Range Day

Berms rise high to the left and right, they’ve created a wide gully, another berm squares off the back, so no stray rounds ever get free. There’s a metal spinner back there, sits just short of two hundred yards, I squeeze back and the bullet flies, recoil jolts shoulder and arm. I hear that small, metallic ping, and thrill that I’ve gotten a hit, may not be hard for a marine, but I am quite happy with it. I’m a civvie with iron sights on my Winchester ’94, I don’t get out here that often, so or me, I call it a score. Around me, on this low platform others folks are working their guns, two boy scouts shoot their.22s, are plinking away, having fun. An older woman sports a Glock, a pistol, it’s for self-defense, seems hesitant, she’s new to this, but rightly fears criminal men. A guy that I know hunts big moose shoots slowly, sighting in his scope, he gave me some ground meat last year, will he give again? (I can hope!) Blasts come from a much wider field, shotguns destroying sporting clays, after they’ll brag about their scores, as some boast about their golf game. Behind it all is a clubhouse, there is a big elk-head in there, a meeting room where they teach class for new shooters still unaware. They sometimes sell hot dogs inside, or chili, when they have events, mostly it is a hang-out place, a space where men still can be men. And of course the good ol’ 2nd hangs above the big fireplace, what are other rights without it? Just notions evil will disgrace. I cycle through my magazine, pick up the brass for my range bag, I’m reloading much more these days, with inflation prices are mad…