You meet the nicest people around a shotgun


Found ammo is better than loot

But friends are a much bigger hoot.

     The lesson I got

     For the shotgun I brought

Improved the way that I shoot.

Men like projectile weapons.  If we didn’t have constraints like time and money, most of us would do little else besides practice.  As kids we never got our fill of shooting because our dads had limits like time and money.

Thus men of retirement age gravitate towards sporting clays courses, trap ranges, golf courses, and archery lanes. 

Today I took my shotgun to Grand Island’s Heartland Public Shooting Park. (Explanation: a shotgun cartridge contains multiple pellets.  Today, I used loads of #8 shot, about the size of poppy seeds.  Good for killing clay targets but not for much else; you can buy them in Castro’s Cuba.) 

The facility ranks as the nicest shooting park I’ve been to.  It has up-to-date equipment, well maintained paths, and great habitat.

The sporting clays shotgun course covers seventy-five acres.  A mile-long gravel path encircles it. 

I enjoy a lot of things about shooting sports, among them the camaraderie and socializing.  A stranger here, I had to set out on the course by myself. 

Still, the weather cooperated and at the first of ten stations I hit 7 of the ten electrically thrown targets.  

At the third station I found a whole box of shells.  A brand I’d never heard of, Rio, with bright blue plastic husks, the only words on the box not in Spanish were MADE IN TENNESSEE.

Ammunition constitutes the biggest cost in shooting.  Occasionally one might find a shell that another shooter has dropped; to find an entire box outranks finding five dollars. 

I resisted the temptation to shoot them all right there.  I put them in my backpack, telling myself I’d turn them in at the clubhouse when I was done, then thinking, Yeah, right.  I grinned to myself as I walked away from the station and a button buck deer crossed my path.  

I considered the irony; the deer can’t find a safer place to live than a shooting range.  People who own firearms tend to be law-abiding.  No one would risk getting kicked out of a shooting park for discharging a firearm in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

As I walked up to station #4 I saw two golf carts pulling away with five people.  Even at a walk I caught up with them at station #6.  I pulled my muffs from my ears and asked, “Who’s shooting Blue Rio’s?”

They all were.  I told them I’d picked up a box of their shells, they invited me to shoot with them.

Tim and John were teaching three adolescents.  As I got into position, we saw a rooster pheasant gliding into the thick switchgrass ahead of us.  I had just loaded my 12 gauge when one of the young adults pointed out a deer almost hidden in the tall grass, less than 50 yards in front of us, probably the same button buck I’d seen earlier.  He stared at us for a while, got bored, and browsed off into invisibility. 

I didn’t shoot very well; Tim gave me some pointers, and I smoked two flyers in a row. (When one hits a clay target with enough pellets, it breaks into a cloud of debris, like smoke.)

I had a yoyo in my backpack and I did a minute’s worth of tricks.

“You know,” Tim said, “You meet the nicest people around a shotgun.”

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