So this Thanksgiving, my family went to Missouri – but because they left Tuesday night, and I had classes on Wednesday, I was unable to join them. My sister and her family were having their own dinner, so when a friend of mine invited me to his house, I gladly accepted.
Long story short on that front: his family is nuts, his parents love me, and I’m going to go out there a lot more often in the future, I think. Not just because of the company, but because it’s out in the middle of nowhere, and you know what that means?
Lots and lots of shooting.
I shot my Walther for the first time (did pretty well, actually, from 25 yards), shot my Mossberg for the first time, shot my .22 rifle and .22 pistol, launched skeet for my friend, shot his .44 magnum rifle, did some target practice, and all around just had a good time.
Except for the Mossberg, that is. I checked and re-checked everything, pulled it to my shoulder, made sure it was cradled correctly, braced it against me, leaned into it, took a breath, sighted, and fired. I mean, I really did everything I was supposed to do. The recoil from the shotgun was so great that the gun jumped sideways on my shoulder and pulled my arm away from my body. With my muscles tensed the way that they were, I immediately felt like something had gotten torn. I’d only loaded one shell, so I didn’t even reject the spent shell…I just held the gun to me and took deep breaths while pacing around the yard and trying not to cry. JB (my friend) had gone into the house to get something (probably another rifle), and when he saw me, he was like, “Hey, are you okay?”
Y’all, I was so embarrassed that I started crying. Later in the day, JB shot the gun and told me that he couldn’t believe how horrible the recoil was, and he’s 6’6″ and over 200 pounds, so I didn’t feel as bad later, but I just felt like a total dumbass.
Anyway, other than that, the day was good. And I took photos. Which I will now put under a jump.
We started shooting at around 11:30 on Friday morning.
This is the land we were on:
A lot of these photos are black and white simply because the lighting was weird, and I didn’t feel like constantly adjusting things. I’m lazy like that.
See? LOTS of land.
To the left is JB’s .44, to the right is his shotgun:
JB setting up the target:
After I shot my Walther and some .22 stuff, JB got out his .44 and killed the target.
Then we brought out the clay launcher, and he had some fun…this was after I injured my shoulder, so there was no way in hell I was going to try. His mom launched two at once for him, and he missed them both…he wasn’t bothered by it, though:
Then his mom went and got an old shoe and hung it from a tree by a rope. Add some leftover clays and an old soda can, and you have a great Redneck Windchime…or hanging target:
The first time we did this, I shot both clays, and JB knocked the can off (and proceeded to riddle it with bullets). We were both using .22 rifles, BTW.
His mom was enjoying watching me squeal when I hit a target, I think, so she went and grabbed a can of blue spray paint and hung it on the top loop, where that free clay is in the photo above. I nailed it with my first shot, it spun around and sprayed paint all over everything, and then launched itself into another part of the yard. I was pretty proud of myself…heh.
After that, it turned into kind of a free-for-all – more clays were produced and set up in weird places, the shoe was annihilated some more, the cans on the ground were yet again riddled with holes from JB’s over-enthusiastic shooting, and then we ran out of ammo, so the fun was over.
This is the target after JB shot it with buckshot.
This can only had one hole in it from me…the rest was JB:
JB shot at the rope holding everything up with his .44 until the whole thing came down. You can see the blue paint all over the grass in this photo, too, as well as the big white styrofoam thing that his mother hung up for us to fire at:
Good thing his dad was throwing that out, eh?
His dog, Angus, came out to say hi when it was over:
Here’s the can – you’d think that there was a personal grudge involved or something:
That’s pretty much it for photos. I had a good time, I’m going to see if there’s anything to be done about the recoil on my shotgun, and that’s pretty much it.
Any other photos from this or the other things I’ve done in the past few months will be posted on Flickr, and linked here.