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Something few know is that Allen Day wanted, probably more than anything, to be a gun writer.

We were friends from the time Allen was in his 20s until his very-premature death. He was a medium-sized man and quite excitable, which was part of his charm. He'd get all excited about one rifle and buy a bunch of them ... I'll never forget the time he literally bought every caliber of Weatherby Mark V, from the .224 to the 460.

Allen had those gorgeous rifles, all with matched grafted dark/light walnut, laying on our living room rug. Looking down on the vast collection of Weatherbys was the big dall sheep I killed in the Yukon. And we put a rocking-chair of a mountain caribou rack I killed amongst them. Allen took a lovely photo of that scene and said:,"Steve, Karen, any of these pretty rifles could have killed that sheep and that caribou, but I believe the only one we'd ever care to fire is the .257."

Yeah, probably true. And it always kinda pissed Al off that almost all of our critters were killed with the lowly .250 Ackley, .30-'06 and the .280 Ackley.

Anyway, back to Allen Day, the gun writer. For many, many years, his bachelor years, Allen would show up right at dinner time and he was always welcome. Usually, we'd spend at least one night a week, just bullshitting about guides, hunting, just stuff.

After dinner, Allen would sit back, nip off a bit of his beloved Copenhagen. I'd shove my right cheek full of Red Man (I loved that stuff) and we'd nip a bit of the mornin' dew ... whatever finest whiskey one of us had. Allen would spit in his Dixie Cup and pontificate on his newest gunny treasure. How many mornings did I wander around the house cleaning up five or ten brown-spit filled Dixie Cups ... so Karen didn't have to do it.

I swallowed Red Man, which was much neater ... and kept me from getting worms when I scarf down raw deer and elk liver

Often, he'd have a manuscript of something he'd written. And writing got a little better with each attempt. I tried my level best to guide him along; giving Al a feel for word-flow and and trying desperately form his attempts at outdoors writing. He honestly could have made it, given time, practice an a million words.

I've often wondered what happened to Allen's writings. There are probably twenty or thirty fairly finished articles out there ... somewhere and unpublished.

And, my goodness, did Allen love to fart. He believed in his heart that dogs were put upon this earth for him to sit upon and torch off a BIG ONE. Our Scotty Dogs at the time, Mac and Megan, were totally docile and they smelled like Allen farts for hours after he left.

Some of you might remember that huge-bodied blacktail I killed up the Clackamas River. Allen was with me on that hunt. He was in our store, tlling me about a little forked-horn mulie he'd killed in eastern Oregon ... suddenly, he said "Steve, when are you going to show me how to hunt blacktails?"

That was on a Monday and I responded, "I have a day off tomorrow. Be at our home at 4AM and we'll go kill a big one." Allen didn't know I had a buck scouted-out and all I had to do was press the trigger, but the country was horrible and I needed an extra strong back to carry him out."

At four in the morning, Allen showed up in his little Bronco (or was it his Scout?) and we took Dead Meat the truck (78 Chevy) up Fish Creek and out onto the landing I'd shoot from.

It was dark, we got into position and with the first light, I spotted my buck. I tasked Allen to watch and I slowly squeezed the trigger of my .280LT. The buck took the bullet beneath the ear and flipped over. His white belly looked like a white Coke bottle ... unmoving.

We got our packs ready and Allen said, "This is bad, isn't it?" I answered, "Allen, you are the best person I could ever think of to be by my side, humping this miserable bugger of a hill."

I'm not going to describe it, but let's just say it took four hours to slip and slide down the canyon wall, climb the little island where the buck was standing, gut him and carry him back to the truck.

Karen and I killed three to four elk each year during those days, so our deer went to an old lady friend of ours, Mamie Buchanan. Allen was fine with that ... we'd hump Mamie's buck out ... with pride.

The last nice thing Allen did for me was to have Tom Turpin send me Tom's book, Mastery of Wood and Metal - David Miller Co. Allen asked Tom to nicely inscribe the frontspiece of the book. This is the message:

To Steve "Dogzapper" Timm,
Our mutual pal, Allen Day, wanted you to have a copy of this book. I sincerely ope you enjoy it. Hopefully, one of these days, we will out and do a bit of dog shooting again.
All the best,
Tom Turpin
Sierra Vista, AZ
March, 2006


I've been thinking quite a bit about Allen lately, so I've been re-reading Tom's fabulous book. Allen is as much a book as Tom is.

In reading the book and in participating in this thread, I'm stuck by one thing. Tom Turpin is truly a fantastic writer and he has field experience that few of us will ever equal ... surely not me.

Tom's writing is magnificently descriptive and yet he uses almost no words over three or four syllables, plus they are words we all know. And Tom's photographs of David Miller and Curt Crum crafting those highest-quality rifles is beyond compare.

Yeah, even though Allen is no longer with us, he is within all of us. The nice little thing he did, the childlike excitement about new stuff, just being Allen. Oh, by the way, that spread of Weatherbys all went back to Larry's Sporting Goods the next week ... Lordy, Allen must have token a bath on that one.

Allen loved the Lord. He enjoyed a mega-church, Rolling Hills Church, out on I-205 and I believe he and Beth moved to a church closer to home before he died.

The last time we talked, Allen suddenly piped up, "So you guys are Catholic, you are the original Christians, I totally respect you folks and your strict beliefs. Heck yes, I could be Catholic; easily, very easily."

I didn't respond ... none was needed. He saw it and liked the direction of our lives. And, at the same time, Allen followed his own direction, finding Our Lord in his own way. Respect is always better than separation and hatred.

Allen Day, you left us too soon. I love you, you Scotty-farting-on tough little bugger. Dammit, I miss you; and I'll be seeing you soon.

God Bless,

Steve