At the Range

I could have titled this "Home at the Range" but look at my restraint.

Gun people like to call shooting “range therapy,” or at least that’s what social media screenshots tell me every time one of them gets arrested. It’s always like “ballsfaceNarnia2395” commenting “Hillary Clinton is a problem that won’t solve itself” and then the recently arrested person replies, “I wish she’d join me for some range therapy” followed by a mischievous grin emoji. Two years later the FBI is like “we’ve discovered this mass shooter’s internet history, who could have foreseen his choice to solve problems with violence?”

Assuming the phrase “range therapy” is also used in earnest, these people must go to very calm, professional, private gun ranges, and not the abandoned quarry outside of town, like I do.

The abandoned quarry outside of town is deep in the forest, at the end of a long journey, which makes it sound like a fairy tale place, except that when trees part to reveal your destination, it’s just a bunch of trash and a crowd you hoped wouldn’t be there. The trash tells a story, of course—splintered plywood targets, a shredded milk jug, dozens of bright red shotgun shells and blasted brass. In the rare moments the quarry is empty, the forest watches patiently from atop the pit’s high walls, firs swaying.

Usually, someone is blowing the peace to hell. They bought guns, maybe for entertainment, maybe to overthrow the government, and here’s the fun part: you don’t know! You scan the vehicles for Punisher bumper stickers or telltale signs of rural wealth. You check out tattoos.

Sometimes it’s a lone, very serious person sitting at a specially made gun desk, firing a .50 caliber sniper rifle with bullets the size of a thumb then marking notations in a little book. Sometimes it’s a male bonding exercise, with one person, clearly the organizer, giving everyone a tour of their pistols.

At least 50 percent of the time, it’s a carful of people who may or may not be sober, may or may not be a bachelor party, but definitely haven’t thought things through. They’re firing an AR-15 as fast as possible at a swinging metal plate they hung 15 yards away, on the video game logic that when bullets hit targets, they they just disappear. They empty 9mm pistols into cartoons of aliens that bleed neon paint, or just sweep the barren quarry for a shred of wood or a swiss-cheesed suitcase that might jump when hit.

Then there are gun enthusiasts, who have a collection of expensive firearms mixed in with a WW2 antique and at least one gun that looks like a fictional space weapon you earn halfway through Halo 3. The last time I visited the range, a guy had squeezed a plastic, bright blue, 3D-printed revolver into a vise, and tied a string to the trigger.

Shooting’s stress involves math. I’m usually just practicing with my 30.06 hunting rifle, but I want to be proficient, so I’ll sit there trying to remember how many inches from the bullseye correspond to a click of the scope at 200 yards, and meanwhile gunshots crack my earplugs and a small pack of guys on 4-wheelers has decided to spin wheelies in the dust of the parking lot before darting into the woods (hopefully not the woods behind the range).

Our house shoots at targets taped to political yard signs, which Robby painted black because “we don’t want to start conversations.” Still, some introductions shake out the awkwardness and make it easier to request a cold range. You can learn a little, if you ask the right questions.

Mostly, though, Rob’s right: I don’t want the stress of meeting strangers in the woods. I expend enough patience waiting for an appropriate time to declare a cold range and check my target, ignoring sporadic cracks of gunfire, keenly aware a stranger with a weapon is just beyond my peripheral sight. The range always sounds fun when I load my car, and ends up the opposite of therapy. But as humans have known since cavemen first tossed rocks, it’s nice to hit a thing with a thing.