Alaska tough Kimber: Kimber's genteel bolt gun faces the toughest terrain on the continent

Guns Magazine, March, 2003

"The stock design is something I'm very proud of," Van Brunt explained. "We used Darwin Hensley, who many regard as the finest living stockmaker, to assist us with the project. Hensley is a minimalist. He likes to take a lot of wood off and end up with a functional, but elegant and petite, stock,"

Indeed, the Model 84M I took to Alaska, complete with a Leupold Vari-X III 3-9x variable, tipped the scales at 5.75 pounds. We're talking a sub-six pound gun with a walnut stock.

But one question remained. Would that dainty stock and slim barrel be tough enough for Alaska's most rugged hunting?

Rifle Hell Week

In a week of high country hunting, I hardly pampered the Kimber. If it looks like it was dragged along the bottom of a rocky river, it was. If it looks like it was dropped, picked up and dropped again, it was. If it looks like it got pulled through several miles of alders, it was. If it looks like it was fully immersed underwater, it was. If it looks like it went through rifle hell week, it did.

The first test was trial by water. Arno, my guide, and I were in the bush for seven nights, eight days. The only thing wetter than my socks was the Kimber. It was drenched, almost constantly, if not from the rain, then from the river.

Of Attack

We camped in the river bottom, surrounded by the jagged mountains of the Alaska Range. The plan was to stay low and glass the mountains for sheep. If we spotted a promising head, we would climb and get a closer look. Consequently, we had to cross the river, which was fed by dozens of snowmelt streams, on numerous occasions.

Most of the time the cascading ice water was knee deep, and not too treacherous. Other times it was raging with such force that even Arno would shake his head and mutter, "It's not safe here. We'll have to find another place to cross."

Every now and then, there wasn't any safe alternative, only a lesser of two evils. We donned our waders, cut alder poles to act as a third leg and inched our way across. It looked like a piece of cake from the shore, but the water was deceptively strong.

I was half way across a particularly treacherous crossing--the water was surging only a few inches from the top of my waders--when my left foot slipped. I regained my footing, thanks to the pole, but not before the icy water had gushed into my left wader. Stinging with the cold, the wader filled almost instantly.

The shock of the cold water worsened the slip and before I could react, I was swept away by the freezing torrent. My only thought was to keep my feet facing downstream and to try and make it to shore.

The water felt like frozen needles stabbing every inch of my body. My left hand was totally submerged, a death-grip on the Kimber, and I felt the fingers growing numb. I suddenly realized that I had to get Out of that freezing water, and quick.

Unexpectedly, the river swept me to a shallow. Like a baserunner sliding into second, as my feet hit a large rock I popped up out of the water, standing precariously to balance the backpack. I still clutched the Kimber, dripping wet in my left hand.