My reloading mentors — Dad, center, flanked by Uncle Ken, left, and Uncle Gary, right. Photo courtesy of Steve Sorensen

Almost anyone could wrestle me down and make me say “Uncle,” and I’ll be glad to say it. That’s because God has blessed me with heroic uncles on both my mother’s and my father’s side of the family.

Two of them, my father’s oldest and youngest brothers, were instrumental in teaching me to reload ammo. Ken is a World War II veteran and soon to be 99 years old. Many locals from the old windmill-style fast-pitch softball league in Warren, Pennsylvania, remember him as an outstanding pitcher. One summer he beat the barnstorming King and His Court softball team led by the famous Eddie Feigner. Eddie wasn’t comfortable with losing.

As time slowly erodes Uncle Ken’s memories, I still love him for all he’s done for me. My wild efforts at copying his pitching style earned me trouble more than once. One of my many regrets is that he would have helped if I had only asked, but I didn’t ask. Learn this lesson early — it’s OK to ask for help.

Ken still honors me by always remembering me, though he has forgotten that he handloaded the bullet I used to shoot my first buck. The bullets delivered by his strong right arm were reliable, unpredictably, but his rifle bullets were reliable, absolutely.

My first deer rifle was a Savage Model 340 in .222 Remington, no one’s top whitetail medicine, but the 63-grain Sierra bullet did a great job on that 5-point buck. Once Ken piqued my interest in reloading, Dad thought we should start rolling our own ammo. It made gift-giving for Steve a no-brainer every Christmas and birthday.

During my high school years, I unwrapped a press heavier than anything you can buy today, cartridge dies suited to that monster press, a gunpowder scale sensitive enough to weigh a pencil checkmark on a slip of paper, and several auxiliary tools. The name brand was Herter’s of Waseca, Minnesota. (Cabela’s was still mainly a dry fly business.) Dad and I learned about powder burning rates and solved our stuck-case problems together.

My learning curve was interrupted by living in Boston, Kansas City, a small town in North Carolina, and the nation’s capital. It seemed much longer than 11 years, but when I returned Dad’s youngest brother Gary became my reloading mentor. Gary is only four years my senior, and his wife was a high school classmate of mine. We began pressing brass into reloading dies together, and he acquainted me with some of the newer reloading tools made by Redding, Lee, RCBS and Dillon Precision.

My personal Herter’s outpost was set up in Dad’s basement all the way into his later years, and whenever we assembled ammo he would always say, “Remember, this is all yours and when I’m gone you make sure you get it.” I did, and that old Herter’s scale is as accurate today as it was back in 19-never-mind.

That was a very long time ago. Time is something every human tries to resist, and every human fails. Gary now has a sad commonality with Lou Gehrig. Yes, the disease ALS is devastating, but it hasn’t weakened Gary’s courage, or altered his attitude of gratitude, or stopped him from smiling, or diminished his interest in anything.

Back in the spring I spent a day with Uncle Gary, and he wanted to reload some .44 magnum cartridges. The operations on his Dillon progressive reloader were automatic — depriming, resizing, repriming, powder charging, bullet seating, neck crimping — but he lacked the strength to pull the handle. His mind, however, was still sharp enough to guide me on a press more complicated than I’m used to.

Reloading can be as simple as you need it to be, or as complicated as you want it to be.

You may reload to save money. You may reload for better accuracy. You may reload so you can shoot more and improve your shooting skills. You may reload for the relaxation it provides. But nothing tops the fact that reloading will bring you valuable and unforgettable mentors. Or maybe turn you into someone’s mentor. That’s why saying “Uncle” makes me think of reloading.

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When “The Everyday Hunter” isn’t hunting, he’s thinking about hunting, talking about hunting, dreaming about hunting, writing about hunting, or wishing he were hunting. If you want to tell Steve exactly where your favorite hunting spot is, contact him through his website, www.EverydayHunter.com. He writes for top outdoor magazines, and won the 2015, 2018 and 2023 national “Pinnacle Award” for outdoor writing.