Posts Tagged ‘ammunition’

A walk to the grocery store at thirty-five below

January 20, 2011

We walked in the snow and the ice,

The moonlight was ever so nice,

     Ignore all the clocks,

     Watch out for the fox

Who goes out eating lemmings and mice.

The intense arctic cold doesn’t stop Bethany and me from going outside.  Under a full moon, with clear skies, we walked out to the airport last night; the wind chill dropped the effective temperature to -35 degrees Fahrenheit.   My breath condensed on the faux fur ruff of my parka as well as my beard, which led to our evening discussion of hoods trimmed in fur.

Hunters eagerly seek the wolverine here, but I also see wolf, beaver, lynx, otter, arctic fox, grey fox, and red fox on outer wear.  Tanning skins taken locally falls to the women and the women get the best of the furs; men, for the most part, get the trimmings. 

Most arctic fox in this area carry rabies.

Snow crunches at high frequency in this weather.  Barrow receives little precipitation, less than five inches per year on average, so when snow falls the wind blows the ground bare between snow drifts.  Nonetheless moonlight here on a clear night comes in with a “very bright” rating.

The afternoon clinic ran busy and ran late; I worked through the dinner hour and finished fatigued.  Both yesterday and today I took care of four people in one family in one room.

The outpatient area of Samuel Simmonds Memorial Hospital has six exam rooms and an ER with two bays.  The first patient of the afternoon was quite ill and needed a good deal of medical care, staying in the department for three hours.  Patients who signed in at 4:30 didn’t get seen till after seven.

Most patients today had cough with or without fever; the circulating syndrome apparently started on Friday, and the virus has gone ripping through town.  As usual, those sickest before the epidemic  suffer more during the epidemic.

I find great pleasure in the side conversations I have with the hunters here.  I can pick out whalers most of the time by the glow on their faces.

Two days ago Bethany and I walked to the store.  It wouldn’t rate as an adventure if it hadn’t happened with -45 degree wind chills, and a full moon that didn’t set.  Our glasses grew layers of ice, as the wind whipped wisps of snow along the ground.  We found good traction on the hard dirt roads that have been snow-packed by vehicles but textured by machine.

The grocery store ranks as a medium-sized supermarket.  The ammunition section comes well stocked with common calibers like .223, .45 ACP and 7.62×39.  The presence of a good selection of .22 Hornet surprised me.

The fact of nectarines from Chile in the produce section at $4.50 a pound astounded me.  I can remember saying my mother saying that a hundred years ago kings couldn’t get what can be commonly found in a grocery store; stone fruit in the middle of winter ranks as a triumph of modern man.  I said, “Bethany, I’m buying some.  Contrast is the essence of meaning.”

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You meet the nicest people around a shotgun

October 31, 2010

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.”