Home on the Range

The stinging sun rots the mud packed under the shooters’ heels. This is the same mud picked up and thrown around whenever one of the many oversized trucks pulls into the range. The same mud which lies on every stool, table, and bathroom stall, the same mud which covers the intent faces of the gunmen as they line up their shots, and the same mud which is forbidden to fall upon the precious guns of the men at the Circle S Shooting Range.

At this gun range near the farming town of Two Rock, there haphazardly leans a small overhang where sign-ins for target shooting take place. This shack-like building is open on all sides and appears to have once been painted a light salmon color, but what paint is left has a thick layer of crusted dirt slapped on it as if it were a decrepit boar drying off from an afternoon wallow. There is a small attachment which lies next to the shack like an enlarged syst. Tables for the shooters to line up their shots on are thrown randomly next to the lean-to and are of the same color scheme and design with posts just barely strong enough to keep the top from plummeting to the ground. Behind these slabs there stands a bench with and old sign on the back of it which once read, “PICK UP YOUR BRASS,” but the “B” and the “R” of “BRASS” are now scratched out.

This message has undoubtedly been in this condition for a long time and obviously confuses most of the shooters because now, not even weeds can grow through layers of mud-covered brass on the ground. The walk to the tables is a bunker in a battlefield with the crunching of shell casings. The occupants of the shooting range do not notice or mind this sound because they go about their business without looking down once. Every shooter here is male with the exception of one young woman fitted in a t-shirt with bloody skulls on the back. She appears to be accompanied by her boyfriend who wears the same attire as the rest of the men: worn shirt, high jeans, old padded vest, and thick muddy boots all camouflage, as if the targets which they are shooting at would have a harder time spotting them and hobbling away on the posts they are nailed to because of their outfit choice.

More large vehicles pull into the parking lot and men sluggishly move from the driver’s seat to the trunks and tailgates. They pull out large cases and as they sit down, they set them delicately on their laps. They unlatch the seals and open the container and to their excitement find that their old friend looks just as beautiful as always. An enormous man with thick shoulder hair creeping out beneath his sleeveless shirt and one dark brown eye slightly lower than the other undresses his large firearm. He first wipes his hands on his pants and then tenderly unzips the covering and lifts the rifle into his hands. While arranging the remainder of his necessities, from time to time he caresses the gun without thinking, as a reminder that it had not been forgotten.

Beneath my ear protection the sound of gunfire seems unmuffled. The roar of the magnums and the pop of the twenty-twos assault my eardrums. The gunpowder clouds the air and coats the inside of my nose with a sweet, burning smell like over-cooked cotton candy. As the man inside the shack calls out, “Cease fire,” the thundercloud of propellant gets picked up by the wind and only clear silence is left. The men affectionately lay their guns down to rest and gallop out to the targets with eagerness spilling out of them. At the first close examination of the target papers, consternation replaces the previously excited faces. The men begin their journey back, lumbering along through the weeds. Only one man looks pleased with his results, a tiny man with long untrimmed hair and a large nose to match his equally massive gun. He packs up his magnum and walks back to his car with his target paper opened up and slightly higher than it needs to be. When he reaches his car he lays the paper next to his gun on the passenger seat and drives away satisfied with the days earned trophy.

The woman is firing a military style rifle and her boyfriend a huge hunting rifle suitable for game which hasn’t lived in North America since the last ice age. They are sitting at adjacent tables and both taking shots at a rapid pace. The boyfriend’s shell casings are continuously being thrown on the back of the woman as she tries to ignore the burning brass and focus on her shot. In an instant, the couple runs out of ammunition and tired, pat down the sweat on their forehead with the tails of their shirts. They begin packing up their belongings and wipe their guns down. Putting the gun in the case first and then the towels after for a comforting blanket, they put them in the trunk of their car, climb in, and without saying one word, drive away.

-Julia