A Perfect Day: My America @ The Gun Range

We awaited zero hour. All was prepared; it was go time. Furtively, we glanced at the clock.

5... 4... 3... 2... 1... GO!

Two of my co-workers, T. and S., and I went to the outdoor shooting range today, taking off as close to the exact tick of the end of our shift as my WWV-synchronized watch could determine.

Our three pickup trucks raced along the interstate, exited, then caravanned over a few miles of dirt roads to our local public outdoor range.

The spring weather in Alabama was shirtsleeve-warm with a stunningly beautiful sky as we pulled up to the rangehead, donned ear protection, and dismounted. We began to unload Glocks, Kel-Tecs, SIGs, Berettas, Springfields, and AR's of various manufacture, lots of ammo, and home-made target stands, one with a swinging gong made of AR-500 armor plate. We were in luck: there was one lane available, and it looked like another couple was about to pack up. They did; we eventually expanded to the three right lanes under the covered shooting position.

S. is the youngest of our trio, in his mid 20's. As affable, gregarious, and jovial as S. is, you'd never know unless you were told that he is a brilliant engineer with a master's degree from a well-known university. He also got his concealed-carry permit as soon as he turned 21. (I think his wife is next.) S. stood in the rightmost shooting lane, in perfect Weaver stance, punching precise groups of holes with his 9mm Springfield XD-M in a "Dirty Bird" splatter target 18 feet away, which was stapled to a wood and PVC target stand I built.

I wish I had been as switched-on to self-defense when I was his age.

I took my turn next, working on getting used to the sights on my Glock 22c. I also switched out the stock Glock barrel for my Lone Wolf 9mm barrel, and shot some of T.'s 9mm handloads; cheaper than 40 S&W for practice. I called "threat", pulled the pistol from my holster, and efficiently transitioned to the two-handed Weaver stance. I punched a triad of 9mm holes in the bullseye masquerading as a bad guy, then stopped, went to low ready, and moved my gaze left and right, coaching myself to "search and assess." I also practiced a magazine reload when the Glock ran dry, and smoothly returning to aim.

What you practice is what you will do when a life-threatening event happens. I hope.

Next lane over, T. had his Chrony set up, and the bench top was lined with precisely calibrated 9mm loads from his Hornady progressive press. T. was trying to find the best load for the tightest group in his Beretta 92, that also has the virtue of using an inexpensive powder. T. is as careful and analytic in preparing his handloads as he is in his engineering work, crafting some of the finest firmware for data communications to be found in our industry.

Engineers live by accuracy and precision, so it is natural for many of us to be gun enthusiasts.

T. got the data he needed, his eyes dancing as he reviewed the data with a crooked grin, glancing over at me as the average and standard deviation of the velocity appeared on the Chrony's high-contrast LCD, as I looked on and nodded approvingly. While the Chrony was up, I broke out my custom AR-15 with the New Frontiers lower, and measured the muzzle velocity of some factory .223 loads, as a baseline against some load development I'd been doing myself. The Chrony's LCD blinked 3106 feet per second of 55-grain goodness.

Kinetic Energy = ½mV² = ½ x 55 / 7000 x 3106².

We shot each other's pistols this bluebird spring afternoon, this having been the first time S. had shot a Glock, and my first time to shoot a Beretta 92, T's bedside backup. After I shot S.'s compact XD-S in 9, I quipped, "I think I'm in love!" triggering a barrage of laughter from the two engineers behind me, abruptly attenuated as my electronic hearing protectors blocked a report from a bolt-action rifle down the firing line.

This day, we had a good bunch of strangers who were shooting alongside us. No scary safety violations, no muzzle sweeps, no idiots pointing guns toward the cars instead of downrange. Solid, safety-conscious, proficient, 2nd-Amendment-supporting folks of all ages, races, and walks of life. D., an Army Airborne Ranger who'd just got out, had a ball shooting my gong target with his FN Five-Seven, 100 yards away. Several others had to try it with their pistols. D hit it with all four of his, including his .45.

John Moses Browning and Elmer Keith would have been proud, I think.

Further down the line, a middle-aged man and his younger gal, who had apparently spent more at the plastic surgeon's than on that beautiful stack of bolt-actions, were touching off some Tannerite targets up on the 100-yard berm with some rather hot handloads in a Winchester Model 70 bolt-action in .270 caliber. The woman, snuggled into the man's lap on the bench seat, peering into the scope, sought to get a perfect cheek weld, as he patiently instructed her. She giggled uncontrollably every time a vast gout of steam burst forth from the Tannerite detonated by the 130-grain bullet traveling at over 3,000 feet per second.

Her delight was contagious, up and down the firing line.

As the sun crept low in the Alabama sky, the crowds waned, and my two co-workers went home. I stayed on to work a bug out of my AR: a sticky buffer retainer spring. Later, C., a young father who was zeroing the sights on a Ruger American bolt-action in 22LR for his 5-year-old son, took turns with me plinking my gong target up on the 100-yard berm with zippy CCI Mini-Mags. Every kid should have a .22LR bolt-action rifle, boy or girl. C. and I agreed that we are going to go squirrel-hunting together this fall.

Gun people are mostly friendly, I've observed.

The cacophony of reports slowed to occasional pops, then silence as we "went cold" for awhile. I talked a long time with D. the Ranger and C. the bolt-action dad. D.'s neighbor, who was new to shooting, was getting instruction on the 12-gauge home-defense shotguns he'd just bought. As we conversed, the old man who works at the range swept up brass, and commented on a point D. was making about gun ownership.

Oh, by the way for the anti's who think gun owners are all "old white guys": both D and his neighbor are members of minority groups. But that does not matter here on the firing range; here, the right to keep and bear arms, the birthright of every American, is exercised by all, and proficiency in arms for self-defense is honed here to a razor edge.

As if to make a point about the latter, a young man and his gal rode up near the end of the day on matching Kawasaki motorcycles. They dismounted and came to the firing line, the man unholstering a Smith & Wesson M&P, and beginning to work with the woman on the fine points of the pistol.

This is a perfect day in my corner of America. This is the way things ought to be, from sea to shining sea.

Sweet home, Alabama.

Ya’ done been clicked.

My wife invited a friend of hers to visit with us for the weekend. She and her husband (we’ll call them Jane and John) rolled in from LA (that’s next to TX, not in CA). They arrived Thurs night and we talked about what we should do the next day. John had heard from my wife about the great shooting range near us and had brought along a new mini-14 he wanted to get sighted in so we decided to hit the range. I brought along a Marlin 60 that I had just mounted a scope on.

We got signed in and parked by the rifle range. This being Friday morning, the range was pretty quiet. The only other ones there were a couple in their 70s trying out their new AK-47 on the 50yd line. Mrs Neck and I took a stall next to them and I got the scope on the Marlin and roughly sighted in so Mrs Neck would be on paper.

While we were chatting with the older couple and taking turns with the .22, our friends Jane and John got set up on the 100 yd line and were blasting away with the mini-14.

A pair of guys in their late twenties or early thirties arrived and set up near us on the 50 yd line with two newly reconditioned Mosin-Nagants just back from the gunsmith’s. They set about finding paper and getting dialed in and were shouting back and forth like kids on Christmas morning about how much they loved the way the Mosins shot. After a cease-fire, they leapfrogged us and set up again at the 100 yd line.

Meanwhile, the RO was keeping an eye on us all and lazily launching an occasional .308 round downrange at the 500 yd berm where he had set out some clays as targets.

Mrs Neck was having a pretty good day. She had some trouble with cheek weld and eye relief on the new scope so I will have some adjustments to do there, maybe a strapon cheekpiece.

We had shot up the small amount of .22lr that I was willing to expend so we walked over to Jane and John to see how they were getting on. They were taking turns shooting and spotting and had gotten the new scope dialed in pretty well. They were about out of ammo, too, so it was time for the shootoff. Each of the four of us got five shots on the mini-14 at 100 yds. We won’t say who won but everyone felt they shot their best of the day.

We packed up and I lugged the gear to the car and went back to the line to get John, who had stopped to chat with the RO. The two young guys with the Mosins were still shooting and exclaiming excitedly with each shot. John, the RO and myself talked for a long while about the new silencer he was testing, hunting locally, and all things guns and the RO told us of his day with a youngster who’d been put in his charge to teach to shoot.

The boy was about eight. He had started him at 50 yds on paper and had gotten him familiar with the rifle and procedures and such. When the boy was grouping well, he set some clays on the berm and the boy set about breaking those. By now the boy was pestering him as to when he’d be allowed to shoot at 100 yds. He told the boy “There’s an awful lot of big pieces there. Shoot them all up and we’ll see.” The boy spent the next hour rendering all the clays to fine dust and ‘graduated’ with glee to the 100 yd line. I thought that a great way to get across the adage “aim small, miss small”.

By now, John and I were being reminded that it was past lunchtime so our morning at the range ended with a trip for chili, burgers and beer. A fine cap to a great outing at the range.

Usually, getting .22 from the "big" sporting goods stores means lining up on the morning when they get ammo in, and buyinh as many bricks as they will let you. For example, a local Academy Sports in Opelika, AL gets their .22LR in on Wednesday mornings. You have to there about 7. The clerk told me that recently, it has been selling out before noon.

The alternative is to go to a gun show and pay exorbitant prices (like > $70/brick of 500). Or, have friends (as I do) who are willing to sell you a brick once in awhile.

Sometimes, you can catch some online; use GunBot to look for it; I see right now there is some available for 20¢/round or less. Not too bad these days, but of course we remember buying bricks of 500 for $10.

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