Nothing too fascinating, but I'll share a couple stories, I s'pose.
I'm not quite sure on the particulars of this one, as I'd just gotten into firearms seriously and my recollection is a bit foggy. Basically, I found out my neighbor was into firearms and shooting, so one day he and I went out to some land a friend of his owned and fired away. We shot a couple pistols, and his .223 AK for a while, then decided to take a 'couple steps back' from our targets and shoot his scoped .243 prairie dog rifle.
Now, he and his brother-in-law reload their ammunition. The three of us had spent many a night in our shared yard around a fire pit, drinking, smoking, and generally just BSing and having a good time. That's when we decided to go out shooting the following day. In hindsight, that should've been an indication of what was to come.
We back up to about what must've been close to 300 yards. It was early in the spring, and it turns out that his rifle wasn't actually sighted in worth a damn; neither of us were hitting what we aimed at, and this was the normal distance he shot and and I've always been a fairly good shot. We were shooting at milk containers filled with water, so we'd be able to see the impacts clearly. He takes the rifle and attempts to sight it in, largely by guestimation it would seem, using ammunition he and his BIL reloaded. Well, he wasn't having any luck of it. Then one of the loads makes a distinctly different *bang* sound - but we notice that one of the milk containers is hit. We look at each other, and are kinda confused. He unchambers the cartridge and it's not even .243 - it's .22-250. He had no idea how it got in with his .243 loads. I won't go shooting with him again for obvious reasons.
Second story:
This is a standard 'scope recoil' story. I was sighting in a borrowed .30-30 for my first deer season. It had a cheap 4x scope on it. The person I borrowed it from is significantly shorter than I am, and I've got a disproportionately long neck. I was trying to sight this rifle in while laying prone, so the distance to my shoulder from the stock was longer than it should normally have been, as well, resulting in me creeping closer towards the scope so that I could keep the stock snug. End result: one very bloody lower forehead (I've got a neandrathal style forehead - big and jutting), and a fairly deep cut into the muscle of my forehead. That area still doesn't feel natural - like something isn't working right - and there's a nice white scar left as a reminder. I try and mount my optics as far forward as possible, now, and prefer longer relief scopes.
Third story:
This story is actually a hunting story told to me by both my uncle and grandfather about a trip they took together to my grandfather's cousin's hunting lodge in western Montana. I'll recount this one as best as I can recall it; it's a good one, IMO.
They were invited out there for a deer hunt, partially because my uncle was thinking of moving to the area, and partially because everyone wanted to show up my grandfather, who has a bit of a reputation as a tireless outdoorsman, excellent shot, and the kind of guy who you generally don't want to get into a competition with - because you'll lose. Just the same, my grandfather's cousin and his Montana boys thought they could outdo a mere New York resident in woodcraft.
At any rate, my grandfather and uncle arrived at their lodge at around midnight the day the season started. The bunked up and fell asleep. A couple hours later, everyone else got up and headed out to their respectively scouted areas.
After about 5 hours of sleep (neither of them need much, the lucky bastards), my grandfather and uncle got up and quickly got ready to head out - keep in mind, everyone else had been gone for about an hour. My uncle, having scouted around the area somewhat looking for land to purchase, kind of knew the lay of the land, and thought he knew a good area to go. Right around 20 minutes before dawn, while they were still walking through the woods, they saw a 10-point whitetail when they walked right upon it. They startled it, and my uncle shot it on the run. They were still pretty close to the hunting lodge, so they dressed it out and dragged it back to my uncle's pickup truck, and put it in the (covered) bed.
It was still quite early, so they decided to go out and try to get my grandfather's buck. They headed for the same area they'd intended to travel to originally: a ridge overlooking a small valley, with another ridge on the other side. They were walking along one ridge slowly, making their way towards the valley opening, when my uncle saw some movement some 400 yards away on the other ridge, right below the tree line. They took a look with binoculars, and determined it was a buck. My grandfather wanted my uncle to take it (naturally - you'd do the same for your son, wouldn't you?), but my uncle wasn't sighted in for that distance and didn't feel comfortable making the shot.
Now, my grandfather is still NRA qualified Master, shot the M1 in regional competition and placed 2nd (I don't recall more than that - I think it was at Perry?), and when he was in the Army during Korea, he was asked to represent the US Olympic team. (He refused, but the reasoning why is another long story which culminates in my existance.) So he's no slouch and quite familiar with .30-06.
So, my grandfather got down in prone and aimed above the dot that was the deer (using a 4x scope), and took a shot. My uncle said the deer just disappeared - fell down or ran away. They walked over to the other ridge while keeping an eye on where they saw the deer, and lo, there it lay, dead, with a hole right through the heart. Turned out to be an 11-pointer taken at about 350 yards.
So... about 11 o'clock they finally manage to get the deer back to camp, and put it into their pickup alongside their other deer. They went inside, and everyone that had come out to hunt opening weekend was already inside, drinking coffee and enjoying the fire: it was a wet, sleety day, with a fair amount of wind for Western Montana, and everyone thought they'd call it a day. Nobody had seen anything, not even does.
Someone - I don't recall specifically who said this, according to the story - thought, for whatever reason, to goad my grandfather and uncle, and give the 'mighty hunter Morgan' (grandfather's name) a ribbing for not getting a deer. So he asked, had they seen anything? My grandfather, being a perpetual gamemaster in almost all respects, couldn't resist the urge to take the posturing challenge. So he said, "Yeah, we saw a couple." The guy said, "Oh, didn't get anything, huh?"
Of course, my grandfather responded, "Nope," and then paused. "I've got an 11-pointer out in the truck." Well, everyone was taken aback by that, and fairly shocked, as they - the great sportsmen that they were - hadn't seen anything. Some of them didn't believe him, so the whole group trudged out to the truck to take a look. Seeing two deer in the truck instead of one, a couple of the guys got angry and trudged back in. My uncle, right on cue said, "Oh, and I got one too."
They left the camp pretty much right after that due to the air of hostility, and were never invited back.
(My grandfather and uncle are both hugely egocentric storytellers and, while they don't tend to exagerate their stories from what I and everyone else in the family knows, do tend to enjoy telling them. And they both tell them well and frequently, so my recollection of this one is particularly strong.)
Hope you found those enjoyable.
EDIT: Actually, I just thought of another, but not firearm related.
I was out one day - I was about 12 - with a couple friends, just messing around in a field. I had my compound bow with me, and we were shooting holes into various things - lots of trash, mostly. We saw a garter snake about 20 feet away, and a friend dared me to try and hit it. So I did, amazingly enough - right through the back of its neck, pinning it to the ground. A lucky shot, but of course I didn't play it up as anything but natural.