Those Finns sure knew how to make 'em.

My 111 year old M39 arrived a bit ago, snugly packaged within a long cardboard box. Removing it from the box proved to be problematic because as soon as it was freed of its confinement, it was in danger of being crushed by the dense field of awesome that surrounded it.

It was in better shape than Pat had let on (I've read this is usually the case when dealing with her), the wood was well finished, and it had small spots of cosmoline throughout. It was looking forward to a detail cleaning.

I grabbed my leatherman, patches, and cleaning kit (including my universal cleaning stick)(BTW, FUCKYEA!) and prepared to get acquainted with my new rifle.

A couple hours and a hand full of soiled patches later, my appreciation for my new rifle had grown into reverence. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but everything about the rifle just fit perfectly. The weight, the length, the stock, the balance, the everything. It all just fit. The trigger was smooth and even through the break, and with the weight of the rifle, a quick pull wouldn't pull the sights off target. After seeing the barrel serial number I considered nicknaming it "Lucky". That night I admired the rifle until late, and put it away. The next morning I picked it up again. This was the longest it would stay put away for a week.

The reason it took me so long to write this should come as no surprise. Whenever I came home, instead of blogging I was shouldering my rifle, working the action, and achieving an unexpected trigger break. After a week of practicing (practicing sounds so perfunctory, I should say "after a week of enjoying my rifle") the sights align right where I'm looking automatically after I shoulder the rifle.

For all this talk of how much I love my new old rifle, I still have yet to actually shoot it. Details, details... You will get an update when I get a chance to visit the desert.

Until then; more high res pictures here, here, here, here, here, and here.

Enjoy!