the rear when the pump is actuated. The spent brass ejects upward.

Another shot of the retracted bolt, showing the mechanism that ejects the spent brass case.

Rollmarks on the right side of the barrel: “Made in U.S.A. Winchester Repeating Arms Co. New Haven, Conn. Patents Pending.” Cool stuff.

The receiver from the left side. Patina, they call it. I could have it reblued, but then it wouldn’t be original, and like they say, it’s only original once.

The pump action forearm with its distinctive pre-war oval shape. Post-war forearms were straight. This one is much classier.

When I was a kid and my parents weren’t home, I sometimes snuck out of the house with the Model 62 and a box of .22 ammo. We had a couple of acres in New Jersey that ran into the woods with a stream behind the house (the stream fed Farrington Lake, which emptied into Raritan Bay on the Atlantic Ocean). You might think having a couple of acres in central Jersey with property bordered by a stream was a sign of wealth, but it wasn’t. It’s what people did in the 1950s: You bought a couple of acres and built a house, and that’s what my Dad did. He didn’t pay somebody else to build a house; he actually built our house. Today you’d have to be rich to own those two acres. Back then it was the path you took if you didn’t have money.

Those were good days and good times. One time a kid from my junior high came home with me (Bob Dixon, if you’re reading this, drop us a line). Mom and Dad weren’t home yet, so Bob and I grabbed the Model 62 and headed into the woods. There was an old cellar door laying in the mud next to the stream and Bob thought it would be a good idea to flip it over. “You know, there might be a snake or something under there…”

A New Jersey water snake. This one was about five feet long. We used to think these were water moccasins.

We did, and what we saw shocked the hell out of both of us: A monstrous, scaly, and scary reptile. Being kids, we were convinced it was a water moccasin. Today, I realize it was probably a water snake. But it was huge and we did the only thing any kid would have done in similar circumstances, and that was to put the Model 62 to good use. Call me Bwana. (On a recent trip back to New Jersey’s Farrington Lake, I saw another one of those frighteningly large snakes and I wrote about it here.)

Loading the Model 62 is pretty straightforward. The rifle has a tubular magazine that holds a ton of ammo. As you see from the rollmarks above, it will shoot .22 Long Rifle, .22 Long, and .22 Short. I don’t know how many rounds of each it will hold, but it is a lot. I only load five rounds at a time, so it’s kind of a moot point to me. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I saw .22 Long or .22 Short ammo anywhere. It’s all .22 Long Rifle these days.

The tubular magazine below the barrel. The arrow points to the knurled knob that opens the magazine.

A macro shot of the tubular magazine’s knurled knob and its bayonet lock. Twist the knob and the plunger can be pulled forward for loading.

When the magazine’s inner plunger is pulled forward, the loading port can receive ammo.

A Federal .22 Long Rifle being loaded into the Model 62.

So how accurate is this nearly 80-year-old pump action .22? I’m glad you asked. I had not shot it in three or four years, so I grabbed three different kinds of .22 ammunition I had in my ammo locker: Older Federal copper washed high velocity ammo, CCI standard velocity ammo good buddy Greg gave me a few years ago, and Aguila standard velocity target ammo I bought from a local sporting goods chain when it was on sale.

I’m just about to the end of this box of .22 Long Rifle Federal ammo. Look at the price!

The accuracy load: CCI standard velocity .22 Long Rifle ammo. This is good stuff.

Aguila .22 Long Rifle target loads. Previous testing at 50 yards showed this worked best in my Ruger 10/22 (a Rimfire Series blog on that rifle will follow in the near future).

My U-boat Subie and I braved the Meyers Canyon water crossing to get to the West End Gun Club, I went to the .22 range and set up a table, and I tested the Model 62’s accuracy at 50 feet from a bench rest. I fired three 5-shot groups at an old 50-foot rimfire target I found in my stash. Here’s how it went:

Test results at 50 feet. The top right target was the first target of the day, and it was predicably the largest group (the bore was unfouled, and I was not yet in form). The Model 62 did best with CCI standard velocity ammo. This is not too shabby with open sights on an 85-year-old rifle.

A bit more info on the Model 62 Winchester: This Model 62 carries the serial number 94XXX, which puts its date of manufacture at 1939. My father bought the rifle when he was a kid; he would have been 13 years old in 1939. Winchester manufactured 409,000 Model 62 rifles from 1932 to 1958, with a two-year break during World War II. In 1939, production switched over to the Model 62A. The Model 62A incorporated engineering changes to reduce production cost (mine is the original Model 62, not the 62A). When Winchester introduced the Model 62 in 1932, the rifle’s suggested retail price was $17.85. Presumably, the price had climbed a bit by 1939. Family lore has it that Dad paid $8 for the rifle. Sales of recently completed auctions on Gunbroker.com show the price for a Model 62 today ranges from $300 to $3000. That’s quite a spread, but to me it’s irrelevant. This rifle is not for sale at any price; one day it will go to one of my grandsons.

Model 62 Winchesters show up for sale on Gunbroker.com pretty much all the time, so if you want one they are available. More good news is that the Model 62 is legal here in the Peoples Republik of Kalifornia.

More good news is that Rossi, a Brazilian firearms manufacturer, offered their Model 62 (a fairly faithful reproduction of the Winchester Model 62) from 1970 to 1998 and the Rossi rifles can still be found. Rossi discontinued the Model 62 when they were acquired by Taurus, but the Rossi rifles still show up on the auction site gunboards. Sometimes you see one in a pawnshop or a gunstore’s used gun rack. I’ve never handled or fired the Rossi so I can’t say anything about them, but if I came across one at a reasonable price I would jump on it. You might consider doing the same.

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Check out our other Tales of the Gun Rimfire Series articles here.

When I was a kid growing up in New Jersey (a very rural New Jersey in those days), it was a local challenge to take off your shoes and socks and walk across the dam at the Old Mill. The Old Mill is one of those cool places that attracts kids (even old ones, like me). Remote, interesting, a hint of times past, and plenty of ways to get in trouble. There had been a water-powered mill there decades ago (a common approach to factory power in our early history); now, only the dam and the lake it formed remains. We called the area the Old Mill.

The upper arrow points to the Old Mill dam. The lower arrow points to an island (the scene of the goose attack, as will be explained below). The lake formed by the dam stretches upstream for a good distance.

The Old Mill dam. We used to wade across the top when we were kids. I wouldn’t attempt it today.

Those were fun times. The Old Mill was a little over a mile from my house and the big adventure when we were kids was to ride our Schwinns there (I wish I still had that bike). Walking across the top in your bare feet was the double dare. The water was about 4 inches deep as it rushed over the top, the dam was coated with algae, and it was slick. And 4 inches of rushing water carried a lot of power. Taking that challenge marked you as a kid of substance (it was sort of a kid’s Combat Infantryman’s Badge). Pauly, Zeb, Verny, my cousin Bobby, me…those were grand times, riding our bikes and pretending they were motorcycles, coasting down Riva Avenue to the Old Mill, and looking for new ways to get into trouble. My Schwinn had chrome fenders and I used to imagine it was a BSA 650 Lightning. Fun times. It’s hard to believe it was 60 years ago.

So, I need to go tangential for a second to give some context to this Old Mill story. When we were kids, my Dad had one cardinal rule I probably heard the day I was born and at least weekly thereafter. It was simple: Never mess with firecrackers. Dad lost two fingers when he was a kid fooling around with firecrackers cutting them up to pour the contents into a pipe to make a bigger firecracker. You know the nutty things kids do. If kids did that today they would be called terrorists. In those days it was just kids doing what kids do. But the results were not good…there was a spontaneous ignition and when it was over, my Dad had two fewer fingers. Hence, the constant Dad drumbeat: Don’t mess with firecrackers.

Well, you might guess where this story is going. I couldn’t wait to mess with firecrackers. My cousin Bobby was 6 years younger than me back then (he still is) and we were thick as thieves when we were kids. One day Bobby, my friend Verny, and I rode our bikes to the Old Mill. Verny had a bunch of firecrackers in his saddlebag. Wow. The forbidden fruit. He even bought matches. Boy oh boy, we were having fun…lighting the things and throwing them out over the water. Bam! Bang! Pow! It was like being in a Batman TV show. Awesome fun. I was playing with firecrackers. It was better than running with scissors.

Boys will be boys, and Bobby was the youngest. It wasn’t too long before Verny and I were lighting the things and throwing them at Bobby. We were all laughing and having a good time. Even Bobby. He thought it was fun, too. Right up until the time one of the firecrackers landed in his collar behind his neck. To this day, I can still see it in slow motion…the little inch-and-a-half Black Cat tumbling through the air, its fuse sparkling, and then lodging in Bobby’s collar. And then…BOOM!

All laughter stopped at that point. Bobby froze, not making a sound after the detonation. The firecracker literally blew all the hair off the back of his head, which suddenly looked like an orangutan’s butt…bright red and bald. Bobby came through it okay. Me, not so much. I knew what would happen when my Dad saw this. It was a death sentence. Verny knew, too. Everybody knew about my Dad and firecrackers. Wow, were we ever in trouble.

Being Jersey boys, we came up with a plan. Maybe if we gave Bobby a haircut, it wouldn’t look so bad. Yeah, that’s the ticket. A quick trim and no one would notice. Ah, if only stupidity were money…I’d be the richest man in the world. We rode our bikes over to Verny’s house, found a couple of scissors, and went to work. After a few minutes, we realized what a sorry state we were in. Instead of just looking like a kid who had all the hair blown off the back of his head, Bobby now looked like…well, a kid who had all the hair blown off the back of his head and a really bad haircut. We were cooked.

All three of us rode to Bobby’s house, where my Uncle Herman (my Dad’s brother) took everything in with a single look. Herman had been there when Dad lost his fingers (which, when I think about it, would have been about 90 years ago now). Uncle Herman knew what the outcome would be if my father ever found out what we had done…I wouldn’t have made it to adulthood, and you wouldn’t be reading this blog. So he did me a whale of a favor…he and Bobby stayed away from our house until Bobby’s hair grew back. Uncle Herman, you’ve been gone for more than half a century now, but trust me on this…I’m still grateful!

Susie and I were in New Jersey a couple of weeks ago and we did what we always do when we’re back there: We visited the Old Mill. The leaves were turning colors and it was spectacular. Visiting the place always brings back memories…especially the ones above.

The Old Mill lake, as recently captured by my Nikon.

The Old Mill was built by the Davidson family (a nearby road is called Davidson’s Mill Road). I have no idea what they milled and I couldn’t find anything about it on the Internet. There was a another mill a few miles downstream that processed snuff (a major industry in this area a hundred years ago), so maybe it was a snuff. Whatever. The mill is long gone, but the dam remains and the area is a county park today.

As I was snapping photos, I noticed a blue-gray speck in front of the little island near the dam (there’s an Uncle Herman story about that island, too, and I’ll get to it in a second). I zoomed in, and it was a blue heron. I’d seen them here before. I wished I could have gotten closer, but my 120mm lens and Nikon’s vibration reduction technology did the trick for me.

A blue heron looking for lunch at the Old Mill.

Once when I was a kid, I rowed my little aluminum boat here all the way from my house. The creek behind my place (Lawrence Brook) flowed to the Old Mill and beyond. Uncle Herman, Bobby, my cousin Marsha, and I were having a good time as I rowed toward that island when we suddenly heard a god-awful hissing. A goose was flying straight at us, low over the water, with what appeared to be a 10-foot wingspan (it probably wasn’t that big, but the overall effect was one of sheer terror and if that goose was trying to intimidate us, it succeeded). The goose had a nest on that island, and we were where the goose didn’t want us.

When I visited the Old Mill earlier this year, the water snakes were out in full force and I photographed a large one below the dam. You can read more about that in the blog I did a few months ago. There are a lot of cool critters in these waters, including frogs, several species of turtles, pickerel, sunfish, and snakes. Good times for kids. It was a good place to grow up.

A very large water snake sunning itself in New Jersey.

On this most recent visit, we were in New Jersey just as the leaves were turning colors. This last photo is one I stitched together in PhotoShop. A click will enlarge it, and then click on it again to see it full size.