How did...

Bob S. (From Three Boxes of BS) asked in comments on my last post:

How did you get started; in shooting, collecting, activism?

What state law would you like to see: repealed or passed?

Now that is some serious blog fodder, and I'll answer in parts.

I started shooting like many young men: courtesy of the Boy Scouts of America. I had asked my parents (repeatedly) for a BB gun starting around age 10. They were not shooters, and there were not (to my knowledge) guns in the house. They held to their guns (pun intended) and told me I could get a BB gun after I had earned my Rifle Shooting merit badge. Our scout camp didn't allow shooting until you were 13, if I remember correctly. The summer I was of age, I made that merit badge my single goal for the week I was at camp.

I earned it.

I asked my parents for a BB gun. They told me I could start saving my allowance and when I had enough, we'd go get what I chose. I saved what I could, but as an early teenager, there were plenty of other things to spend my allowance on. Summer turned into fall, school started up again, and still no BB gun. My birthday came and went; nothing. I was convinced that I'd get one for Christmas.

Christmas morning, I remember being very disappointed that there was nothing resembling a rifle-length box under the tree. Turns out my parents, those clever people, had hidden the package elsewhere in the house. I tore into it when they brought it out, unveiling a Crosman 2100 pellet gun. I spent the vast majority of Christmas day outside in a foot of snow putting holes in tin cans and paper targets.

That air rifle went all over with me from then on. I added a scope and spent a large chunk of money on BBs and pellets. We lived in a pretty rural area, and property lines were a vague concept out there. All over the woods and fields, plinking targets of opportunity...

But as the scripture goes, "When I became a man, I put away childish things." (1Cor 13:11) I graduated high school, went off to college, and the air rifle got jammed into a corner of my parents' mud room. I shot it once in a while on breaks, but it had lost some of the fascination. (I think it may still be in that mud room, come to think of it.)

After I left college, I was living hand-to-mouth, and guns weren't on my list of hobbies. When I was 21 or so, I decided I wanted a .22 for plinking. I went to my local Kmart and bought a Remington 597 and a brick or two of ammo.

That 597 and I spent a lot of time at a coworker's vacant lot punching holes in tin cans and turning money into smoke and noise. I wasn't a great shot with it (hindsight: it was the rifle), but I had fun. A year or so later, a roommate's coworker invited us to a shoot. We showed up with the ammo he'd told us to bring and spent a day playing. Lots of guns, although nothing particularly high-dollar. A Garand, some Tauri, HiPoint, a few .22s, that sort of thing.

At the next shoot (a year later) my 597 fired out of battery and forcibly removed the extractor from the bolt. I stuck it in a closet and didn't think about it for the next couple years. My shooting was on hiatus.

When I was 25 or so, I started talking hunting with a fellow firefighter, and he VERY generously offered to take me turkey hunting with him the next day. I showed up, and we went. I was one-hundred-percent hooked, on the spot. (Tip: if you want to hook someone on hunting, spring turkey is a GREAT way to do it. Comfortably warm and exciting - none of this 20-degrees in a treestand for four or five hours nonsense.) That fall I bought my first grown-up gun - a Remington 870 Express SuperMag. I took my hunter safety class shortly thereafter, and shot my first deer late in the season (December 2005).

Initially, my guns were simply tools of necessity: I was hunting deer, turkey, and crows: the shotgun was fine. We went out for coyotes late that winter, and I picked up a .270. Overkill for coyotes, but I wanted a multi-purpose rifle.

Over the next two years, I picked up a few range toys and such. A T/C Omega muzzleloader, a Savage .17HMR, a Remington .30-06, and a Ruger Mini-14 all found their way into my gun cabinet. At some point I did get my .22 repaired, although it never was quite the same. Pure jamomatic.

Summer 2007, I moved in with the MrsZ-to-be, and took her shooting a couple times. We got an 870 for her (which is still new-stiff; we need to get that puppy out and broken in the rest of the way), and a few range toys appeared. I found out where the local gun shops were, checked out a couple gun shows, and applied for my NY pistol permit in spring of 2008.

Early summer of '08 found me with a crisp new pistol permit, and I promptly (the day I got it) completed the purchase of my first pistol. Two weeks later, the Springfield 1911A1 came home. The following two months increased the collection with a pair of S&W wheelguns, and I'd been bitten by the S&W bug. It could just have easily been Ruger or Colt. I went to the gun shop looking for a .357 wheelgun to have with me when hunting, and the 28-2 was the one that spoke to me.

Since then, the gun cabinet has become a gun safe, and the collection has increased in value by orders of magnitude. I've bought and horsetraded, and sold a few pieces here and there. I've learned what *I* like, as opposed to what ArfCom says I should like. (I have never owned a Glock. Not because they're bad guns, but because I don't like how they feel in my hand. I would buy one for a good price.)

I don't consider myself a collector, though. A more accurate term for my kind is "accumulator". There are honest to goodness collectors out there whose goals are very specific, e.g., "I want one of each iteration of S&W Model 10." (That'd be a hell of a collection.) I accumulate what appeals to me, and if I have something that doesn't make my heart thump a little faster, I have no issue with sending it down the road to finance something that I *do* love.

So, that's the start of shooting and collecting. (Side note: Dad now owns guns, having received a few from his mother when they moved from their house to a senior home. I'm in no hurry to acquire them, but I do want to shoot that .25-20WCF.)

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Activism? I don't know that I'd even call myself an activist. I'm strongly pro-gun, pro-carry, and pro-hunting, but I don't do a lot of things I'd consider activism. I make it known that I'm happy to take new shooters to the range, and if someone asks my opinions, I'm never shy about sharing them. There are decals on my truck ("Peace through superior firepower", a Gadsden Flag, a Sons of Liberty flag, and "Forget Tibet, Free America") but I don't rub peoples' noses in it either. I email and occasionally call my representatives, but haven't attended rallies. I tend to stay pretty far from politics on this blog, because other folks cover it better than I could.

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State law to repeal - that's an easy one. The NY "assault weapon" ban. It's a mirror of the (expired) federal ban, and has continued the effects that had. A post-ban stripped AR receiver goes for market value in NY - $125-150, depending on whose rollmark you like. A documentable pre-ban receiver can run five times that much. For what purpose? An adjustable stock, an A2 "flash hider", and a bayonet lug. Post-ban magazines over 10 rounds are verboten, but fortunately there are lots of pre-bans floating around in free states that folks are more than willing to trade for brand-new on a 1:1 basis. (Side note: I would dearly love a handful of pre-ban 20-round AR mags. If anyone has them just collecting dust or something...)

Full-frame handguns are neutered to ten rounds, making it silly to carry anything double-stack. (8+1 of .45 or 10+1 of 9mm? Let me think.) Yes, there are pre-ban pistol magazines out there, but folks are a bit more protective of those than they are of AR magazines. A pre-ban 17-round Glock magazine runs nearly $70 on Gunbroker right now; that same magazine brand-new from Midway is $22. Not everyone tries to make that much on their magazines, but it does seem to be a trend. I've lucked into a handful of pre-ban mags for my S&W 5946 at reasonable prices.

The scary-looking-gun ban has had zero appreciable effect on crime; it's time for it to go. It was poorly thought out to begin with, and has served no purpose beyond sending dollars out of NY to folks in free states.

Now, what state law to pass? Again, easy. A complete revamp of the NY pistol permit system. The current system is a mess, dependent on the whims of a local (elected) judge to sign (or not) and restrict (or not) a pistol permit. The concept of waiting three to fifteen MONTHS simply to get the permit - and then up to a month waiting period for each individual purpose - is simply stifling trade. The vast majority of NY gun owners can't purchase a pistol at a gun show because they can't have them added to their permit that day.

New York needs to become shall-issue, at a state level, with a single format for permits, and start making reciprocity agreements. The registration of individual handguns, and the money-pit boondoggle of CoBIS needs to be ended, period. I'd be content to switch to a tiered FOID/CCW setup. Want to be able to purchase handguns for sporting purposes? Fine - go to the sheriff's office, fill out a one-page application, they run a criminal history, and issue a 5-year FOID on the spot. You can now purchase handguns and possess them for sporting purposes: hunting and target shooting. Want to carry? Go to the sheriff, fill out a two-page application - hell, add a character reference or two - add a set of fingerprints, and wait for the prints to come back. Two weeks, maybe three, you have your 5-year CCW. Purchase and carry. Simple.

I'd even be OK adding a training requirement to receive a CCW - *if and only if* the classes are free or extremely low-cost (a la hunter education). Charging $120 for a permit and another $300-500 for a CCW class simply prices some folks out of it.

There oughtn't be a law...


Thanks for the fodder, Bob!

DGU

Over at Daily Pundit, Bill relates a classic example of the unreported defensive gun use. No shots fired, no one injured. Just knowledge that the intended victim was awake and armed was enough to send the cretins the other direction.

He wasn't the only one, though.

Last night after supper, MrsZ and I were sitting on the couch (a large green affair, very comfortable) reading. Out of the blue, our vicious guard cats (siblings, gray and white, one looks Siamese and I think is kind of special) went nuts and bolted to the living room window, where they sat snarling and growling. I got up and peered out the window but didn't see anything. The cats settled down and I went back to my book. Thirty seconds later, they were back up there and hissing at someone outside. I grabbed a flashlight (my Leatherman Serac S2, always in my pocket) and shone it outside, but still couldn't see anything.

Then I decided I wasn't going to live my life in fear.

I picked up my carry gun (a S&W 642-1 no-lock, with the original factory stocks, and stoked with 5 rounds of Federal HydraShok 129gr +p) from the coffee table, hefted it in consideration, and set it back down. I opened the safe and considered my options. The front row of long guns holds two 12ga shotguns (a Remington 870 with 26" vent-rib barrel with a modified choke, and an Ithaca 37, also choked modified) , a 20" AR (Anvil Arms lower with a DPMS LPK, 20" DPMS 1/8 upper and match A2 sights), a .270 boltgun (Remington 710), and a .22LR boltgun (Savage MkII BTVS w/ Nikon scope). None seemed appropriate at the time, so I picked up the S&W 4053 (with night sights) and slapped in a magazine full of 180gr WWB JHP.

I headed for the back door while MrsZ remained on the couch as my backup, the entire contents of the safe within easy reach for her. I looked out the door and to both sides before opening it, keeping my strong side back from the door and one foot behind the door to prevent someone from trying to slam it out of my grasp. The deck was clear.

I stepped out onto the deck with the pistol held down by my leg and flashlight in my weak side hand. I'd gone two steps and heard someone running for the back edge of our property. I flicked the light on and swept the area just in time to see a black and white cat disappear into the woods.

No shots fired, no one hurt, and successful home defense!

(No MS Paint, sorry hivemind.)

:-D

(Seriously folks; go read Bill's post. I'm not a fan of the "racking the shotgun always scares away bad guys" mentality, but it is step one to "9 pellets of #00 buck stops bad guys" and that I am a fan of.)
(And if you didn't catch that this is ArfCom-esque tongue-in-cheek, I'm sorry.)

Gunny Dreams

Some people remember their dreams, some don't. Some dreams stay with you, others fade quickly.

I've heard numerous anecdotes about shooters having the "gun fail" dreams. I always thought it was a little weird, but since when do dreams make sense?

Well, now I've had those dreams two nights in a row.

Dream One:
I'm at home (which is remarkably similar, but not identical, to our house) and head outside to do some chores. There is, for whatever reason, an unusually large rabbit (as in labrador-retriever size; that's no ordinary rabbit!) in the goat pen. It's a long shot - 30 yards - since the only thing I have is my usual CCW, the 642. And, obviously, a +P .38 is overkill for rabbits, right? Well, I decide to try to stalk closer and take a chance on ruining some meat. But when I get around the corner of the garage, I see the rest of the pen is full of oversize critters too. E.g., a porcupine nearly the same size as the rabbit, but with the coloration and smell of a skunk. (Yes, I sometimes have smells in my dreams.) Well, that waddles off the other direction, and now the rabbit is a clear close shot. So I draw my pistol, and flip the cylinder open to check my loads - and drop all five rounds on the ground.

I kneel down to pick up the cartridges, and as I pick them up, the bullet falls off a couple of them. I pick up the bullets and jam them back on over the powder (which didn't fall out), but some of them are now seated backwards or at weird angles. So be it. I stand up and the rabbit is gone, so I start to re-chamber the cartridges.

A car pulls into the driveway. A scuzzy-looking older guy gets out (stringy/greasy gray hair, five or six days of stubble, stained undershirt, nasty flannel shirt, beat-to-death green carhartt jacket. He sees the pistol still in my hand and kinda startles, as I jam it into a jacket pocket and give him an embarassed smile. He starts in about needing directions, and would give me some gas for my truck if I could give him directions to somewhere. I told him I didn't need gas, but let me go find a map.

I go inside, shut the door behind me, and go upstairs to get a map. I come back down and the teakettle is whistling. Odd, because I didn't put the kettle on. And the door is open. I see the guy now standing in the living room looking over our stuff. I suggest he wait outside and I'll be right there. He argues, I tell him he's gotta go RIGHT NOW. He argues. I draw my pistol but keep it pointed down, and repeat that he needs to leave. He goes out the door, and I go turn the kettle off. I grab the map and head outside to give him his directions (yeah, I know, what?).

He's halfway to his car, and I say something to him about getting his directions. He keeps walking and starts digging in the car, and I keep walking towards him with the map. He comes back around the car, but now he's got his own gun - a nickel 3" S&W Model 36, if my dream-eyes were right. I drop the map and draw down on him, but he keeps walking. I'm shouting that he needs to drop it and leave, but he keeps walking towards me. He brings his gun up when he's about six feet from me, and I ducked under and stepped into the arm, bringing my own gun right up into his rib cage. My finger was tightening on the trigger as I felt something hit my own head...

... and I woke up, shaky and dripping sweat. First thing I did? Reached to where I keep my pistol and checked the loads. They were fine. :)


Dream Two:
I had been stationed on an island of some sort. Wasn't in the military, but I was on a military base, on a damn tiny island, and I was the only one there. The name for the island was Ewa or Eywa or something like that, and it was in the South Atlantic. (I looked, there isn't.) I was trying to get a very old radio working so I could get a message out somewhere. This very old radio, however, looked a lot like a Dewalt worksite radio. In any case, I got the radio working, and got an answer telling me to look out for a raid.

Sure enough, no sooner had I gotten the message than a boat (which looked suspiciously like the dinner cruise boat at our local waterfront) pulled up to the pier in front of the building I was in, and a group of soldiers (Asian, possibly Japanese?) started looking for me. Except they were armed with Mosin-Nagants. I took cover, and pulled out my pistol (yep, that same 642 that failed me the night before!)... one of them opened the door to the room I was in, and I aimed and shot. The gun went bang, and he fell over, so I ran to him to take the rifle - except he stood up and rubbed his forehead where the bullet had hit him without penetrating. Aw, crap!

I pointed the gun and pulled the trigger again, except now the trigger pull was zero - it went all the way back without doing anything. No resistance, no cylinder rotation, no click, no bang. So I pistol-whipped the guy, took his rifle away, and went to hide somewhere else and figure out what was wrong with my revolver. Opened the cylinder, took out a piece of cloth that was clogging the hand, and started to close the cylinder. A Very Large Hand reached over my shoulder (think Mandy Patinkin and Andre the Giant in "Princess Bride") and took the revolver away from me. I looked up at the biggest Asian I have ever seen, who opened my revolver, took out some other clogging piece, smiled and handed it back to me, then walked away.

Now properly armed with a rifle and a pistol, I went off to fight the Invading Hordes. I opened the door to the main room, and there they were...

... And then I woke up. No shaking or sweating this time, just a really screwed-up dream.

So. What are YOUR gunny dreams/nightmares?

More hunting

A couple weeks ago, Hunting Buddy 2 and I made plans to hunt MrsZ's family farm at some point this season. We worked out scheduling and so forth and this past weekend was the way to go. Initially the plan was to go out Friday afternoon and scout/hunt, hotel Friday night, hunt all day Saturday, hotel again, hunt Sunday morning and be home by mid-day/early afternoon. We trimmed that back to hunt/scout Friday afternoon, hotel, and hunt as much of Saturday as we wanted before heading home.

I had gone out about two weeks before and hung my stand over a promising field - thick brushy grass, even thicker brush around the edges, running stream on one edge, and the woods around just loaded with oak and hickory. In short, it's deer heaven.

I reserved a hotel room for us in a Microtel about 30 minutes away; going with a non-refundable reservation meant we had a room for $50 for the night. I joked with HB2 that because our room was non-refundable, we'd likely fill all three of our tags (his buck tag and my two doe tags) Friday afternoon and have no reason to stay overnight.

Little did I know how close to the truth that would be.

The big day finally rolled around and HB2 arrived at my place around 11. We transferred his stuff to my truck, I gave MrsZ one last kiss, and we headed out under mostly cloudy skies, although the forecast was for scattered rain and snow showers in the afternoon. We ate lunch on the road and got to the farm just before 1. I gave HB2 his choice of spots with the exception of my stand; he chose to bring his chair blind along and sit in the opposite corner of the field from my stand. We were in place around 1:30 and settled in

It was cold. And damp. Maybe 33-35F, and I saw every form of precipitation possible. Rain. Drizzle. Sleet. Freezing rain. Snow. I wished repeatedly that I'd put on the extra layer of clothing that was in the back seat of the truck. I wrapped my hands around the chemical warmers and flexed my fingers, hoping for circulation. I stood up and did a few squats to get blood into my feet again. The northwest wind was a steady 10-15mph and cutting the field diagonally between us, gusting higher now and then.

For the non-hunters - deer don't like nasty weather any more than people do. When it's cold and drizzly and blowing, they tend to hunker down and not move much more than they have to. Except November is the peak of rut around here, and that qualifies as "have to move".

After almost three hours of sitting and freezing, we hadn't seen anything. HB2 sent me a text message suggesting he walk into the bottom and see if he could bump something out into the field for a shot. About thirty seconds later, while I was debating that, he sent me another saying there were four deer picking their way down the hill opposite the creek, so we sat tight. During bow season the deer that had come down the hill into the creek had come right up into the middle of the field we were in, and these stayed true to form - mostly. HB2 had said there were three does and a buck, but I never saw the buck.

The first doe came up over the edge into the field and started across, heading right into the wind at a leisurely walk. I waited and watched, hoping another wouldn't be far behind, since I wanted HB2 to bag one too. Sure enough, the other two does popped out about 30 yards behind the first. I pulled my sight onto the first one and waited for the others to be further out in the field, hoping HB2 would have a good bead on one of the other two.

The chill of the afternoon seemed to have evaporated; I lined up my sights and snapped the trigger and saw the big doe jerk and hunch and take a few wobbly jumps. I racked the slide on my 870, settled in the sights and shot again. She fell over. I swiveled back around towards the second group. Somewhere in the back of my brain I noted that I hadn't heard a shot from HB2's direction yet, and knew he was shooting a muzzleloader. The two does were finishing a quick spin around in the middle of the field, and stopped dead. I put my sight on the chest of the lead deer and waited. A moment later a thump and cloud of smoke from HB2's blind announced his shot, and the deer I was sighted on jerked. It rolled and started to stand up, and I pulled my trigger and watched as it fell over and stayed down.

I saw HB2 climb out of his stand, already reloading his smokepole, and I called to him that they were both down and staying there. I unhooked myself and hustled down to ground level, and straight out to his deer. His FIRST deer. A beautiful nice-size doe, perhaps 150-160 on the hoof. It was quite dead with two clean shots through the chest - one from each side. I headed towards where my doe had dropped ... and couldn't find her. I had seen her go down and stay there. The grass was deep enough that perhaps she could have struggled off, but I didn't think so. HB2 came over and helped me push the weeds with no luck. I climbed back into my stand and got the perspective I needed and walked him right onto her in about thirty seconds. Climbed back down and walked over and saw a HUGE fat doe, probably a 170-180 pound deer.

We filled out our tags and dressed our deer by flashlight (it was full-on dark at that point), then dragged them across the creek, and walked back to get the truck. We bounced out across the fields and down to the creek edge, loaded the deer, and took them back to the barn to hang for the night. Off to the hotel and dinner...

Saturday morning we arrived just before sunrise and picked a different spot; we both sat in blinds and promptly froze, even with extra layers. The wind was howling from the west at a steady 20-25mph and gusting to 30+; I saw half a dozen does running on the far side of the valley but nothing anywhere near close enough to shoot. Around 11:30 we were both frozen, so decided to pack it in and call two fat does a great hunt. Went out and pulled my stand, packed up the truck, loaded in the does at the barn, and headed home via a Denny's for lunch.

She's hanging in the garage now, and will be for another week or so. Biggest damn doe I've ever seen. HB2 has his hanging and took out the tenderloins for his dinner last night; the recipe he used sounds amazing and I may have to try replicating it at some point.

Other note: After fighting with the cheap-ass block & tackle set I got with a gambrel from Walmart, I decided something else was in order. I happened to be in Tractor Supply earlier in the week, and they had 12V winches on sale. I talked MrsZ into one, and it's now mounted in the garage. Talk about the easy way to hang a deer - I hung the buck with the block & tackle and much swearing and grunting. This took me three minutes and gets the deer well up off the floor. WELL worth the money involved.

Farmer Fire Drill

It was cold last night; killing-frost kind of cold. I left work at the usual time and got home at the usual time. MrsZ was still up, so we headed to bed and curled up trying to stay warm (we're cheap and keep the house at 60-65 most of the time). Just as we were dozing off there was a blood-curdling animal shriek from somewhere outside. It was repeated a moment later. I looked out the windows with a flashlight but couldn't see anything... pulled on a robe and went to check on the goats. From the deck, I could see most of the pasture but no goats. They weren't answering my voice either, which is more unusual - they tend to blat or at least move around and jingle their bells when someone calls them.

Went back upstairs and reported to MrsZ, swapped the robe for jeans and a sweatshirt, and opened the safe while MrsZ pulled on her clothes. Grabbed her 870 (20ga) and followed her downstairs, then went looking for the box of buckshot I knew I had somewhere. It had been moved. I settled for slugs and made the gun "cruiser ready" - full mag tube, empty chamber, hammer down, safety on. To go from "cruiser ready" to "ready" requires only racking the slide, which is already unlocked by virtue of the hammer being down. As I was heading out the door I spied the missing box of buckshot and slipped it in a pocket and continued out - where I found MrsZ already coming back from the goat pen, reporting that they were comfortably ensconced out of sight behind their hut instead of inside, where I could see them.

Given that the critters were alright, I peered around the yard again and then went back inside ... where MrsZ explained that this was the "Farmer Fire Drill". Uh-huh.

Side note: we have electric mesh for the goat fence; it's high-voltage, sturdy, and easy to rearrange. MrsZ discovered on Sunday morning that about 50' of fence had been taken down. And in fact, not just taken down, but several of the strands were torn, and a piece of twine that tied a pole to a tree had been snapped ... and the fence had been dragged OVER a bush. Best guess is that a critter (my presumption is a deer) managed to get tangled in the netting and tore it up trying to get loose. A coyote may have gotten tangled but wouldn't have torn it out that far. The goats respect it and tend to keep away. A bear is vaguely possible but I don't think it's likely.

Epic ... Just Epic

As previously mentioned, I was heading up to NH for the Second-ish Annual Northeast Bloggershoot.

I got up Saturday morning and loaded the truck (after re-locating the pile o' gear I had set aside the morning before, and MrsZ had helpfully put back into appropriate places), then headed for Major Caudill's place. The first part of the drive was fine - some minor construction on I88, but nothing serious. Just north of Albany, the confusion began.

Mapquest directions had me taking an exit off I87 towards Bennington and taking the scenic tour across southern Vermont. TomTom wanted me to continue north on I87 for another 40 miles. I followed the Mapquest version, and wound my way up and down across Vermont, most of the time stuck behind tourists and other slow drivers who were busy taking in the scenery - there doesn't seem to be an interstate that goes East-West across VT, or at least not in a convenient spot. I eventually made it on to I91 and then I89 and arrived at Marko's just in time for dinner with his lovely wife and two sweet kids.

After dinner we moseyed into town for a cup of coffee and his postponed Dadcation, gassed up his people-mover, and I grabbed a couple sundries I'd forgotten in my packing haste (toothbrush is a good thing). Back to Castle Frostbite, and bed. I had been assured that a 2- and 4-year-old would negate the need for an alarm clock, so I didn't set one - and was awoken the next morning by Marko knocking on the door... Seems the kids decided to sleep in too.

A quick breakfast (waffles from scratch!), and we transferred my pile o' hardware to Marko's van, and headed towards the range. Picked up another shooter along the way, and off to DoubleTrouble's SooperSekrit range...

We arrived around 11:45, and made introductions as necessary. Some folks (I'm looking at you, JayG) needed no introduction. Quite a group - and a wildly impressive collection of hardware. C&R galore, black rifles galore, bottom-feeders, wheelguns, leverguns, single-shots ... rifles, pistols, shotguns, NFA ... Oh yes, my friends, there were rifles with a giggle-switch, and pistols and rifles with suppressors, and a short-barreled shotgun... bayonets hither and yon, on rifles, on shotguns, on pistols... and on an Uzi. Yes, a REAL Uzi. Short-barrel, full-auto, folding stock.

And ALL of this hardware is 100% legal where we were - in NH.

Several folks tried the hardware I'd brought along, I tried many other pieces of hardware (NAA Mini - that's a hoot!) and got to shoot the full-auto AR. Fun - VERY fun - but I could never afford to feed one even if I could own it here in NY. Owning a full-auto gun - of any kind - and shooting it semi-auto only is like (to quote Marko) owning a Porsche and driving it at exactly 55mph all the time. What's the point?

There was an unofficial BOOM contest - which was handily won by the Ruger Super Alaskan in .454 Casull. Holy wrist-wrench... but surprisingly manageable for what it was. Still, stiff. I didn't get a chance to shoot the Snubbie From Hell, but I expect there will be another opportunity sometime.

After burning ammo for several hours, completely demolishing the Pikachu (see the other AARs for that tidbit) and several Zeds, and enjoying some great time with awesome folks, we loaded up Marko's mover again, and headed back to Castle Frostbite. Once there, I swapped my hardware and ammo back into my truck and headed back to the southwest. I left his place in a light rain around 7:30. It rained all the way across Vermont - and this time I tried the TomTom directions just for variety. It took me out across Vermont, through Woodstock, Rutland, and I picked up I87 in Glens Falls or thereabouts. It rained the whole damn time - and those mountains in Vermont only make it darker. I stopped in Rutland for a quick bite and gas and kept on moving...

Sometime after 11 I made it through Cobleskill and was getting sleepy; I found the next rest area and pulled off just before midnight. No late-night adventures in this one, unlike the trip to Rochester earlier this year, but I dozed for a couple hours with a Condition-1 1911 in very easy reach. About 1:15 or 1:30 I woke up, tried to sleep some more, and finally gave up around 2. One last trip to the bog, and off I went for home. The roads are nearly empty at that hour on a Monday morning, and I made good time; cruise set around 75 and rocked and rolled. Got a cursory inspection from a trooper somewhere along the way; I noticed a car pacing me in the left lane and eight or ten car-lengths back, then noticed the inside-the-headlight front marker lights ... notched two off the cruise and waited, sure enough, the blue'n'gold CVPI went tooling on by. He took the next exit and I put the two back on the cruise and kept going. Cross-country for the last seventy miles, and rolled in the driveway just after 4am.

I can't begin to explain how much fun I had on this trip, and how great it was to put faces along with names and meet some new folks.

The official list of attendees:
JayG from MArooned
Bruce from No Looking Backwards
Doubletrouble from Rattail Bastard and Mrs. doubletrouble
Weer'd Beard from Weer'd World Arrrr
Lissa from Looking for Lissa
Borepatch from Bore Patch and #2 son
David from Fighting for Liberty
JD from Tekmage's Blog
Marko from The Munchkin Wrangler
TOTWTYTR from Too Old To Work, Too Young To Retire
zeeke42 from Young and Crotchety
Commenter Wally
Mopar and Mrs. Mopar
Scotaku from Scotaku in America
Paul from State Line Guns
Commenter Andrew, his mother Barbara, and his son Matthew (the youngest shooter!)
Meataxe from Men are not Potatoes
Commenter stickman
Commenter Libertyman
Zercool from Panum et Circenses... et Plumbum

All of you, welcome to the blogroll!

I took a few pictures, and a minute or two of video (before the battery died on the camcorder), but they all have far more stuff up than I could. Oh, and all of you - feel free to post pictures of me and/or my hardware if you like. And if there are any pictures of me, I'd love to have a copy if you don't mind!

If I have a moment tomorrow I'll try to post a picture of the pile o' stuff I brought - goodness knows I brought WAY too much ammo.

Great White Hunter

New York's spring turkey season runs for the month of May. The regs are pretty simple: shotgun only, birdshot only, bearded birds only, and must be out of the woods by noon (so the turkeys have some uninterrupted time to make little turkeys).

Turkey hunting, is, in fact, what brought me into the world of hunting and guns in a big way. I'll take this tangent and then get back to the original point of the post.

I grew up in a relatively gun-free household. Dad didn't own guns, but claims to be a pretty good shot. He grew up in Scouting (Eagle), was Scoutmaster for the base's troop while posted in Alaska for the Army, and shot "expert" during basic. He's certainly not anti-gun, they just weren't part of life as I grew up. I earned my "riflery" merit badge at scout camp when I was 13 or so, and finally convinced my parents to get me a BB gun. It arrived that Christmas - a Crosman Classic 2100 air rifle. I set up a "range" in the back acreage with a couple of straw bales. Tin cans, here I come... That pellet rifle and I tromped a lot of miles through our back woods and fields, plinked a lot of random targets, and may have been responsible for some minor property damage here and there.

I went to college and the air rifle stayed home, falling into disuse and neglect. After being out of school for a bit, I finally decided to buy a rifle. A .22 seemed like a good bet... so I went to my local Kmart (hush, I didn't know better) and picked up a Remington 597. A friend at work offered the use of some undeveloped land he owned as a makeshift range, and again, I was death upon tin cans and paper... but mostly in a trigger-happy sort of way. Brick after brick of Thunderbolt .22 disappeared down the bore of that rifle.

A friend invited me to a shoot at some point, and I went (of course). I can't remember everything I tried at that shoot, but my world was suddenly expanded from .22s. (Short list of highlights: M1 Garand, Glock 9mm, .44Mag revolver.) ... but I didn't buy anything new, not having a place to shoot or many friends into the shooting sports.

Fast forward a couple years. I joined the local volunteer fire department and slowly got to know folks there. One of them, at some point, mentioned turkey hunting that weekend. I nabbed him a bit later and said, "Gee ... um ... I've never hunted before, but I've always wanted to. Could I go with you sometime?" He took me turkey hunting the next morning, and while we didn't take any birds that day, I was hooked. I picked up a Remington 870 that summer, took my hunter safety class in early fall, and killed my first deer on my birthday that year.

Since then, my collection of guns has grown considerably, my interests in the shooting sports have widened and deepened, and I still cherish every moment in the woods.

(Hiatus for dinner. Story TBC.)

...Continued...

Dinner was good. Met parents at greasy spoon.

On to the hunt!

I've been out in the woods less this turkey season than ever before - my work schedule has made the 4am alarm clock a near-impossibility if I expect to be functional at all for job. Still, I've been out a half-dozen times. Talked to my hunting buddy last night and confirmed for today. He says arrive at 4:45. OK. Got up, dressed, headed out the door with a pistol on my hip and a shotgun over my shoulder. Two miles short of his place, the skies opened. Half a mile from his place, my cell rings. "Where are ya?" "Pulling in your driveway in about thirty seconds." "Oh ... ok."

We discussed after I arrived, and decided to sit tight for fifteen minutes and see if the rain would let up. It did. Picked a spot, headed out. Set up decoys, called, heard and saw nothing for an hour. Decided to walk and call - which the DEC hunter safety class says isn't safe, but we do anyway because there shouldn't be anyone else in these woods. Nothing, after picking our way through brush and the Fire Swamp. Poked our heads into a field... and there, across the way, was a flock of eight turkeys. At least two in strut, a hen or two, and several jakes.

We quick sat down and started calling. I was out front as the "shooter" and could see the birds - and they weren't moving. Just puttering around in the grass, picking bugs and worms and strutting. After fifteen minutes of this, we decided to get aggressive. We backed out into the next field and scooted down the hedgerow between. I picked a promising spot and snuck through, and found I was still sixty yards too far up the hedge. Backed out, moved a bit further down, and crawled through again. Better spot. Set up my little seat and started calling - and realized quickly that these birds were fat and happy and henned up, and weren't going to go looking for what they already had in front of them... so I got more aggressive. There was a gopher mound fifty yards into the field, directly between me and the birds. I quietly shucked off my turkey vest, keys, phone, assorted pocket junk, calls, and pistol... and started belly-crawling towards the mound.

Now, keep in mind that this hayfield had been cut and baled in the past couple days... but it had just poured an hour ago. I was damp as soon as I laid down, and soaked to the skin within ten feet. I kept crawling and peeking up occasionally. I finally made it to this mound and started making gentle purrs. Pretty quick, a hen separated from the group and made a beeline for me. I was hoping the toms would follow ... but no such luck. This damn hen walked right up to the mound, within fifteen feet of my muzzle, walked back and forth a few times, and then went back to the flock saying, "purt purt purt"...

I waited. One of the jakes stuck his head up and started walking towards me, then made a u-turn and the group started moving towards the woods. Hell, it's now or never! I raised my barrel, placed the bead on the big tom, clicked off the safety ... squeeeeeeze the trigger... BOOM ... and they all ran off. Hell, it was a hail-mary long shot anyways, probably 55-60 yards, but today was my last day for turkey season.

I stood up, walked back to the hedge, collected my things, and went in for coffee.


In other news, after dinner, I decided to take time to swing through WallyWorld and check on .22. Ammo cabinet was looking as bare as usual ... but wait... what's that? In the shadows? There was no one around, so I walked behind the counter to look closer. Not one, not two or three ... but SIX BOXES of Winchester HV bulk!

I nearly began gibbering there and then. I found someone to open the cabinet, bought all six boxes, and celebrated in my success. He mentioned they'd gotten a case or two of the Federal, but it had already sold out. So be it. I'll take what I can get right now.

So it came home with me ... oh yes, it did...


And a box of CB Shorts, just to try out.