You Can Call Me Coach.

I've never been an athlete.  Far from it.  My athletic career ended in eighth grade as a backup defensive end for the Barr Junior High Bulldogs.  I saw exactly one series of downs, in which I was pushed around, humiliated, and torched for six points.  Fast forward a generation.

My son Jack, who might possess a bit (but not a ton) more athletic ability than his dad, still doesn't get a lot of spiral passes thrown his way.  That's a failing on my part, and I freely admit it.  I'm embarrassed even.

But much like his father, Jack has a serious love of the outdoors, and probably moreso, a passion for shooting.  Longtime blog followers know I enrolled him in the Powder Creek SCTP Shooting Team last spring, and he's set to begin his intermediate (sixth grade) season in a couple weeks.

This year, I'll be a coach.  I spent this last weekend (the entire weekend, in fact) becoming an NRA/USAS/CMP Level One Shotgun Coach under the expert tutelage of Tom Wondrash.  What a worthwhile program!  I would encourage any bird hunter to take this course, not only to ensure the future of our sport, but as a ridiculously cheap way to brush up your own skills.

If you're like me, you grew up hunting, and shooting was something you sort of learned through experience.  There wasn't any formal teaching -- my dad taught me gun safety and stance, but we all sort of figured out the science of shotgunning on our own.  And until Sunday evening, that's how I was passing the sport onto my boy.

Nothing wrong with that, of course, but through the SCTP program, I've learned so much about the mechanics of shotgunning.  And hopefully, I'll be able to pass along at least a few nuggets to the 40 or so new kids that are eagerly joining our team for the first time this spring.

So I'm a coach now.  That's a new feeling for me, and one of awesome humility.  On the range Sunday afternoon, in 40 mph winds, my fellow coaches and I helped to quickly improve the scores of half a dozen kids.  Then it was my turn to get on the line, and with my wealth of knowledge, shot one of the shittier rounds I've had in a long time.  No matter.  I'll work through it.

After all, I'm a coach.

If you want more information how to get your kid or yourself (or both) into the Scholastic Clay Target Program, click here.  And have fun.

Pheasant Fest 2012: Winning Hearts and Minds, One Kid At A Time

Most of you are aware that Pheasants Forever hosted their annual Pheasant Fest in Kansas City this past weekend.  For those unaware, it's an outdoor trade show that features all things related to hunting and conservation -- bird dogs, guns, and everything else related.  By any account, it was a success, drawing more than 22,000 people over three days.  That's impressive, given that KC was as far south as The Fest has ever ventured -- not to mention that the weather was ridiculously nice, which probably kept a few people outside.

But I've got another, more personal, way to measure the festival's impact.  Saturday morning, I took my 11-year-old son Jack to the show, and let him bring along one of his classmates -- we'll call him Justin.  While Jack's outdoor experience rivals almost any kid of his age, Justin wasn't at all familiar with hunting, shooting, or bird dogs.  I could tell on the drive downtown that he had no idea of what to expect from the show.

After arriving, the boys and I cruised the aisles.  We pet bird dogs and we handled shotguns -- a first for Justin.  After about 30 minutes (and a few "rules" admonishments), I let them wander the hall alone while I conducted some business.  A couple hours later, we met up for lunch.  The boys were ebullient.  They told me about the shooting galleries and fishing games, and showed me the autographs they got from the young men who would represent the U.S. on our Olympic skeet team.  They had collected stacks of catalogs and brochures from vendors.  (Jack was a little bummed he couldn't find Larry Potterfield to autograph his Midway USA master catalog that he lugged to the show, but that's another story...)

Anyhow, I had planned on taking them home after lunch, but we went back for more.  Two hours later, we were descending the escalator, smiles on all our faces.  And then Justin turned to me with a question.

"Do you think I could take a hunter's safety course with Jack this spring?"

That's when I saw Pheasant Fest from a different perspective -- the view of a non-hunting kid who had truly gotten excited about a new thrill.  It's a thrill that I've never lost, but it's one I've almost come to take for granted.

The kids are home from school today (Presidents Day, you know).  But I can't wait to hear what Justin says to Jack tomorrow in class.  Hopefully, he's still as excited about hunting as he was on Saturday.  Hopefully, he'll talk his dad into shooting with us some afternoon this spring.

And maybe, just maybe, we'll be able to show Justin the thrill of a rooster flush or covey rise next fall.

I Am A Duck Hunter.

This is Adam, my great grandfather.  He emigrated to the United States in the mid 1880s from a small town near Worms, Germany.  He and his burgeoning family moved to Nebraska in 1884, and after a lot of hardscrabble work, he became the first podiatrist in the Cornhusker State.  That's our family's claim to fame.  But everytime I see this photo, I see something different than a foot doctor.  I am reminded that this hunting thing isn't just a passing hobby of mine.  It is literally in my blood.

The photo was taken a century ago, when photos were a time consuming, expensive production.  Take a close look.  What did he wear?  His hunting coat, rubber waders, cap, and a badass moustache.  Hunting -- and family -- obviously defined this man.

This is Lee, Robert, Donald, Richard, Leopold, and Bill.  Robert was my grandfather - Gramps - and these were his brothers, the progeny of Adam (there were 13 in all).  It was taken in Nebraska at the height of World War Two, and this Band of Brothers, not yet called up for duty on the front lines, were busy shooting a meal for their families.  Somehow, I think it might be safer being a nazi facing triple-A than a mallard dodging the fusillade of gunfire from this battery of A5's and Winchester 1897's.

This is my dad, Reg, probably taken around 1947.  In this photo, I see myself (always been a dead-ringer for the 'ol man) and my son (mostly through the enthusiasm in which he's holding the gun and enjoying himself outdoors).

So there's no doubt I come by this avocation naturally.  But while my whole family slogged through the oxbows and sandbars of Nebraska's Platte River, I gravitated to upland pursuits.  Not sure how that happened.

It doesn't really matter.  Next week, my dad -- and my son -- will converge on Waldenburg, Arkansas for a duck hunt.  I am blessed with some awesome hunting opportunities every season, but I can't help but circle this one on the calendar as the most anticipated.

I was never lucky enough to hunt with my own Gramps -- I was in college on his last duck hunt, but was told he showed up in a traditional 1940s necktie and hunting coat.  No matter.  Those men, and other family members, will be close to us this next week, as we tell stories, uphold traditions, and indoctrinate the young ones. As it should be.

I am one fortunate man.  I suspect we all have a similar story.  Here's to the hunting man.

Jack + .50 Cal Barrett + 5 Lbs. Tannerite = One Badass Time

In my previous post, I discussed the very worthwhile Pass It On Outdoor Mentors benefit that my ten-year-old son Jack and I attended last weekend.  Like most fundraisers of the outdoor ilk, there was an obligatory auction featuring some nice fishing and hunting trips, good-looking shotguns, a chance to fly in an open cockpit Stearman airplane, and more.

It was the "more" that caught the attention of me and my son.  The winning bidder would receive the chance to shoot a Barrett M82A1 .50 caliber semi-automatic rifle.  The .50 BMG cartridge was originally designed about 100 years ago by the esteemed John Browning to take out lightly armored vehicles and airplanes (and any personnel that happened to get in the way).  It hurls a 661 grain projectile at a muzzle velocity of nearly 3,000 feet per second.  For the non-gun nuts, the average deer rifle shoots a puny 150 grain bullet at more or less the same speed.  It remains a mainstay machine gun round that serves allied forces well in Iraq, Afghanistan, and elsewhere.

The Barrett, however, is a different beast.  Sure, it's the same day-ruining round, but the M82 is, believe it or not, more of a finesse weapon.  The military variant is used to take out single Al Qaeda targets and other unsavory types from over a mile away.

So the bidding started.  We stayed on the sidelines, and as the auctioneer droned on, Jack whispered to me.  "I really want to do this, dad.  It would be so awesome to tell my friends about!"  I paused.  The bid was $50.  "Jack, do your friends even know what a Barrett is?" I asked.  "Sure they do... from video games."

The bidding had stopped, and the Barrett's owner took the stage, in hopes of raising the stakes.  "C'mon, guys, 50 bucks won't even cover the cost of ammo.  If you bid this thing up, we'll throw in some Tannerite to shoot at."

And that's when my son's hand went up.  Tannerite, for the uninitiated, is a perfectly legal "binary target" that, when mixed together, explodes upon impact by a high-velocity centerfire rifle round.  You can drop it, or shoot at it with a handgun round (though I'm not testing this assertion), and it won't go off.

A flurry of bidding ensued, but when the dust settled, Jack and I were proud owners of ten rounds of the largest production centerfire rifle ever manufactured, and a gun to shoot them in.

The next afternoon, after a great round of sporting clays and lunch, it was time to go shooting.  We were escorted out to Flint Oak's range, along with 15 or so curious onlookers.  Jack was nervous, and even though I knew firsthand that this menacing-looking gun's recoil was about the same as a standard 12 gauge, I was a little nervous for him.

The video below, while amazingly cool, doesn't do it justice.  Simply racking a round into this massive gun puts chills down your spine.  Bystanders experience a soul-shuddering whoosh of air each time the trigger is pulled.  Jack is aiming at a target about 125 yards or so away, and the exploding Tannerite was the size of a small house --- the secondary report from the explosion is even more rattling.  See for yourself.



Dad of the year, anyone?  It was a teriffic experience for both of us, and I'm glad we got the chance to fire one.  At $8500.00, it's not likely I'm buying one anytime soon, and even if I could afford the gun, the ammo is sky-high and I don't have a place that I could shoot it.  If you ever get a chance to shoot one of these beasts, by all means, do so.

Scampwalker's common sense disclaimer: I fully support the ownership and legal use of the .50 BMG and Tannerite.  Please help keep them legal by using common sense.  Don't use them to destroy property that isn't your own, and if you shoot stuff, pick up the junk afterwards.  Don't make more noise than is reasonable, and wear hearing protection, for the love of God.  Be a good neighbor and an ambassador of our Second Amendment!

Braggin' On Jack

This spring, my son Jack joined our local shooting range's youth trapshooting team. It's sponsored by the Scholastic Clay Target Program, a national organization that strives to get kids involved in the shotgun sports.

Being a fifth grader, Jack is on the younger side of things, but he's really taken to it. Like his dad, he wasn't blessed with a heaping portion of athletic ability (or really even a morsel).  But we're discovering that (also like his pop) his hand-eye coordination is pretty darn good.

Good enough to earn him and his squadmates second place in his first-ever trap shoot. More importantly, it's teaching him gun safety and sportsmanship. I'm awfully proud of the kid.

My Tricked-Out Ruger 10-22

Remember back in the day when all it took was a silly little .22 rifle to make you happy?  Cans, squirrels, and paper targets were all in danger when that little gun was in your hands.  I've recently rediscovered that joy.

A good friend, looking to liquidate some of his excess firearms and components, offered me the receiver of a Ruger 10-22, the most popular, reliable, and vaunted autoloading rimfire rifle ever produced.  Admittedly, I was a newbie to the platform, but I knew it was popular for a reason, and decided it would make a fun winter project.

My receiver-providing friend, no firearms slouch, had already done a trigger job, upgraded the firing pin and bolt handle, and jeweled the bolt.  But the rest of the gun didn't exist.  Enter the internet.  The next most important -- if not the most important -- component of any rifle is the barrel, and the 10-22 offers a dizzying array of aftermarket ones.  After a lot of investigation, I decided on the Tactical Solutions X-Ring fluted machined aluminum .920 barrel.  In rifle parlance, that's a "heavy" barrel, though this bad boy weighs less than a pound.  Installation was mind-numbingly simple.

I initially wanted a classy wood or laminate stock, but nothing really suited me.  I wanted this to be a gun that would fit me as well as Jack, my 10-year-old son.  Somewhat begrudgingly, I went for Blackhawk's Axiom R/F adjustable telescoping butt stock.  Boy am I glad I did.  It's free-floated, weighs just over a pound, and fits us both to a T.

For optics, I couldn't justify spending a ton on a rimfire gun (yes, I know, I had already spent an inordinate amount of coin on this gun, for those of you keeping score at home).  I "settled" for a Bass Pro Shops Redhead Ascent Rimfire 3x9 scope for about 60 bucks, with rings.  I chose a Tactical Solutions picatinny-style rail base as well.

I should've stopped there.  But I had a Leapers UTG bipod on order from Amazon that was originally destined for my AR, but I figured I was rapidly moving from tactical to "tacticool" on that weapon.  So I put it on the sling swivel stud of the Ruger's Blackhawk stock, and I've been amazed at how great it works on the range bench.  No sandbags, and much more stable.  I've heard there are reliability issues with the UTG rest, but so far, I haven't seen any.

So how much does this monstrosity weigh?  Would you believe a mere five pounds, three ounces?  Pretty slick, huh?  But is it a shooter?

Hell yeah.  Out at the range yesterday, at 50 yards, in 10-15 mph variable winds, I was routinely bulling my target -- and so was Jack.  You can shoot the thing all day, of course, since the noise, recoil, and expense of the ammo is minimal.  And if you like shooting centerfire rifles and pistols like my son does, you need to make sure you have a fun-to-shoot .22 in your gun cabinet.

Thompson/Center Venture + Hornady Superformance = Bad Day For Deer

As my 2010-2011 deer hunting season draws to a close, I would be remiss if I didn't rave a bit about the setup that I've used this fall. 

Back in September, I received a Thompson/Center Venture in .270 caliber.  Anyone who knows me understands that I appreciate a nicely-grained walnut stock, so this gun was a bit off-putting with its black plastic furnishings.  It was all solid, and the grip panels were effective, if not elegant.

But that's about the only quibble I can make with this firearm.

T/C raves about their 1 MOA accuracy out of the box, which I assumed was a bit of puffery from the marketing department.  I was wrong.  Fitted with Nikon ProStaff glass, this is the most accurate deer gun I have in my safe.  The 12-point drop-tined buck that I took dropped in his tracks at 150 yards, and the doe my son shot never knew what hit her.  And at an MSRP of around $500, it's a gun (American made, no less) that's within almost any hunter's reach.  I know I'll be reaching for this gun again next fall.

I'm convinced that part of what makes the Venture so deadly accurate is what I've been feeding it: Hornady Superformance SST loads.  Every year it seems the ammo manufacturers come out with some new load that promises to be the ultimate whitetail medicine.  Few deliver, but the Superformance does.

I don't entirely understand it, but Hornady claims they achieve a muzzle velocity that's 100 or 200 fps greater than a conventional load.  And man, is it hard hitting.  Jack's doe had a fist-sized hole where her heart used to be.  No one - me, Jack, or the rest of the guys in deer camp -- had seen a deer hit that hard. 

And best of all, it's not a hard-shooting load.  I was a bit apprehensive about letting my son use a .270 on his first deer, especially with these hot loads.  But there truly was no appreciable difference in recoil between the Superformance and a conventional load.

It's a deadly combo -- and one that's given us a full-to-the-brim deep freeze this winter.

When The Going Gets Hot, The Hot Go Redneck

It wasn't all birdhunting on my recent trip to Montana. For more than a couple days, our efforts were stymied by mid-80 degree heat. I'd like to say we stopped for the dogs' safety, but truth told, those temps are damned hot for the hunters, too.

To pass the time, we spent a couple of lazy afternoons target shooting. We had my AR-15, a Savage .223 bolt-action, a Ruger Blackhawk chambered in .357, and a Charter Arms .38 snub nose.

Good fun was had by all, although I wouldn't rate any of us as ready for sniper school. We found a few prairie dog towns, but after the first shot or two, they wizened up and the closest shot we had was at least 300 yards away. That's a wee bit far for wingshots like us.

No matter -- we shot a couple hundred rounds' worth and had a ton of fun doing it.

Tip From The Road: in a pinch, empty .223 brass makes a great makeshift trailer door peg when you accidentally drive off without securing a padlock.

A Season Of New Begins Now

I can't believe it's almost here. Hunting season starts tomorrow.

If you hunt, you get it -- the giddy anticipation and the borderline obsession with last-minute dog training, gun cleaning, and gear gathering. If you don't hunt, then you can probably stop reading this blog and tune in again sometime in January, because between now and then, this little corner of the internet is going to be devoted to birds, dogs, buddies, and the places we all inhabit this time of year.

And what a special, special year this is going to be for me. It's the first season my ten-year-old son will be actively hunting with me. I was lucky enough to draw an opening morning public dove hunt on the Kansas River Wildlife Area, and sunrise tomorrow will find me and Jack in the middle of a sunflower field, heads pointed skyward.  It's a rite of passage -- I vividly remember my first dove hunt at the Cornhusker Army Ammunition Plant with my father nearly 30 years ago. I became hooked on this whole outdoor affliction at that moment -- and I can't wait to pass on the tradition to my boy.

Jack and I have been practicing gun safety and clay target shooting for the past month or so. And after much experimentation with the various scatterguns in my safe, I opted to buy him a Remington 870 youth model.  The gun fits him well, he shoots it well, and while not as elegant as a breech gun, it is pretty much bomb-proof (and hopefully boy-proof).

The other "first" I'll experience this year is hunting behind my now-seven-month-old pointer, LuLu. I'm doing my best to temper my expectations, but I think this dog is going to be a keeper. She has the drive and birdiness that I had hoped for, and she's proven to be a dream to train and handle thus far. Just this morning I had her off lead (having just recently collar conditioned her) and I was thrilled by the graceful 250-yard casts she'd make -- and even more thrilled that she would voluntarily check in every few minutes.

The appreciation for LuLu is magnified when I am reminded of how fragile it all is. Dottie, my eldest dog, is enjoying her air-conditioned solitude indoors while recovering from surgery. While we haven't yet heard back from the veterinary pathologist, I feel pretty confident things will be alright. And if nothing else, the old girl has reminded me to appreciate every moment I'm blessed to be afield.

Happy hunting, everyone. Be safe.

Well, That Was Quick. EPA Shoots Down Proposed Ammo Ban.

Apparently the work of sportsmen and gun nuts makes a difference.  On Friday, the EPA announced that it was denying a petition aimed at outlawing lead in ammunition.  Nicely done, folks!  The NSSF credits a strong grassroots campaign in helping to defeat the measure.

Gimme Back My Bullets, EPA

Ok, guys, here's a real quick, painless way to write your Senators and Representative and encourage them to prevent the EPA from adopting a complete ban on lead ammunition.

They're using the Toxic Substance Control Act of 1976 as their basis, except the law specifically calls out ammo as exempt from the rules.  Make no mistake --the Obama-appointed people behind this proposal are more interested in a de-facto gun ban than saving any kind of wildlife.  Not only that, but there's never been any legitimate, peer-reviewed study that I've found that connects wildlife mortality to the ingestion of lead.

The NSSF has the full story here, and you can send an email or letter to your elected officials here.  Do it now -- the whole shebang takes less than a minute, and it could help save the future of our sport.

Sunday Afternoon At The Range, And Shotgun Advice Wanted

Yesterday afternoon my son Jack and I drove about 85 miles south to the Hollister Shooting Range, a public range run by the Old Fort Sharpshooters near Fort Scott, Kansas.  Yes, there are plenty of ranges closer to my house than that, but I'm pretty particular about where I shoot.

It seems to me that at most ranges, the clientele and management fits into one of two categories.  The first is run by those elitist, uptight, Perazzi-toting bluebloods that travel the clays course in tricked-out golf carts that won't give you the time of day.  The second kind of range is the one inhabited by testosterone-laden, sleeveless-shirt wearing, menacing guys that are a little bit unstable.  I don't feel comfortable at either place, and I don't want my son thinking that that's how he needs to behave around guns.

So about a year ago, I found this range.  The only two rangemasters I ever see there are two normal looking, friendly, and knowledgeable (but not know-it-all) grandad types.  They immediately took to Jack, and one of them, being a hunter safety instructor, gave all sorts of great shooting and safety advice to my son.  And that advice sticks -- there's something about being told something by a non-parent that makes it more credible, I guess.

Anyhow, we started out on the rifle range, and put my little AK-22 through its paces at 25 yards (it's no tack driver).  Even so, Jack hit in the red on virtually every shot, making his dad proud. 

Next up was the AR.  This was only the second time we've shot it, but man is it ever fun!  Since buying it, we've done some minor customization, including a new pistol grip, an ambidextrous safety, a Trijicon scope, a laser sight, and a poor man's trigger job.  It's delightful to shoot -- and the recoil isn't really much more than a .22.

Next we hit the trap range (for a measly $4 per round!).  A couple weeks' back, Jack netted a 15/25 on his first round of trap ever, using the same Stevens 16 gauge that I grew up with, and the same gun my dad grew up with.  The barrel was shortened to about 24 inches, so it's easy for him to carry and swing.  But it kicks like a chorus line of Rockettes, and I fear that at ten years old and 75 pounds soaking wet, he's going to grow tired of the recoil (who wouldn't?).

So this week, I let him have a round on my father-in-law's old 20 gauge Stevens 311 -- a rock-solid gun with a nice, short length of pull.  Unfortunately, those two barrels make fatigue set in pretty quickly, and his swing isn't what it needs to be.

So my question: what do we do?  There's one more gun that I've already got that might fit him -- a little Spanish 28 gauge guild gun that I think we'll try next week.  Problem is, it's a little nicer grade than I want my ten-year-old with, and shells are pretty spendy.

Any other dads out there faced with similar issues?  I've not been fond of the pump/auto guns with youth stocks -- they're still pretty heavy and I much prefer the safety and simplicity of a breech gun for a kid starting out.

Thanks in advance for your advice.  The kid's got his first dove hunt in just 30 days!

Hey NSSF,I Know My Sport Is Dying, But Do You Have To Remind Me?!?!

There's word today from the organizers of the annual SHOT Show that they've redesigned the logo for the king of all shooting and hunting trade expositions.  The new logo, shown at left, is allegedly "strong," "clean," "inclusive" and "modern" -- all good things, apparently, to the National Shooting Sports Foundation.

Gone is the earnest, shotgun-toting upland hunter with a boot-polishing, panting golden retriever at his side.  I wasn't a particularly huge fan of the old logo, but it made me proud that my sport was was represented in such a high-profile icon.

“Times change and trade shows change, reflecting current buying and selling trends,” said Chris Dolnack, senior vice president of NSSF.  "By eliminating the hunter and the dog, the logo now better reflects the diverse audiences of today’s SHOT Show."

Did you really have to use the word ELIMINATING, Chris?  I mean, I get it.  Hunting is but one portion of the shooting sports pie, and upland hunting is an increasingly smaller crumb of said pie.  Deer hunting, target shooting, tactical and law enforcement are where the money's at these days -- hell, I've even got a black gun.  So I understand businesses need to adapt to where the green is, which is probably why the new logo features a green target.  Fitting, eh?

But still... I just feel so... eliminated.

I Bought A Black Gun.

I've always considered myself more of a walnut and case-colored shotgunner, but over the weekend, I found myself in possession of a DPMS Panther Arms 5.56mm Oracle. The deal was hard to pass up -- $699 at Cabela's, and I had about $400 in Cabela's gift cards that made the effective price ridiculously cheap.

So now I own what's essentially the same gun as the standard-issue field weapon of the U.S. military. Most everyone that I've told thus far (mosty non-hunters or non-shooters) ask me what I'll do with it. A fair question, and one I expect I'll get from some hunting purists who disdain this sort of firearm for one reason or another. All I know is that my son and I are getting pretty excited to take it out and punch a few holes in some paper. Sure, a .22 is cheaper, but not nearly as effective against zombie attacks.



I've only dipped my big toe into the subculture of the AR-15, and while some seems a bit over the top, the boy and I are excited about doing a few mods and making the gun our own. Sort of a father-son soapbox racer project for the 2nd Amendment crowd. Stay tuned.

SHOT Show: What I Came Home With

I'm recently returned from Las Vegas, that shining city of excess.  I'm not much of a fan of the city -- all that glitter is paid with someone else's gold -- and gambling has never held any allure for me.  There are some nice restaurants in town, but they're typically shrines to far-off TV-chefs who made their names elsewhere.

Vegas played host to SHOT Show, which, for those who are unfamiliar, stands for shooting, hunting, and outdoor trade.  Nearly 60-thousand industry-only types descended on the Sands Convention Center this year and traipsed 700,000 square feet of guns, hunting gear, and everything associated with it.

It's truly a sight to behold -- bikini-clad booth babes hawking the latest in killing technology to gawking, mostly-middle-aged white men who can't believe their good fortune.  The "trend" of the show this year -- as it's been for at least the last couple of years -- is the amazing popularity of military and law enforcement gear -- also known as "black guns" or "tactical" weapons.  Why?  It's probably a combination of things.  They certainly look cool and menacing, but it's also a response to a Presidential administration that's considered hostile to the Second Amendment .  Also, I guess, it's a reflection of a citizenry that has become used to seeing its countrymen carrying these weapons in far-flung regions of the world.  (Side note: given all of this, don't you think SHOT's logo of a bird hunter with a boot-polishing, panting dog seems a bit, uh, quaint?)

For those not aware, there's a huge, self-flagellating debate raging in the shooting and sporting world on whether or not these tactical weapons have a place in hunting.  I think if anyone even casually observed the SHOT Show floor, they'd realize that (right or wrong) the debate has pretty much been decided.

Part of the fun during the show is when a co-worker/fellow gun-nut and I walk the floors and kick the tires of new and coveted firearms.  An even bigger part of the fun is finding someone in a booth that is willing to reciprocate a "friends and family" discount on a shiny new gun or piece of gear.  So suffice it to say that over the next few months, I hope to fill my gun safe with a couple new pieces -- maybe even one of those black guns.

But undoubtedly my favorite part of the show is rekindling friendships with friends in the industry.  The outdoor industry is a small fraternity, and I've made some incredible friends over the years.  SHOT serves as "old home week" for many of us.  It's a chance to shake hands, catch up, trade gossip, sling some bullshit, drink some whiskey, and plan hunting trips for the coming year.

These are friends that have helped you out, both professionally and personally, over many years.  For me, they're comrades with whom I've shared deer blinds, covey rises, hunting camps, and all things associated with them, both good and bad.  And here we all are, plunked down into Sin City, the antithesis of the Great Outdoors.

And you know what?  It doesn't matter one damn bit.  It's not the shiny toys I have after I get home from SHOT -- it's the friends I've collected over the years that matter most.

Airsoft: This Ain't Your Daddy's Red Ryder Daisy BB Gun

For my son's nine-year-old birthday, I bought him (me) an automatic weapon. Before the Brady Bunch nuts get their panties in a bunch, it's not what you think. It's airsoft. And it's what I know I would have wanted back when I was in short pants.

I first learned of airsoft back at SHOT Show a couple of years ago, and I thought it was a bit goofy... grown men with plastic replicas of military weapons, having it out with one another, a la paintball. And I suppose you could do it that way.

Not us. My son has learned more about gun safety in the last month than I learned in a year. Seriously. He loves it because it looks cool, and it's full auto. You'd think the kid would be spraying pellets nonstop with a full auto M4, but without any coaching at all, he's very conservative with his shot placement. I think it's because I told him he was buying the next 5,000 rounds (15 to 20 bucks). Hell, with the price of ammo these days, why NOT shoot airsoft plastic pellets??

I'm amazed at how conscientious he is with gun safety... mostly because he knows that if he screws up, the gun gets put away (and it never has been, by the way). And even though airsoft can be dangerous, compared to a brass BB, it's slower traveling, and isn't packing the same amount of critter-killing joules that the BBs and pellets we grew up with. And I feel a lot safer shooting it in the backyard than something that spews ricocheting metal.

Anyhow, I'm a big fan. It's brought me and my son closer together, and it's one helluva squirrel, rabbit, and ground squirrel deterrent for the vegetable garden. Plus, they're damned fun. And let's face it... full auto kicks ass. I don't care who you are.

The Last Best Place Proves Why It Is

I know full well that I may get flamed on this post -- and maybe by both sides -- but here goes.

A very interesting battle is shaping up in the great state of Montana, and I'm surprised (but shouldn't be) that the drive-by media hasn't weighed in on it more.

You can read the full AP story here, but I'll try to condense it as I see it. Like many independent-minded, self-reliant folks, Montanans were upset with the federal government's increased meddling in virtually every aspect of their lives (tea parties, anyone?). So the Montana legislature passed (and the governor signed) a bill that exempts from federal law any gun or ammunition manufactured in the Big Sky State, as long as it's only sold and used within its sovereign borders. No registrations, no wait periods, and no background checks. Texas and Alaska are considering similar legislation.

I doubt that Smith and Wesson is talking to relocation experts just yet. But as a man who appreciates fine firearms, the thought of a law that encourages the guild gun trade in the U.S. is exciting to me. Hell, since I'm an out-of-stater, I'd even subject myself to Uncle Sam's rules to get a custom-made, limited run bird gun that's built just for me. Yet another reason to go to Montana again this fall, right?

I suppose it's a gun control issue, but like many, I agree that it's more about the Tenth Amendment than it is the Second Amendment. I give Montana a lot of credit for forcing the issue and standing up to Washington. But in all honesty, I think the bill's supporters have an uphill battle, since it would be a tall order to ensure a gun bought for in-state use didn't leave Montana. Predictably, the antis are screeching a similar tune, but for all the wrong reasons.

"Guns cross state lines and they do so constantly," says Peter Hamm, a mouthpiece for the anti-gun Brady Campaign. "This is a Sagebrush Rebellion-type effort to light some sort of fire and get something going that's pleasing to the gun nuts and that has very little actual sense."

No, Mr. Hamm, you're wrong. Thinking that a thug from South Central LA will travel to Kalispell to pay $7,000 for a custom Mauser makes ZERO sense. Let's enforce laws that are already on the books that are meant to punish the bad guys who use guns to commit crimes. Once we figure that out, then we'll argue about harassing the good folks in Montana.

You heard it here first, folks.