Can anyone tell me anything about KURT O. HAASE [Deceased]?
1. From what I hear, [he was a] first class riflesmith and engraver who owned the Frontier Gun Shop in Lafayette California until his death.
2. I am particularly interested in his reputation [if any] and the quality of his work. I have the chance to buy an F.N. 7X57 CUSTOM SPORTER bullt by him with an Ashton barrel and a very nice black walnut stock with germanic influences in 99% overall condition. With schnabel, rounded forearm checkering panels, raised side stock panels, slight monte carlo, and shadowline cheekpiece for under $700.
3. Complete with Buehler mounts and early 1960'S Bushnell 4X SCOPEMASTER.
1. As mentioned in the following account, the engraver (who was also extremely talented) lived upstairs of the gun shop. I've forgotten his name.
2. I would think, given the price you mention, that you may have found one of the more common or plain examples of Frontier output. Without pictures, I cannot advise.
3. Kurt was also the designer of the scope mounts on the rifle you mention (which is why many Frontier Gun Shop firearms featured Buehler mounts). I believe Kurt owns the patents, and built the prototypes. Buehler factory mounts were therefore produced under license. I believe in fact that the factory was in Orinda, California which is the next town to the west of Lafayette.
Dear Alvin (or Jerry is it?),
Adriano Lorenzo, a friend in Brazil, has forwarded me your questions last night having done his own research, long after having heard my own accounts of the man you inquire of. I hope then that you will understand at least to some significant extent, the reasons I might be so compelled to answer your questions. It would be our very great loss, if we are to know so little of a man who may well instead deserve legendary status: Kurt was certainly not only one of the finest gunsmiths in history. He was also one of the most exemplary people on the planet.
I knew Kurt personally since I was about ten. We had just moved to the distant outskirts of Lafayette; and suddenly I had 20 miles of hills out the back door. These were rich with game; and though my father did not hunt, I suppose I was just coming to realize hunting was in my blood. One day, I rode my bicycle the four miles into town to see whatever there was to see on the way, and to explore the town itself.
Touring the older neighborhoods below the hills we now lived in, and finally reaching town, I didn't get beyond Frontier Gun Shop. Thus when I met Kurt, I was just a boy exploring the nearest town of the area we had just moved to.
For sufficiently good manners, I was tolerated to hang out in his Frontier Gun Shop though obviously, I could hardly have been expected to be much of a customer. The price of admission was somehow understood intuitively. However I knew, I knew not even to touch the glass and never to bring anyone who wouldn't understand the same. Perhaps nonetheless, the most remarkable thing about Kurt O. Haase, even from the very beginning, was how many things you learned constantly by no more than observing the man.
I learned business by listening to negotiations between the other fine gunsmiths who visited, between collectors, and between regular customers. I can hardly imagine anyone not realizing that whatever went down at Frontier Gun Shop was the most important, credible, and exemplary of our industrial-commercial endeavors. But it took years to appreciate why it was that people such as famous shotgun engineer and craftsman Bruce Stephens visited Kurt on practically a daily basis.
Bruce would regularly visit often with a Browning Superposed or rare shotgun just before noon. Sometimes, but rarely, he'd stop in a little later in the day. Bruce made no apology for the fact he didn't show up at his own shop until whatever hours regular traffic would appear. Visiting Bruce was important enough that his clients would wait for him. I was only about to come to understand what these things meant. But I soon knew every gun at Frontier usually not by asking, but instead by researching the plentiful material in the shop itself. I bought book after book; and I was soon interested not just in what work was of Kurt's own making... but the ballistics, effective range, and proper usage of sporting firearms fitting my own interests.
In any case, it soon became my habit to stop at Kurt's Frontier Gun Shop at every opportunity. Somehow I became trusted, even as a young boy; and because I sold my oil paintings in five major galleries of the bay area, soon enough I began to purchase guns myself. While earning credibility from such a man at such an age was important enough itself, I could write extensively about far more important influences. Perhaps the few accounts I offer here will do your question justice.
To speak or write about Kurt then and to answer your questions is inevitably to convey Kurt's character. He was a rare enough man, that neither portraying nor understanding his character is an easy task. To understand what I'd only hope to convey, itself would require at least sufficient dignity and character as makes it possible to appreciate Kurt's. I almost hesitate then, to try to tell you with just one example as follows, because the simpleton, failing to measure the involved facts, could easily underestimate the great responsibility it personified. No way can we rightly appreciate what goes on here then, without at least a minimal background.
Before beginning the story then, I will first say this: Kurt had a way of putting any kind of impropriety immediately in its proper place. He was himself an infallible judge of character, and though he might not say so explicitly, because he was himself a genuinely humble, modest man... he was naturally above associating with the most of us. It was Kurt's principle to never suffer fools. If a pretender visited the shop meaning to deceive Mr. Haase in even the least way, Kurt had a way of just suddenly looking at such a person which would stop them dead in their tracks. He'd rather have them leave than do business with them. The result? Great people came daily. The occasional accident of impropriety was rare.
I myself accidentally wandered into a situation which truly measured this man. I was about eleven; and already I had several .22s. I very regularly bought ammunition with my own money, but I'd have my mother make the purchase.
My gun safety was impeccable. Anyone can judge this from the very way we handle *any* gun at any time. And I had been allowed to handle a number of rifles in the shop plenty for such keen eyes to gauge however careful I might be. Everyone my age wanted to hunt with me. But, probably much like Kurt, only occasionally did I allow someone else to come... and if their gun safety skills weren't also perfect.. that was the end of that. We would just hike right down out of the hills.
Before I tell the rest of our story however, I should make two things very clear.
Maybe the first of these will not be clear enough from the preceding account of Kurt's handling of deception. But it is this remarkable fact: No one lied to Kurt Haase. No fibs. No exaggeration. It didn't happen. Pretenders would give up their efforts before they could finish them. Everyone just knew the man was no fool. Kurt would look right through a person so they knew, he *always* knew. Without even any seeming effort, he ruled a realm filtered and distilled naturally, and without exception, to the truth.
The second background factoid I feel compelled to make clear, was Kurt's righteous ability and willingness to put all good things in their rightful place. Because it is germane to the outer story, and because these were the terms by which I was to appreciate what I would learn from my role in the same story, perhaps a necessary background for appreciating the present story is best exemplified by a small sub-plot, in which during one of my early stops at Frontier, I was compelled to purchase a copy of P.O. Ackley's first reloading manual.
This came, to my delight, with a small manila envelope containing material which provided two methods for calculating ballistics. I saw the book was important for my new-found interest in hunting. I had handled it. This, in my mind, tarnished its new state. And I was an advanced student in mathematics actually, self taught in introductory calculus at the time. So I bought the book, and immediately began to calculate ballistics for the most promising wildcat and factory calibers for deer hunting.
The next time I visited his shop, I had more ballistics under my belt than most grown men ever would in their lives. In digesting the implications of ballistics, I had calculated leads and compensation for inclined shooting angles; and even more importantly, I understood and calculated the limitations on reliably striking vital target diameters as imposed by range estimation error. These were obviously very important issues; and so the means of these calculations, which I developed on my own, became routine and even indispensable operations.
So all of a sudden one day very soon down the road from taking that book home, I'm hanging out in Kurt's shop amongst men who aren't quite sure what to make of me... but do... and Kurt has been showing two rifles of his own making to a purchasing customer who cannot decide between what is virtually the same gun in either .243 Winchester or 6mm Remington. As much as the man was indecisive for practically half an hour, finally I took it upon myself to interrupt saying only at first, "Do you see those trees out the window?"
I was mature enough to realize that this intervention might not be appreciated. But in fact I had envisioned how to resolve the man's indecision in absolutely concrete terms.
So I continued, "How far away do you think they are?"
Before I interrupted as I did, I had judged the trees to be about 300 yards or so (whatever it was). In fact then, I picked these particular trees out, because I had calculated their approximate distance to be about the maximum reliable striking range for deer, given then best range estimation skills with a dual-image range finder (of which I had purchased and practiced as well) for the both of the calibers in question.
In other words, with the approximate 100 fps differential between the two calibers and plausible bullet designs for the stated purpose of deer hunting, there was something like a 10-yard differential in capability to reliably strike a vital target diameter *if* the shooter can indeed, *reliably* estimate the maximum possible reliable striking range to within +- 25 yards.
Very, very, very few people can do this.
In fact then, after my question, I went outside and stepped off the distance as best I could returning to the shop with a report corroborating that what I was about to explain was in fact a real-world case, reflecting his potential usage.
Fortunately, when I asked the question, both men saw that I was indeed headed in the direction of resolving their conundrum. Not only were they willing to listen for at least a moment. Despite the fact my credibility was yet to be established, they even answered my question.
The customer thought the distance had to be half a mile. Kurt thought it was substantially less. He was closer. But way off. Neither came anywhere near satisfying the requisite +- 25-yard range estimation accuracy required to reliably strike a vital target diameter at the ostensible maximum range of the calibers and rifles which made the prospective rifleman, in both cases, the limiting factor.
Thus thanks to so much practice with my dual-image range finder, my own estimation proved relatively close when I later stepped off the approximate distance through town.
Nonetheless, before I did so, I informed both gentlemen that neither's range estimation accuracy could make use of the maximum reasonable ranges of either weapon which differed inconsequentially. After walking them through the math and geometry (determining the rate of fall through the maximum reliable striking range for the expressed requisites to illustrate the indispensable need to ascertain the range so accurately, I then asked the man if he ever intended to shoot anything so far away?
"No," he replied.
So I explained that what I had just demonstrated to him then, was that *neither* caliber's negligible differential in prospective effective range was of consequence to him, because of his own range estimation skills (or actually, lack thereof) that the trajectories differed negligibly; and that the differences in trajectory made virtually no difference whatsoever to his potential usage of either gun. He thus bought the gun of his choice on its other merits; and Kurt was in fact quite impressed.
With these two issues sufficiently solidified as background for the remarkable events of the intended account then, I can tell my intended brief story:
One day, not too long after this, I rode my bicycle into town, thinking rather innocently and naively that I'd purchase my own case of .22 long rifle rather than bothering my mother. So I went off to do so. Eight miles round trip, thinking I'm just going to peddle back routinely, toting a case of .22 ammunition.
Arriving at the store, I went to the counter, and seeing I wanted something, Kurt asked if he could help me. I blurted out with all the naivety in the world that I wanted a case of long rifle.
Those penetrating eyes looked right through me. Kurt already had judged that I was exceedingly trustworthy on my own. But he leaned forward as he looked right through me and asked, "Now... you're *not* going to be sharing these with *any* of your friends, are you?"
He pronounced the word "are," not as a question: It was *a statement* a hard and fast rule more significant than those of the Bible. Kurt's rules were never to be broken. Not once. No exceptions. Every implication was to be understood and faithfully abided by, accordingly.
"No," I understood, and replied. My friends were certainly not going to be borrowing any of this ammunition. Kurt might as well have been right there, on every hunt and at every moment at my bench rest, which I kept in the hills.
"And your mother knows about this?" he asked.
"She will when I get home," I replied... understanding that another rule was now that she would in fact be informed.
"How about if we call her?" Kurt asked.
"That'll be fine," I said.
He dialed the phone and handed it to me, further providing the gentlemanly opportunity that I explain the situation.... He then spoke to my mother for a few minutes, and from that day on, I bought my own ammunition and reloading supplies. That's right. An ever-more-responsible young boy peddled home with that ammunition.
Now, I dare also say that I doubt any other child was granted this responsibility. But given the related facts and considerations, that's the kind of man Kurt Haase was.
Although my admiration for Kurt far exceeds what I might put down in the rest of the morning here, I nonetheless assure you that his integrity, skill, technological prowess, artistry, and craftsmanship (as you can probably deduce from the rifle you inquire about) were exemplary. Kurt could make virtually *anything*... and even his prototypes would show the polished nuances of the most mature and well engineered product.
Kurt had both class and the most subtle form of style of the rarest kinds. Pictures will not do his work justice. You have to see it; you have to hold it; you have to shoulder and to point it; you have to feel the cheek piece and pistol grip. You could go anywhere in the country (as my family did), stop at any fine, well known gun shop, and never find the skill, artistry, class, and style of Kurt's work.
On the most candid facts of consideration, I assert without prejudice that Kurt was himself one of the most fabulous gunsmiths in history. He also trained some of the most fabulous gunsmiths in history. Both Duane Wiebe (of Cabela's custom gunsmithing fame) and Bruce Stephens (one of the finest shotgun smiths in history) were Kurt's students. No gunsmith anywhere in the region, who didn't know who Kurt Haase was, could have been credible himself. Kurt was the very fore of the finest gunsmithing standards and traditions. I was very, very, very fortunate to get to know this man quite well.
By the time I was 12, I was checkering my own gunstocks, repairing the rare scratch, and even doing some engraving all self taught. A friend's father had one of Kurt's finest 7x61 S&H magnums. A horse threw Jim Simonds on an elk hunting trip, and the horse ended up falling on the rifle breaking it through the middle of the pistol grip. I repaired the break even so meticulously painting the grain on filled missing pieces, that you could not tell the gun had ever been broken.
One day, after showing Kurt my first attempts at engraving, he asked me to be his last apprentice. I gave this offer very serious consideration for the next few years, but eventually declined because I could foresee the difficulties ahead in the social climate of the time. But I worked for several periods with Kurt, and have a particularly indispensable further story to tell about who Kurt O. Haase was.
Kurt had left Germany as a young man when Hitler came to power foreseeing what was to transpire. He left everything behind to come to America. Evidently too, so conscious was he of prospective anti-German sentiment, that you would never have known Kurt wasn't raised here. He had no accent. Perfect diction. Fabulous enunciation, and command of language.
And what was his most important personal characteristic even though you likely never knew the remarkable tribulations of his own roots?
Kurt's most pronounced and remarkable personal characteristic was his ever-compulsory disposition to explain the responsibilities of a constitutional republic for which he thus was forever teaching the consequences of political irresponsibility and indifference. As great a gunsmith as Kurt Haase was, he was far more an exceedingly exemplary citizen.
Just one story about this most important aspect of his character then again, with indispensable background.
Kurt was impeccable. He never compromised principle. He was handsome. He was strong. You didn't mess with Kurt. He didn't mess with you. If he made an appointment, he was always there five minutes early. You better be there, too. Except in one case, every day, Kurt Haase was punctual as punctual can be. Actually, I wouldn't even assert his routine workday mornings were an exception but the why of that is a technicality of which he was certainly not guilty of breaching.
The rest of us would open the shop at opening hours, and get to work. Frontier was an old-style storefront with a large glass street window and a single wooden door to the side. According to usual convention, the workshop was in the back. The store occupied the front of a long building with an upstairs, where the engraver (whose name I have forgotten) lived in an apartment. There was an old bell above the door. The bell would ring subtly, whenever anyone came or left.
Kurt would arrive anywhere from ten or fifteen minutes late, to sometimes forty-five minutes. Occasionally, we might work without him for as much as an hour and a half. The later he came to work, the greater the material to be shared and covered when he got there.
Whenever Kurt would arrive, you would hear the bell ring softly as he opened and closed the door behind him. Then he would just stand there at the front of the shop, until all of us looked up. Each of the few of us did this faithfully then, each morning. The unfolding routine would be the real beginning of our every day.
Rather conspicuously then, Kurt never said "good morning" when he arrived at work. He would stand there staring at us practically glowering until he had our full attention. He would be angry. Not at us. But at the world. A perceptive person could only tell, ever so subtly. Practically anyone however would come to anticipate the unfolding routine of every morning. This was a regular person's chance to hear a real critical thinker at work, resolving the world's every problem at whatever rate each was encountered.
Depending upon how late he was, he would have some collection of newspapers with him under arms, held in each hand whatever. Each was as he had purchased it. They were always restored to such a state as at first glance, you would think they had come right off the news stand. He would read them at the coffee shop. A sharp pencil would be stashed on top of either ear.
So, when he arrived at Frontier each morning, Kurt would just stand at the door until he had our full attention. When all eyes had given the master their every iota of attention, the first words out of Kurt's mouth then, every day, were finally (pausing on each part of what was always the very same question):
"Do you... KNOW... (he always paused here for a long time)... what... the... God Damned bureaucrats... DID... yesterday?"
Believe you me, he asked that same question every morning with the diligence and conviction of a man who was forced to leave Germany who felt he failed his countrymen in failing to get them to recognize and to arrest one of the greatest improprieties in history. I myself will never forget Kurt Haase, for just the way he came to work every morning. Thomas Jefferson himself wouldn't have missed a day.
The next hour was a highlight of every day. Kurt's morning lectures should have been on TV, instead of the purported news.
Having asked his every-day question, Kurt would then take each of his papers... one by one... carefully unrolling or unfolding one at a time... and navigating back to articles with notes he had penciled in the margins. No matter what the issue or nuance, it would not escape his field of view. He would then lecture us on whatever it was perhaps a board decision of a public water utility which should have been subjected to public affirmation whatever the case. Kurt Haase would thus lecture us on how, if we allowed the breach of principle to stand, we would soon also lose our country.
Kurt Haase of course, did not intend to let that happen. But for these daily lectures, only Thomas Jefferson himself has relatively equal patriotic stature in my own life and I am indeed a great fan of Jefferson as well.
While a ten-year-old boy could hardly see all this coming in the clearest terms... nonetheless, every sign was there from the beginning. It was all everywhere around you most particularly in his work, and his every moment.
However little a ten-year-old might realize it, Kurt was a role model therefore from practically the first moments I wandered through his door. Dignity and accomplishment were written all over Kurt Haase, without the least exception. Even a kid knew Kurt O. Haase was *someone*, instantly. Kurt was the greatest mentor and role model a young person could have had; and of all the people I've ever known, he was the greatest approximation of Thomas Jefferson in our own time.
If he spoke, it mattered. If he didn't speak, even fools knew his mind.
Whether the rifle you have evaluated is the most mundane or common example of what the man left behind, I can tell you this: That rifle is far more than a firearm, or work. It too is a gem, far moreso because it was produced by one of the finest gems in history.
Kurt cannot be known because he authored the Declaration of Independence. But what should be common, every-day virtues and instead are rarities kept the very most important, inalienable principles of the original revolution alive for every moment, without exception, in their every necessary sense. Without the very, very, very few Kurt O. Haases of this world... we will never restore or achieve again, the potential ideal sought only by the truly most rarest men, who know for all of us that principle is never to be compromised.
I hope these few words then, can possibly put into perspective what I presume you now have.
