16ga

[Craig Larter]

I copied this from FB, what say u??:
The 16-gauge didn’t disappear because it failed. It disappeared because the hunting world got louder. Caught between the brute certainty of the 12 and the easy handling of the 20, the 16 never begged for attention. It simply worked, quietly, season after season, teaching balance long before balance became something people talked about online.
This gauge was built for hunters who walked, not those who counted payload. It carried well, pointed naturally, and delivered patterns that rewarded timing rather than panic. With a 16-gauge, you couldn’t rely on excess shot to clean up late decisions. You had to mount clean, swing smoothly, and commit when the window was right. Miss the moment, and the gun didn’t argue with you. It reminded you.
That reminder is why many old hunters never let theirs go. The 16-gauge sits in a sweet spot where power is present but never overwhelming. Recoil is noticeable enough to demand respect, yet gentle enough to stay honest. It doesn’t encourage rushing. It encourages rhythm. It doesn’t flatten mistakes with force. It exposes them with clarity.
As modern hunting drifted toward extremes, the 16 gauge stayed centered. It never tried to be lighter than everything or stronger than everything. It asked one simple thing instead: that the hunter meet it halfway. Good footwork. Clean mounts. Real patience. Those who learned on the 16 learned to value flow over force, and judgment over noise.
The 16 gauge isn’t outdated. It’s unfashionable. And that distinction matters. It represents a time when hunters chose tools that shaped behavior rather than inflated confidence. In a world chasing edges and excess, the 16 gauge reminds us that balance is not a compromise—it’s a discipline.
The 16 gauge didn’t disappear because it failed. It disappeared because the world around it simplified. Hunters were told to choose sides—light or heavy, 20 or 12—and the middle was quietly abandoned. Not because it was wrong, but because it didn’t shout for attention.
What defines the 16 gauge is proportion. It carries more authority than a 20 without demanding the bulk of a 12. The payload feels purposeful, not excessive. Recoil is present, but measured. In the hands, the gun balances naturally, especially in classic field guns built before “modular” became a selling point. Nothing feels forced. Nothing feels trimmed down to make a category.
In the deer woods, the 16 gauge shines in places charts don’t measure. It moves smoothly through cover. It settles quickly on target. With slugs or appropriate loads, it delivers clean results at realistic distances without the fatigue that often follows heavier gauges. The experience feels deliberate rather than defensive.
The reason many hunters never tried the 16 is simple: it requires context. It doesn’t dominate a spec sheet. It doesn’t promise extremes. Instead, it rewards hunters who already understand their distances, their angles, and their patience. The 16 doesn’t rescue rushed decisions—but it doesn’t punish thoughtful ones either.
This is why those who discover the 16 late often ask the same question: why did we skip this? Not because it outperforms everything else, but because it fits so well that it fades from focus. And when a tool disappears, judgment takes over.
The controversy around the 16 gauge isn’t about effectiveness. It’s about relevance. In a world obsessed with fewer choices, the 16 reminds hunters that balance used to be the goal—not a compromise.
Choose the 16 gauge if you want the steadiness of a 12 without its weight, and the handling of a 20 without giving up authority. It’s ideal for hunters who value proportion over popularity and performance over packaging. The 16 gauge isn’t forgotten because it’s obsolete. It’s forgotten because it refuses to fit into simple arguments. And that may be exactly why it still works.