Steve Smith
Moderator Emeritus
Sounds like Colorado State Shooting Association and Florida Shooting Association are both publishing an article I just finished. That's kinda neat. I thought you guys might want to read it, so here it is. Throw your tomatoes at [email protected]
First Morning at Perry
By Steve Smith
It’s five am and I’ve been up for half an hour already. After washing my face and preparing my gear for the day, I got on the way. Fog hangs low in the darkness. My headlights meet the resistance, and I feel I can see barely a hundred feet in front of me. As I come to the Camp Perry gate, I see other cars pulling in, and a line forming. I think to myself, “I’m going to be here a while†but luckily, I’m through in just a few minutes. The guards look like they’ve already seen a few hundred trucks this morning, and it’s just the beginning. Surprisingly, they are still wearing a smile, and I even get a “good luck†from the last guard in line. It’s so early I can’t even think of a “bad shot†thought to roll around in my mind that would negate the guard’s well wishes. I guess that’s a good thing.
I pull into the parking lot near the Chapel and find a parking space. Seeing a few other members of the team heading to breakfast, I follow. This is much earlier than I prefer to eat, but I really don’t have a choice today. First day jitters and early morning blues take a back seat to common sense nutrition today. The cafeteria is flooded with harsh fluorescent lighting and has a greasy spoon scent that is almost unbearable. I stand in line behind some of my fellow Coloradans and see folks wearing tee shirts from all over the country. I can’t help but think that some don’t look like they belong. Some, Easterners I hope, obviously lack the courtesy that I am now so accustomed to. The cafeteria ladies are already cranky, so I try my best to be just another guy and have the special like everyone else. I sit with my friends and try to eat my food and have a few pleasant words with some of the “veterans.†Somehow I feel like I’m being thrown into the lion’s den. All the folks that I shoot with will be spread across a half-mile or better firing line, and I might not see any all day. This is an individual sport, I tell myself, and decide it’s up to me to do well. After eating my extra salty biscuits and gravy, and gulping the overcooked coffee, I go back into the darkness to get my gear and go to the line.
I should have mocked up my cart before now, but I figure out a reasonable solution in a few minutes and I’m off. I start the long walk to the 200 yard line on the Viale range, which means I have about three-quarters of a mile to walk and pull my cart. As I get onto the road, and peer through the fog, I see that I’m surrounded by men and women all doing the same thing. I’m walking faster than most, and I must make my way past two hundred before I even turn onto the Viale range itself. Some people look like they have their entire house in their carts. I cannot imagine pulling that all week. Others have very little and carry what they have on their backs. They later confess that they will bring a cart next year. Only 800 yards to go. As I continue, I realize that this is the most surreal experience I’ve ever witnessed. The scene reminds me of the Christmas Island crabs, making their yearly trek to the sea. There is still no light, and every person, (there are several hundred now) is either pushing or pulling some strange contraption toward the 200 yard line. I’m sweating. It’s already 80 degrees and the humidity must be 100%. Mosquitoes are stirred by our feet and attack us while we’re still on the move. There is so much dew on the ground that my leather boots and pant legs are already wet by the time I reach the firing line. Seeing some friends, I stop by and wish them well, and then continue to my firing point for the day. As the sun is rising, I meet the other competitors in my area, and prepare to score the first shooter of the 2003 Highpower Rifle National Matches. The smell of acetylene gas from sight smokers and the familiar banter of shooters fills the air.
A cannon booms in the distance, and nearly 1400 competitors, and several hundred volunteers, turn toward our Nation’s flag and salute, as our anthem is played over the loudspeakers. I think of all the great men who have stood where I am standing, and have also heard that cannon roar. Neither the mosquitoes, nor the humidity, nor the long walk, nor any of the thousand other inconveniences even enter my mind now. As I stand on this range, and breathe in the significance of what is happening, I realize that I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
First Morning at Perry
By Steve Smith
It’s five am and I’ve been up for half an hour already. After washing my face and preparing my gear for the day, I got on the way. Fog hangs low in the darkness. My headlights meet the resistance, and I feel I can see barely a hundred feet in front of me. As I come to the Camp Perry gate, I see other cars pulling in, and a line forming. I think to myself, “I’m going to be here a while†but luckily, I’m through in just a few minutes. The guards look like they’ve already seen a few hundred trucks this morning, and it’s just the beginning. Surprisingly, they are still wearing a smile, and I even get a “good luck†from the last guard in line. It’s so early I can’t even think of a “bad shot†thought to roll around in my mind that would negate the guard’s well wishes. I guess that’s a good thing.
I pull into the parking lot near the Chapel and find a parking space. Seeing a few other members of the team heading to breakfast, I follow. This is much earlier than I prefer to eat, but I really don’t have a choice today. First day jitters and early morning blues take a back seat to common sense nutrition today. The cafeteria is flooded with harsh fluorescent lighting and has a greasy spoon scent that is almost unbearable. I stand in line behind some of my fellow Coloradans and see folks wearing tee shirts from all over the country. I can’t help but think that some don’t look like they belong. Some, Easterners I hope, obviously lack the courtesy that I am now so accustomed to. The cafeteria ladies are already cranky, so I try my best to be just another guy and have the special like everyone else. I sit with my friends and try to eat my food and have a few pleasant words with some of the “veterans.†Somehow I feel like I’m being thrown into the lion’s den. All the folks that I shoot with will be spread across a half-mile or better firing line, and I might not see any all day. This is an individual sport, I tell myself, and decide it’s up to me to do well. After eating my extra salty biscuits and gravy, and gulping the overcooked coffee, I go back into the darkness to get my gear and go to the line.
I should have mocked up my cart before now, but I figure out a reasonable solution in a few minutes and I’m off. I start the long walk to the 200 yard line on the Viale range, which means I have about three-quarters of a mile to walk and pull my cart. As I get onto the road, and peer through the fog, I see that I’m surrounded by men and women all doing the same thing. I’m walking faster than most, and I must make my way past two hundred before I even turn onto the Viale range itself. Some people look like they have their entire house in their carts. I cannot imagine pulling that all week. Others have very little and carry what they have on their backs. They later confess that they will bring a cart next year. Only 800 yards to go. As I continue, I realize that this is the most surreal experience I’ve ever witnessed. The scene reminds me of the Christmas Island crabs, making their yearly trek to the sea. There is still no light, and every person, (there are several hundred now) is either pushing or pulling some strange contraption toward the 200 yard line. I’m sweating. It’s already 80 degrees and the humidity must be 100%. Mosquitoes are stirred by our feet and attack us while we’re still on the move. There is so much dew on the ground that my leather boots and pant legs are already wet by the time I reach the firing line. Seeing some friends, I stop by and wish them well, and then continue to my firing point for the day. As the sun is rising, I meet the other competitors in my area, and prepare to score the first shooter of the 2003 Highpower Rifle National Matches. The smell of acetylene gas from sight smokers and the familiar banter of shooters fills the air.
A cannon booms in the distance, and nearly 1400 competitors, and several hundred volunteers, turn toward our Nation’s flag and salute, as our anthem is played over the loudspeakers. I think of all the great men who have stood where I am standing, and have also heard that cannon roar. Neither the mosquitoes, nor the humidity, nor the long walk, nor any of the thousand other inconveniences even enter my mind now. As I stand on this range, and breathe in the significance of what is happening, I realize that I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
You kind of left us hanging Steve. 