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Sunday, May 6 2001

Twin Pines Sportsman's Club

Falcon, CO

8:38AM

Spring had gained the upper hand in its battle against the last dregs of winter; though having lived in Colorado off and on over most of my life I was fully aware that the weather had a mind of its own and we could still see a snowstorm happen before June. For now it was a pleasant day; sunny and clear with temperatures in the upper fifties.

I was in my element, albeit for completely different reasons. I was standing under a corrugated metal roof that provided shelter over a bench, upon which lay several antique firearms. Mr. Shaeffer stood next to me, discussing the finer points of the revolvers and rifles we were about to use.

“What can you tell me about what I brought for us to shoot?" My teacher's countenance was pleasant yet a little expectant; considering I had made class reports on the shooting irons which had won the Old West, I completely understood.

“Well," I began, “the shift to metallic cartridges really took off in the 1870s. People with older cap and ball revolvers could get conversion cylinders for them; the conversions started off as the .38 Colt, which was later developed into the more powerful .38 Long Colt; that one was later developed into the modern .38 Special and .357 Magnum." I motioned to two revolvers sitting on the table; the Colt and Remington wheelguns equipped with the conversion cylinders I mentioned.

“More powerful revolvers were also developed, such as the Colt Frontier and Smith and Wesson Model 3 shown here," I motioned to the two larger revolvers on the table. “Many of these were paired with repeating rifles which fired the same ammunition, usually the .44-40, lending versatility to people who could spend weeks, if not months, away from resupply."

“Correct," Mr. Shaeffer replied, motioning to the firearms on the table. “So, if you were behind the counter of a general store in the 1880s and you had both a rancher and a bank manager come in looking to buy pistols, what would you sell them?"

I mused over this for a moment. “I'd suggest the Model 3 or the Frontier to the rancher; they're larger, more powerful, and therefore more suited to someone working outdoors and might need to defend himself from aggressive animals or possibly criminals." I moved from the larger, more iconic wheelguns to a small, almost toylike revolver that was on the shooting bench.

“I would suggest something like the Smith and Wesson Model 2 to the bank manager. It's light and small; something he could comfortably carry in his vest pocket and would be reasonably effective for self defense at close ranges."

Mr. Schaeffer grinned; another nod of approval offered in my direction. “Final question. Out of what you see here, what would you pick and why?"

I plucked the old S&W Model 3 from the table; taking a moment to judge the revolver's weight and balance. “Likely the Schofield," I answered. “The top-break design makes it easier to reload than the Colt Frontier, as well as its ability to safely carry a full cylinder."

“Solid choice," Mr. Shaeffer replied, reaching for his earmuffs and shooting glasses. “Get your eyes and ears on, load up and make ready."

The Schofield wasn't a reproduction and something that my history teacher got from his father. Despite being over a century old it was in excellent condition and shot well; mild .45 handloads sharpening my memory of what it was like to shoot a gun. I was out of practice; my first six rounds pulling to the right in a loose, eight-inch group at twenty-five yards.

“Not bad, but you're jerking the trigger when you shoot," Mr. Schaeffer corrected. “Use the tip of your finger and not the joint; concentrate on breaking the shot cleanly." I nodded and reloaded the pistol.

My second group was significantly better; printing all six shots in a group the size of my palm. It was a little high from center, but it would have been more than enough had my opponent been an outlaw instead of a paper target. Or an anthropomorphic fox wearing medieval armor for that matter; a flash of that strange dream coming to my mind's eye.

“Great group!" Mr. Shaeffer praised as I unloaded the vintage S&W and set it on the shooting bench. I caught a flash of movement behind me and turned my head; realizing we had attracted an audience.

A man stood there, dressed in a military uniform and holding a large rifle case in his left hand. I couldn't quite tell his rank but by the pins on his lapels he was an Army officer; the 'Special Forces', 'Airborne', and 'Ranger' patches on the sleeve of his uniform was a telling sign he had some accolades under his belt. The name 'MEYERS' was embossed on a fabric label over the breast pocket. He was a few inches taller than me, with shortly cropped light brown hair and piercing hazel eyes. He regarded the two of us with a slight smile. “That's quite a collection!" the officer remarked.

“Thank you!" Mr. Shaeffer replied, motioning to the variety of 19th century firearms on the table in front of us. “It's a bit of an interactive history lesson today."

“History lesson?" the officer inquired.

“This young man is one of my students, Colonel," my history teacher answered. “He's been doing quite well in his studies, so we come out here periodically and I let him experience some of the history we discuss in the classroom."

“A pleasure to meet you both," the officer turned to us and shook our hands; his grip was as firm as steel despite his mostly unassuming demeanor. “I'm Colonel Joseph Meyers, U.S. Army."

“I'm Gary Shaeffer, history department head at Harrison High School. This is Adam Jennnings; one of my students," Mr. Shaeffer waved to the mostly empty range. “Are you here to do some target practice?"

Meyers nodded. “Yes; I usually shoot on base but I figured I'd shake it up today," he paused for a moment. “You said Harrison, right? My daughter goes there." I blinked as he said that; a puzzle piece clicking into place. Was he Holly's father?

“Holly Meyers, right?" Mr. Shaeffer confirmed. “She was in my American History class last year," he turned to me. “Do you know her?"

“I had a class with her a couple of years ago," I replied. “She's a friend of a friend, but I don't know her very well." I didn't think it was a good idea to bring up recent events, at least yet.

“Quite the coincidence," Meyers remarked. “Do you mind if I set up in the lane next to yours? I brought my Class 3 toys out to play today." He set the rifle case on the bench next to us, followed by a rucksack I hadn't quite noticed. I understood what that meant, and it immediately piqued my interest.

Legal, fully automatic firearms were highly restricted, well outside the reach of most gun owners on basis of their expense and reams of paperwork; I figured that a high-ranking military officer would have an easier time getting that taken care of. My suspicions were confirmed as he opened the rifle case, exposing two modern weapons that were familiar to me: an M16A2 and AKM. “No, that's just fine with us." Mr. Shaeffer nodded.

As Holly's father loaded magazines, my history teacher and I continued to shoot the collection of old wheelguns and lever-actions. I was rusty but the rust got knocked off rather quickly; I admit I was a better shot with the rifles than I was with the pistols. Mr. Shaeffer's pointers helped improve my aim, and by the time the call to cease fire came over the range's PA system my groups with the Winchester had tightened up considerably at our fifty yard target.

The cease fire call was a chance to check and change our targets. We went out to collect ours and set up new ones; pacing them out from fifteen to a hundred yards. We also helped Meyers out with a similar setup; propping up pallets that had been splintered by gunfire while he stapled targets into them. “Thank you, gentlemen," he said, motioning to our lane. “Would you mind if I took a few shots with that Colt?"

“Not at all, be my guest!" After the cease fire call was concluded Mr. Schaeffer showed Holly's father the particulars of loading the weapon; just like the fictional revolvers used by Roland in the roleplaying storyline, its loading gate design made it a little cumbersome to make ready. Grinning, the Army officer raised the pistol and brought back the hammer.

Despite having apparently no experience with the iconic revolver, his shooting skill made mine look absolutely amateurish. My palm-sized group at twenty-five yards was bested by one that could be covered by a matchbook. “God, that's a blast to shoot!" The colonel's grin widened. “Made me feel like John Wayne for a moment."

He reached over to his rifle case and brought out a familiar handgun, looking over to me. “Would you like to try this one? We're cycling out old ammo from my unit so I have plenty to burn."

I froze for a split second as I stared at the pistol that was both my roleplaying character's signature weapon as well as the one I had had used in that recent vivid dream. I had never fired a Beretta before; either the military M9 or the civilian 92FS. I simply nodded at him and he passed the handgun over.

It was surprisingly heavy and large, even when compared to the antique revolvers I had just been shooting. I followed Meyers' instructions as he handed me a magazine and talked me through chambering the first round. “Now, apply the safety and release it before you are ready to fire. Your first shot will be double action, so be mindful of that trigger pull."

Despite its size and heft, the Beretta fit my hands quite well. The trigger was stiff yet smooth; breaking the first shot was a bit tricky and I pulled it slightly, the gentle push of the recoil not particularly jarring. “Not bad; if you're a little quicker on the trigger you won't pull it quite as much."

Memories of that dream fit surprisingly well with the reality of shooting the actual pistol; I quickly got the hang of it and was able to print a tighter group than I did with the Schofield. I wasn't sure exactly what Holly's father did in the military, but he sounded very experienced with teaching people how to shoot.

“You're pretty good," he remarked, pointing to the target. “Who taught you how to shoot?"

“My uncle Mark at first," I explained, opening the Beretta's slide to show it was unloaded before handing it back. “He was a Marine; came in after Vietnam and left in the mid '80s. He doesn't live here, so Mr. Shaeffer has been bringing me out here on occasion."

“He's a decent shot," Mr. Shaeffer remarked. “After graduation I was going to help him get into the shooting sports."

“It's an expensive hobby," Holly's father explained, “but a rewarding one. Tell you what; do you want to have a go with my rifles?"

A few moments later I was looking down the sights of a fully automatic M16; following the instructions I was given. Everything from my stance, my hold on the rifle, and even my breathing was being scrutinized with military precision. “You're ready to go; give me a few shots on semi-auto before going to full."

I stroked the trigger; the recoil of the 5.56mm round giving my shoulder a gentle push. I fired a few more times; the rifle quite easy to keep on target despite its size. “Good hits," Meyers reported. “Go to full when you're ready. Remember, short bursts." I felt a firm hand fall on my shoulder; a bracing measure just in case the recoil caught me off guard and I lost control of the rifle.

My thumb brought the selector lever to full auto; while I had experience with Airsoft rifles I had never fired anything with the 'fun switch'. Following what I had been told I leaned into the rifle and pulled the trigger. The M16 rattled and jumped slightly in my hands; even though I was prepared for it I was mildly startled. The first burst climbed off the target slightly, but I was able to compensate with the following bursts. By the end of the magazine I was getting more of a hang of it, keeping things mostly on target at fifty yards. I grinned widely; this was something I never thought I'd get to do.

“Woah, that's incredible!" I exclaimed as I removed the empty magazine. “Thanks for letting me do that!"

Meyers laughed. “You're getting the hang of it. Do you want to go through another magazine before we switch to the AK?" I was obviously completely willing to continue the experience.

The AK was from Yugoslavia; a souvenir from his experience in Iraq. I blinked as he spun a short tale of his time in the service starting around the invasion of Grenada through Desert Storm and some actions beyond that. “After that I got sent to Japan for a while; now I'm finishing out my time here in Colorado," he explained.

I hefted the AK as he walked me through how to use it, including its different fire controls. It was heavier than the M16, even though it was smaller. The stock was more compact and I could tuck it closer to my body, though the sights were a little different to the M16's; close to the 'notch and post' setup on a pistol. “Ready, Colonel." I flicked the selector down to semiautomatic.

“Like the M16, start off with semi before going to auto," Meyers stated. “Bear in mind this will have a fair bit more recoil. You may commence fire when ready." His hand returned to my shoulder to brace me, and I focused on the sights as my finger tightened on the trigger. The AK's recoil was more significant, but definitely nowhere near that of a shotgun or the .45-70 Trapdoor Springfield Mr. Shaeffer brought out last range trip. I fired a couple more times; the report of the rifle muffled by my earplugs.

“Again, good hits," Meyers said, motioning to the target fifty yards distant. “Go to full when you're ready." Taking another breath I pushed the selector up and held on tightly as I lined up the sights and pulled the trigger. This time the AK snapped up somewhat; my first burst going wide. It was a far more difficult animal to control than the M16, but I was bound and determined to meet that challenge.

Clenching my teeth I leaned even further into the rifle, sending my next burst into a sloppy group on the target. My next bursts were tighter; while it wasn't as easy to land hits as the M16 I felt like I was doing an appreciable job for my first time. I removed the first magazine when it ran dry; Meyers handing me a second. “Good shooting, Jennings," he pointed to the target. “I can see where your stance is improving. Load up and give 'em hell."

I inserted the magazine and racked the charging handle; upper body strength wasn't really my strong suit but I didn't have much of a problem manipulating the rifle. I resumed my previous stance and braced the stock into my shoulder; lining up the sights before squeezing the trigger. This time I was a little more accurate; the bursts shorter and more precise as I started to shred the target. I wasn't perfect by any means, but I was starting to get the hang of firing something that I probably wouldn't get to experience again without either joining the military or paying a lot of money.

After the AK went dry I removed the magazine and inspected the chamber to make sure it was empty. That was an experience I didn't think I'd ever get to have, and I was quite grateful. “Wow, I'm kinda speechless. Thank you for letting me shoot these."

“You're welcome," Meyers responded, waving to the bench. “It's not every day that you get the chance to fire something like this, nor is it every day you get to fire genuine Old West revolvers."

Mr. Shaeffer nodded at us. “I've got some more ammo if you're interested in having a crack at the Winchester, Colonel."

“I think I'll take you up on that," the officer grinned. “I'll get some magazines ready for the rifles; we'll have a few different flavors of John Wayne today."

Despite it being a Sunday right before going back to school, it was an incredible range trip and a great bookend to a busy, strange week.