Magnum Memories: A Young Hunter's Love for the 870 Wingmaster Magnum

Before there was the Benelli Super Black Eagle, in the late 1970-80s there was the Remington 870 Wingmaster 12-gauge 3-inch MAGNUM. No, not just an everyday Wingmaster but, a Wingmaster “MAGNUM.” A prized gun for the common folk.

In my early teens, the best gun shop in Holdrege, NE was Don Dealey’s barber shop. In this building the fishing supplies were in the front, the barbershop/conversation pit in the middle, and the gun rack was in the back. Dad would occasionally take me along when he would get his hair cut. As soon as we got there, I’d quietly slip into the back room and run my hand across the stock of the Wingmaster, like Ralphie exploring the leg lamp. I remember when Dad brought it home. It had a 30-inch barrel, 3-inch chambers, full choke; the Wingmaster Magnum! The name alone sounded like it would make you a true Wingmaster when you shot it. It sure did for my dad. A goose never stood a chance with him behind it.

I loved shooting that gun. It had a thin pistol grip that fit my then-smaller hands, the pump action was silky smooth, and that 30-inch barrel felt like I was swinging a howitzer. Dad had bought me a 2 ¾” Remington 1100 which, looking back, was supposed to be a superior gun. I shot it well, but it jammed constantly, and it only shot the tiny 2 ¾” shells. I wanted to swing the big boy bat. I had to have a 3-inch magnum.

One day in high school my buddy Dirk and I played hooky because the geese were in. I remember him telling me, “We’ll have our one-bird limit within minutes. Let’s go!” For such a special occasion I thought the Wingmaster would be perfect, so, I snuck it out of the house. We got to the ice-choked Platte River and sure enough, it didn’t take but a few minutes to get our birds. Heading back to the car, we had to cross a 3-5 foot-deep north channel. It was always a ballet of  walking across the moving sandbars to get over safely. Even as high schoolers, we had done it a hundred times. I got on all fours and dipped my foot off the ice shelf into the river to find the bottom. I couldn’t feel it right away, so I stretched as far as I could with my leg and took one hand off the bank—and the 870. At that moment, my Dad’s Wingmaster slid off the icy bank and into the depths of the water’s darkness. I cried out a string of youthful profanities. Dirk and I just stared at the water praying it would somehow pop back up. After sitting there for a few seconds, envisioning my life ending, Dirk suddenly was in the river to his chest, waders full of bone-chilling water, wading and sweeping the bottom with his feet. After a few minutes, he yelled out, “I feel it!” He wedged it under an ice shelf and we both jumped into shoulder-deep water to pull it out. We got to the car, warmed up and high tailed it home. Before I headed back to school, I broke down the prized gun, cleaned it to my absolute best, and put it back in the gun rack. Then I waited to see if Dad would notice anything different.

I didn’t sleep much that week, and I swore off ever skipping school if God would get me out of this jam. As the days clicked by, it was becoming evident I was going to get away with the escapade. Luckily, I did.Fast forward a year and to another goose season. It was Thanksgiving and a brutal cold front was coming through. My dad was going to stay back at the house with the relatives, but I was darn sure not going to miss this migration and was off to the blind. Just as I was headed out the door Dad stopped me. “There’s going to be some big geese coming through today, you better take my gun.” I was shocked. “Really? I can take it?” and then I heard that phrase that is the death knell of regret for any kid growing up. He said, “Sure. All have to do is ask.” I was stunned—stunned for about 3 seconds before I ran back downstairs and grabbed his gun with the big shells.

A few years later my dad swapped out the old fixed choke 30-inch barrel for a 26-inch screw in choke version. He was so excited to have screw in chokes, but the shorter barrel didn’t swing as well. Then the 870 Express came out and I bought my own 3-inch gun. Even then, it wasn’t the same.

My Dad gave up waterfowling in his 60s. He’d make an occasional appearance in the blind just to have breakfast and shoot the breeze, but he retired the ol’ 870. I’d joke with him that I’d come steal it if he wasn’t going to use it anymore. To my surprise just a couple of years ago he gave it to me. Placing my hand around its pistol grip brought back a rush of memories and, yes, the vision of it sliding into the river.

The first thing I did was try to hunt down an original 30-inch full choke barrel. Back in the day they were everywhere at gun shows, but it was not until this last fall that I finally found one. It made its first appearance back in action on a late season duck and goose hunt where I took a limit of green wings. It still swings and feels like a howitzer—I love it.

I’ll pass it down to my son Blake one of these years. He’s not quite enamored with the gun like I am. But he’s heard the story of the river rescue many times. My dad? Surprisingly enough, when this topic came up recently, he said he’d never heard the story. He’d never even suspected! Somewhere that 16-year-old me grinned because he got away with it. Maybe I should have just asked...

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