Oh, man! I thought as my tires crunched the gravel of the Rat Canyon Range parking lot, What a sweet morning for shootin’! It was crisp and cold, the pre-dawn winds had died to a flat calm, and the visibility was what highdesert dwellers call “severe clear.” Oh, yeah; sweet!
I slipped on my Walker’s “Quad” power range muffs before I even got outta the truck. Having had my hearing damaged enough by our artillery, their mortars, and friends’ small-arms fire, I’m kinda sensitive about hearing protection. It can be ablessing, not bein’ able to hear Little Red’s stereo blaring until it rattles the silverware, but I don’t wanta miss any gentle murmured messages from the Memsaab, like, “Join me in a bubblebath, big boy?” Hearing loss is a double-edged sword, dudes.
Note: Never let four small “allies” take cover behind YOU in a firefight. Three of their rifle muzzles were about six inches from my ears as they peeked out and shot around me. I was in a bowlegged half-crouch position, and the fourth munchkin was kneeling between my legs, pretendin’ they were tree trunks. Ever wondered what muzzle-blast effect is like, spewing upward from a flash suppressor about four inches below your crotch? Imagine having screwdrivers jammed into your ears while simultaneously, a Green Bay Packers place-kicker repeatedly punts your privates. I couldn’t sit for a week, and I still can’t hear certain high notes.
“You bettah cover dan a wattah-boo*, Connah-man!” their captain later screamed into my chime-ringin’ ears. Hey, glad to be of service, pal.
Anyway, these Quads are great. They amplify normal sounds while suppressing gunshots to a dull thump. I could clearly hear dry grass cracklin’ underfoot as I strolled past the “openaction” bay where my pal, Joe Gleason, was practicing his draw-an’-double-tap on some silhouettes. I even heard his whispered “shooting mantra,” muttered under his breath just before each draw.
“Excuse me,” he breathed, “But that’s my Harley, pal!” (draw — pop-pop — on-safe, reholster.)
“Dude! Back away from that Harley! It’s mine!” (draw — pop-pop.)
Hey, whatever floats your boat, Joe. I walked on, got settled into a 50-yard range, and I had just taken up trigger slack on round number five of a potential “personal best” group, when …
“YO, CONNOR! WHATCHA DOIN’, BUDDY?” Bang!!!
I didn’t even bother lookin’ for that round I jerked. I think it landed somewhere on the eastern slope of Cabeza Raton Mountain.My “surprise guest” was another guy I know — let’s call him “Jack Cass,” okay? Besides the fact he apparently learned towhisper in a sawmill, he’s got one of those voices that sounds like a jackass braying about a bellyache. Not only did he ruin my great group, he also plunged me into depression, because it reminded me again of what I wanted — but DIDN’T get — for Christmas …