A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I used to go shooting fairly regularly. A typical day at the range would start with a little rush of anticipation. This giddiness didn't stem from the visceral thrill of stroking a prosthetic steel penis and the surge of power from ejaculating deadly hunks of lead downrange with hugely impressive booms, as some people persist in believing. No, I'd be excited because my dad and I had spent many an evening reloading various calibers with different bullet types and weights, and different charges of powder. I was anxious to see how well the loads would perform and how well I would perform. Would I be able to keep all my shots in the black?
Except for the association in a lot of folks' heads with cold-steel death machines, shooting would be a pretty boring pastime. You spend your evenings in your garage doing hours of incredibly methodical, monotonous work. Then you drive out to the range and punch holes in paper. After you thoroughly perforate your targets, you drive home and spend a few hours meticulously cleaning and oiling every gun. I suppose one person's passion is another person's yawn. Still, I experienced quite a few moments of awe over all those years. One of those moments didn't have anything to do with firearms. One day I was introduced to General Curtis LeMay. That's right, the Curtis LeMay, leader of the Regensberg raid, organizer of the Berlin airlift, first commander of the Strategic Air Command, and all-round historic figure. I didn't experience an epiphany at the time. I was less than eight years old and he was in his seventies. All I got was an impression of a solid block of man even at his advanced age and the knowledge that I've touched history. Another moment of awe, though not nearly so profound, spawned from me amazing myself. A coworker and I headed off into the desert for a weekend of camping and shooting. The man was truly ancient, was built like a bulldog, and spent too much time coughing up what sounded like chunks of lung, but he had a compelling way about him. After we'd set up our tent in his favorite "secret" desert location, we donned earmuffs and he pulled a beautiful 1903A1 Springfield from the back of his pickup. Then he pointed off into the distance. "See that large rock on the hillside? How far away would you say that is?" he asked. "Uh… maybe 350 yards," I ventured. He handed me the rifle. "See if you can hit it." I removed the bolt and sighted down the barrel to make sure the bore was clear of any fluff from storage. I replaced the bolt and set the rear sight as best I could. I grabbed a stripper clip of .30-06 ball, zipped the rounds into the magazine with my thumb, and closed the bolt. I brought the rifle to my shoulder, took a deep breath, and aimed for the rock. My brain focused: controlled breathing, pressure on the trigger, thinking I should've dry fired first so I wouldn't be surprised, sight picture, relax. I touched off the round and got a satisfying puff of pulverized rock with an equally satisfying smack of lead on stone. "Do it again," he said, unimpressed. Work the bolt, should've caught the brass, bring the rifle up, breathe, aim, relax, pressure on the trigger, sight picture, relax. Another round, another puff, and another smack. I turned to my coworker. "Well, uh, must be closer than I thought," he said. Damned right, old man. Pakeha