Worst gun you ever owned

[chrisun]

We always speak of our favourite guns. I was wondering what was the worst gun you ever owned. For me it was a Browning BLR in 308. I couldn't get rid of it fast enough. The gun wouldn't hold a good group at all.

[kevin2]

I don't if I'd call it the worst, but it was my least favorite. I got a single shot 20 gauge for Christmas when I was a kid, I think it was a Stevens. It was OK, till you needed another shot! Sold it to a good friend to give to his boy a few years back. Says that have a blast shooting it & the 22lr he also picked up from me. The 22 was much better, as it could take about 25 rounds before it was empty.

[neverstopchasin]

stouger p350 couldnt hold a pattern

[paboxcall]

A Mossberg 500.  I bought it new when I was still in college.  Out of the box, PoA/PoI issue - shot 3 inches left and 4 inches low regardless of choke.  Put a set of fiber optic sights on the rib and maxed them out to get it to shoot 60/40 and about inch or so left.  Missed a bird at twenty steps I worked for two hours and four set ups.  Oh, the magazine tube spring twisted on itself that season pushing shells in, and I had to disassemble the gun twice to get the shells out.  Just one of those things, I guess.

[Kylongspur88]

Had a marlin 336 30-30 that couldn't hit a barn from the inside. I spent more money trying to get the gun to shoot than I spent on the gun.

[reynolds243]

had an old Remington 1100 that would not cycle properly EVER no matter what i tried to do!

[Bigstruttin]

For me it was a Rossi .270

[J Hook Max]

 I know this would be a long answer , but this a chapter from a book I wrote a few years ago. It would definitely refer to a gun I think was cursed. WARNING: Only read this if you have some time on your hands.

Chapter Six
No Confidence

   It's with mixed feelings that I recall events about having confidence in your shotgun, or more appropriately the consequences of not having confidence in your shotgun.

   It happened over a series of hunts but started with the first couple of days of the Alabama turkey season somewhere in the early 2000s.

    My longtime friend Hal Stone made a trip down from Memphis to hunt with me near Burnt Corn, Alabama. I had an old camphouse near there and some excellent turkey hunting property. I had done plenty of preseason scouting and everything was looking great.

   On opening morning, Hal and I were trying to outsmart some turkeys. I called in a huge gobbler for Hal. The only problem was that the only time this gobbler came into range, he was behind a large magnolia tree and Hal was never able to get a shot at him.

   The next morning, we split up and I let Hal go after the big gobbler while I headed to another part of the property. Fairly early in the morning, I heard Hal shoot. I decided to go back to the truck and see if he had killed the big tom. Hal was already there and had a nice two-year- old gobbler, but not the big gobbler we had seen the day before. He had, however, seen the big tom again and it was decided that, later in the morning, we would go back into the woods after him, this time with me as the shooter.

   We headed back to the camp to clean Hal's turkey but as I went to unload my Winchester pump shotgun, the slide broke on the gun. I was terribly upset because this little lightweight pump had killed a bunch of turkeys. I was very confident in this gun and knew that until I could get it repaired, I would have to use another shotgun.

   I had another turkey gun, a Remington 870 Express three-inch magnum. It was an excellent gun for turkeys, although a bit heavier to carry around in the hilly land where I hunted. I was also using some of the Remington Heavy Shot. I had patterned these new shells in my Winchester, but not in this Remington shotgun.

   After cleaning Hal's turkey, we drove back to my house, picked up the other shotgun and headed back to the woods. Hal knew right where he had seen this big tom. As we got close to that spot, I called and the gobbler hammered right back.

   We quickly got set up with Hal about 20 yards behind me. Hal made a couple of calls and within minutes the turkey gobbled much closer. I sat staring in the direction of the last gobble. A couple of minutes passed before I spotted the gobbler's head just beyond a large rock that was just up a small rise from me. The gobbler was no more than 25 yards from me and I had no idea if Hal had even seen the turkey. The tom was peering over the top of the rock and straight toward us.

   I had my bead right on his head, but his head was all I could see. I held off shooting, thinking he would surely take a step or two to the side of the rock. In that instant, Hal cut loose with a loud cackle. The gobbler ducked his head and that was the last I saw of him.

   I knew Hal had not seen the turkey as he was much too experienced a caller to give such a loud call at a turkey so close. I suppressed my disappointment. A few minutes later, we got the turkey to gobble again, but he was at least a hundred or more yards away from us. I told Hal, "Let's ease out of here and I'll try and kill him tomorrow morning."
 
   The next morning, I eased into the area very early. As daylight broke, the big gobbler cut loose and started gobbling less than 75 yards from me. He flew down and was just beyond the point of a ridge, probably 50 yards away and gobbling hard. Then two turkeys flew down right behind me. I figured these were his hens. I was in the perfect setup, I thought.
   
   A couple of minutes later, I heard turkeys walking behind me and to my left. I slowly turned my head. Two nice longbeards were stepping gingerly through the woods about 40 yards from me and as one passed behind a large beech tree, I turned and raised my gun. As he stepped out from the tree, I killed him graveyard dead. He turned out to be a nice two-year-old gobbler.

   I was happy about this bird, but the big tom was still alive and very savvy. I knew this close gunshot would only make him wilder. Very pleased with the shot I had made, I was fired up and ready for the rest of the season.

   My next opportunity would not take long. Just a few days later, I found a bunch of very fresh strut marks in an old road. The very next morning, I was right there as daylight began to break. A turkey soon gobbled very close. I was in the perfect spot to call in this bird, which is  exactly what I did.

   The gobbler stood motionless at about 30 yards. I drew down on him and fired. The gobbler immediately flew straight up in the air, went about 10 yards and returned to the ground. When his feet hit the ground, I shot again and killed him.
 
   I was totally puzzled as to how I had missed such an easy shot. Nonetheless, I had killed a nice gobbler and didn't think too much more about it.
 
   A few days after this hunt, I again called in a nice gobbler. Again, I had an easy shot. This time, I crippled the bird—taboo to an ethical hunter—and didn't get a second chance. Obviously, I was frustrated.

   My friend Cliff had invited me to hunt with him in Savannah, Tennessee. This property was adjacent to the Center Cross Hunting Club mentioned earlier. The place was covered up with turkeys and I could not wait to get to Tennessee.

   I arrived in Savannah the night before and the next morning we were in the woods. Turkeys were gobbling everywhere, maybe as many as 15 gobblers at one time. This was an unbelievably good place—a turkey utopia.
 
   Two of these gobblers were roosted together very close to us and after they flew down, we quickly called them right to us. We were sitting side by side and the turkeys came in on Cliff's side. I told him to go ahead and take the shot. Cliff killed his turkey and the other gobbler was stepping quickly away. I drew down on him, but the way his head was bobbing through the trees, I knew it would not be an easy shot.

   With the lack of confidence I had in this shotgun, I held up on the shot and let the turkey go.

   Later that morning, Cliff and I headed to some of the other turkeys we had heard gobbling. We quickly struck up a bird and slipped into our setup. It took a while but we finally called this gobbler in. An airplane was passing overhead and when it stopped humming, I heard the turkey drumming and realized he had slipped in on my right side. As he passed behind a fairly large pine tree, I turned and got my gun on him.

   The turkey seemed to detect my movement and began to quickly step away. I shot but missed again.

   Back at the camp, my face held the expression of a groom having stepped on a wad of fresh bubblegum. We patterned my shotgun and it was dead on. I just couldn't figure out why I kept missing these turkeys. My frustration was getting worse, but the hunting at this place was unbelievably good. I couldn't wait until the next morning.

   I don't remember much about the next morning other than we didn't kill anything. However, later that day, I would be in for the most exciting turkey hunt of my life.

   In the early afternoon, Cliff and I walked down an old logging road and about three to 400 yards deep into the woods we stopped and made a call. Deep in the hollow to our left, a hen started cutting at us. We cut back at her and got her really fired up. Across the hollow past her, three turkeys started gobbling amid all the commotion.

   We did our best to circle around the hen and get into place to call at these gobblers. For some reason, the hen went silent but the gobblers sure didn't. We were trying all the calls we knew, but these gobblers were locked into their spot on the ridge.

   Cliff had been making some fighting purrs and the turkeys were gobbling like crazy at his calls. I told Cliff, "You keep them gobbling and I'm going to slip in close and kill one."
 
   And slip in close was exactly what I did, so close that these toms were gobbling at me walking in the leaves. I got set up no more than 60 or 70 yards from them. Just after I sat down facing them, another turkey gobbled right behind me.

   Within 10 minutes, two more turkeys had started gobbling to my left. There were six different turkeys gobbling on this one ridge, all within 75 yards of me. This went on for at least an hour. Though I purred and scratched the leaves, none of the birds would show themselves.

   You can only imagine what kind of shape my nerves were in. It was the most nerve wracking hunt I had ever been on. Finally, the initial three gobblers were mute for about 10 minutes, and then I spotted them easing toward my left.

   I softly purred and one of the gobblers split from the others and started easing my way. I just knew I was going to get my chance. Of course, in the back of my mind I was hoping I would not miss.

   A big top had blown out of a pine and the gobbler came in somewhat behind the fallen limbs. He was clearly in range, but not exactly wide open. The big tom cut loose and gobbled several times, his call amplifying and creating some major excitement. I kept waiting on him to step a little more into the open. I just didn't have the confidence to take the shot.

   Long story short, the gobbler eventually turned and walked back to the other two gobblers, never giving me a good clear shot. They finally eased off through the woods and were gone.
 
   During this time, the other turkeys had stopped gobbling and I had no idea where they were. I sat in that spot for quite some time and finally got up and eased back to where Cliff waited.
He couldn't believe that I had not fired a shot. I was determined not to miss or cripple another turkey, I told him.
 
   Sad to say, but this ordeal was not over. Cliff and I had taken a trip to the Missouri Ozarks. We were doing our hunting on the Mark Twain National Forest, a fantastic habitat for turkeys but heavily hunted and populated with some of the slickest turkeys ever to match a hunter's wits.

   We hunted for several days. I had spent three days in a row trying to call up one old smart gobbler. On the last day of our hunt, we woke up to a cold rain. Cliff said he was tired and burned out and would stay in the cabin, but I had a personal vendetta to try and kill the old gobbler that had outsmarted me for days.

   So out into the cold rain I headed. As it would turn out, I finally did call in the gobbler. After some pretty heavy gobbling, he slipped in slowly and silently, a monster with an extremely thick beard on him. When he got within about 35 yards, I shot. The huge gobbler was immediately airborne and gone, leaving me to watch in disbelief.

   Dejected, I trudged back to our cabin. Cliff was packing up his gear for the ride home. As I laid down my empty hull, he looked at me kind of funny, as if knowing I had missed again. Wordless for a moment, I emptied the other Heavy Shot shells from my vest. Sighing, I told Cliff he could give them to his son, Russell. I just didn't want them anymore.
 
   That hunt was the end of what may have been the most exciting turkey season in my lifetime, and I had killed a grand total of two turkeys.

   Soon after turkey season had closed, I sold the shotgun to my good friend Eric Herron who went out the very next season and promptly missed a turkey with it. Eric sold the gun as well and all I can say is, I feel sorry for the new owner. I think maybe the Turkey Gods had put a curse on that gun.
 
   When the following season rolled around, I headed back into the woods with my little Winchester pump. Now with my confidence restored, I again became a turkey slayer.











Chapter Seven
South Mississippi

[WildSpur]

Mossberg 695.  I bought it because I was a Mossberg fanboy.  Trigger stinks and the safety sticks.

Sent from my SCH-I545 using Tapatalk

[guesswho]

Rem. 870

I have had several, but one wasn't worth melting down

[Tail Feathers]

Mine was a Taurus 9mm Millenium pistol.
Would jam every four or five shots and the last round from every mag.

[Gooserbat]

Knight T-Bolt muzzleloader. 

[stinkpickle]

I guess I've been lucky enough not to have ever owned a terrible gun.  Some are better than others, but they've all been good.

[Woods-n-water]

Stoeger condure over/under 12g. You get what you pay for I suppose.

[budtripp]

I haven't owned a bad one yet. Then again, I tend to be a bit picky with regards to my guns. My motto is "life's too short to own an ugly/cheap gun".