Guns & Ammo

When the Zombie Apocalypse comes, I’m a dead man.

I’ve never cared one whit about guns, and I proved it Sunday afternoon at the sporting clay shooting, which was our third event of the day (Shotover Jet Boat, Queenstown Hill hike).

Maddy gets ready to fire a gun

for the first time in her life.

The clay target says "hit me with your first shot."

We got picked up after lunch in Queenstown, along with two male Brits and a husband/trophy wife couple from Auckland.  None of us had much shooting experience before, although the Brits had played various shooting video games.  Even back in my late teens/early 20s arcade days I never was into the shooting games – and it showed.

Maddy had always wanted to try a shooting range, and the last time Carol and I shot (back in either late 1988 or late 1990, can’t remember which year), Carol had done pretty well.  I think it was skeet.  Anyhow, I set this up for them in case they didn’t enjoy the Shotover River jet boat, but they loved it, so that wasn’t an issue.

Carol shoots.  Check out the cartridge 

ejecting from the gun.

We were driven out by Blake, the founder and owner of the business, who also was our instructor.   The drive out was beautiful, on a rough road along the Shotover River for a while, and then up into a huge sheep station.  The owner rents the land from the station owner.  It has incredible views to the East, as we are high up on a pass between two mountains.

My shooting was pretty much hit or miss.

Maddy was selected to shoot first, and she acquitted herself pretty well in the first round – getting three out of four.  In fact, of the seven of us (I went last), I’m pretty sure everyone got three except for me – I got two.

Our instructor was intense.  Note the pretty mountains.

On the flight from LA to Sydney, I had finally watched “American Sniper.”  I knew I was not going to be Chris Kyle.  Or anywhere close to him.  I realized after shooting the gun a number of times that I would have ended up not as a sniper, but as Radar O’Reilly, company clerk, if I had gone into the military.  Unless, of course, I had been so sarcastic I would have remained a private scrubbing latrines with a toothbrush.  So, it would have been 50/50 between Radar O’Reilly and scrubbing latrines.  It makes me appreciate the US military even more.

Unfortunately, the business has the name "Break One Clay Target Sports" -- it's unfortunate because I nearly tried to take the name of it literally and break just one target!  Just kidding.  Sort of!

The view was better than my shooting.

The targets came out from different, well, whatever they are called.  I did best (getting a pair of threes) with the ones that shot straight up in the air.  I did worst with the “rabbit” – one that ran along the ground.  You’ve got to go with it, and then lead it slightly.  I would go with it, and then lead it a lot – and then miss.  I only got one of the four (actually, one of five).

Out of the 24 shots, I got 12, Carol also got 12, and Maddy got 15.  The two winners got 17.  Our instructor basically pointed the gun and told the one winner (woman from Auckland) when to shoot.  She would not have gotten many without his help.

You can read Maddy’s blog post for her thoughts on it, but as I pointed out – the three of us had the highest combined score!  That makes us the winner!  USA!  USA!  USA!  (The more cynical among you might point out that the Brits and Kiwis only had two each on their team, but my rejoinder is that we hit more clays!  Do the math baby!)

The three of us had the highest combined team score!

There was one point when Maddy was shooting that I had taken off my ear protectors (I’m sure there’s a more technical term, but check Idon’tfgiveacrap.com for my concern).  We had just over to the other side of the pass for shooting, and her first two shots were incredibly loud.  I was stunned at how much louder it was on that side.  Then, Carol gestured to me to put my ear muffs (whatever!) back on.  Oh.  Back to the normal, more muffled sound.  That was probably another sign I didn’t belong.

The instructor was cheery, optimistic, nice, and confusing.  He would say things and I would have no idea what he meant.  “Touch the target” was my personal favorite.  What the heck does that mean?  The other was, each time I stepped to take the gun, he would boldly (and pointlessly) say “four for four” – as though I was going to hit all four targets.  Not.  I found his relentless optimism kind of annoying, because it put pressure on me to do something I knew wasn’t going to happen!

Time slows down for the greats in a sport or contest of skill.  For me, time sped up – the clay target would shoot into the air and I would rush.  You know, maybe if I shot more often. . .ah, who am I kidding – I don’t really care.

Torie, I know you think that when that day of the Zombie Apocalypse comes, that I’m no help whatsoever, so you will ditch me.  However, I still think my driving skills will be helpful in that Mad Max world.  We can pick up Mr. Pazz (sorry, Lisa, you are on your own) and head for the Blue Ridge Mountains.  After that, you will probably want to lose me, because I will only be holding you back.  I’m no Sarah Connor.