It was a hot, still morning when my great uncle Courtney and I arrived at the gun range.

We were the only people there, with seven ranges to choose from. We chose a 100 yard rifle range to sight in the two rifles we’d brought with us: my Ruger .243 bolt-action, and my cousin’s brand new $1500 A17 bolt-action wedding gift. I had the honor of shooting it for the very first time. 

But, before I shot my cousin’s coyote killer, I was eager to sight-in my own rifle, which I hadn’t shot since going to the range with my great uncle Courtney over a year before. The day before going up to Greeley, I’d gone to Walmart and purchased two boxes of Winchester rounds for my rifle (they were expensive, but worth it). That night, I could hardly sleep I was so excited to go to my range and shoot my favorite rifle. Now that I was at the range, my cousin’s A17 could wait for me to get bored of my .243. 

As eager to shoot as I was, I didn’t neglect to go through my strict gun safety check routine. I didn’t take my rifle out of its case till it was already on the concrete table, aimed downrange. As I was taking it out of its case, I made sure to keep the muzzle aimed downrange at all times. And, once the rifle was completely out of its case, I immediately popped out the magazine, opened the chamber, then pulled the bolt out so I could look down the barrel safely. 

“You’re on it this morning!” my great uncle complemented as he set down a box on the next concrete table over. 

“I am!” I nodded, “I’ve got this stuff down to a science!”

Inside the box were a couple pairs of earmuffs, a tripod for the rifle’s barrel, and several leather cornhole bags to help support the rifle on the tripod and against the table. After carefully setting down the rifle on the concrete table, I worked to position the tripod and leather bags to support the rifle’s barrel. Then, great uncle Courtney handed me a staple-gun and two targets to nail to the wooden boards 100 yards away. 

“I think we shot one of these once.” I chuckled while I waved the staple-gun around. 

“Shot one?” great uncle Courtney asked with a scowl. 

“Yeah! Don’t ya remember?” I nodded, “2016 or 2017, we were in North Dakota shooting targets, and we left one of the staple-guns downrange on a tree stump, right below the targets we were shooting.”

“Oh, now I remember!” great uncle Courtney laughed, “We didn’t even know we’d left the staple-gun out there till we went to retrieve our used targets, and I found it on the ground with a bullethole through the handle!”

“I promise I won’t leave this one downrange this time.” I laughed as I began to walk down to the wooden boards, where I stapled two paper targets next to each other. 

With everything in place, I rushed back to my rifle, where I put on a pair of ear muffs, sat down with my rifle, loaded it, and got it into position, with the leather cornhole bags supporting the barrel in the tripod, and the stock against my shoulder. Meanwhile, uncle Courtney sat next to me with a scope, ready to watch me put holes into the paper targets. 

“Ready when you are!” he shouted when I briefly glanced his way. 

“Safety off!” I announced as I stared through the scope with my right eye, and watched the range with the other. 

Instantly, I felt myself relax. Every muscle in my body, starting from my jaw, released with my breath. My heart slowed down. My thoughts fell silent. Even the wind became still as I began to press on the trigger, ever-so-slowly, keeping the crosshairs on the bullseye on the left-side target. Instead of jerking the trigger like many shooters are often tempted to do, I let the gun “surprise” me in a sense. Two seconds after I began to put pressure on the trigger (which felt like forever to me), the rifle kicked back into my shoulder, and a hole formed just to the left of the bullseye. 

“Nice shot!” my great uncle shouted, “Shoot again!”

I pulled the bolt back to let out the spent shell casing, then pushed it back in with the second bullet. Just like last time, I fully relaxed, kept the crosshairs on the bullseye, and gradually put more and more pressure on the trigger until the rifle kicked back into my shoulder, the sound of the bullet exploding from the barrel echoing for miles. Without a word, I simply reloaded the gun, relaxed, and fired the last bullet in the magazine. In the end, there were three bullets and three holes in the paper, each inching closer and closer to the bullseye. 

“You’ve still got it!” uncle Courtney laughed as I left open the empty chamber and let the rifle lay on its side. 

“Damn right!” I nodded. 

“Let’s go down and see how ya did. I’m pretty sure you’ve got a pretty good cluster going on in there.” 

Together, we walked down the hundred yard range to inspect my first target. Just like my great uncle said, there were three little holes clustered around the bullseye. None of them hit the bullseye, but we weren’t expecting them to hit the bullseye anyway. At 100 yards, towards a left-of-center target, the rounds went almost exactly where we expected them to. Evidently, my rifle was already immaculately sighted in, but I still wanted to shoot it some more. 

My great uncle sat patiently at the table next to mine as I loaded my magazine with four brand-new .243 rounds and asked, “How many [bullets] does that mag hold?”

“Either four or six. I don’t remember. I’m just gonna load four in though.” I shrugged. 

Once again, I sat down by my rifle with my earmuffs covering my ears, snapped in the magazine, pushed in the bolt, and got into position. This time, I was aiming at the right-side target.

“I think I’m gonna try to get a bullseye this time!” I shouted. 

“If ya aim just a bit low and maybe a little to the right, you should get dead-center!” 

A’ight! I’ll do just that!” 

With each shot, I grew more and more relaxed and confident than I was starting that day. In less than a minute, I’d peppered the right-side target with a close cluster of four bullets, all of them less than an inch above the bullseye. For 100 yards, those rounds were perfectly placed!

“For a city slicker, you’re one hell of a shot!” my uncle Courtney teased. 

“I’d like to see you shoot!” I grinned. 

“Nah, I think I’d embarrass myself at this point!” he declined, smiling. 

“Whatever you say, city slicker!” I snarked. 

“In all seriousness…” my great uncle began as we walked together to the end of the range, “You need to get back into hunting. I suggest you also get your CCL.”

I liked the idea of getting back into hunting. But I wasn’t so sure about getting the concealed carry license.

“I know I need to get back to hunting.” I acknowledged as I tore down my .243 targets, “I’m mad at myself for not at least getting into the draw and purchasing a preference point or two. But… I’m not so sure about the CCL…”

“What about the CCL aren’t you so sure about?” my great uncle asked as he stapled two new targets to the target board. 

“The implications of it…” I trailed off, struggling to find the words to properly express myself. 

“The implications?” my great uncle echoed.

“Yeah…” I nodded, “I’d rather not be in a position where I’ve gotta draw a pistol to save mine and others’ lives.”

“Nobody does!” my great uncle said, “But, we sadly live in a time and place that’s seen a tremendous amount of violence perpetrated against innocent, unarmed people.”

“Yeah, no shit!” I shook my head, “Every week- every damn day- there’s news of another shooting on a school or college campus. Honestly, at this rate... well… let’s not go there.”

“I understand… I pray every day you never go through such a tragedy.” great uncle Courtney sighed as we headed back to the tables, “But, if I were you, I’d seriously consider getting your CCL. Especially if your college allows you to carry if you have the license.”

“Which they do.” I interrupted, “But still… The mere thought of concealed carrying scares me.”

“How so?” my great uncle asked as we took our seats at the range tables. 

“It isn’t the gun that scares me.” I began, “It’s the implications of it. The fact that we have to worry about some deranged psychopath terrorizing us at any place, at any moment, for any reason. For whatever reasons, such shootings are on the rise too.”

“They’re breaking records this year.” my uncle Courtney added, “Something must be done about them.”

“But, what will be done?” I asked with a louder voice than I intended, “I’m not convinced much, if anything, can or will be done in this country to quell the violence-”

“And you’d be right! Unfortunately…” my great uncle interrupted me, “If we properly enforced the laws that are already in place, as well as reopened and heavily funded mental institutions, destigmatized mental health issues, and made it so that people have to be licensed to possess any weapon- which I am all for, as you are- then these random mass shootings would stop almost completely-”

“But none of that’s gonna happen!” I growled, “The right wants to make it easier for anyone to get a gun, which is a bad idea. And the left wants to legislate AR-15s out of existence, which also won’t work- it actually has the opposite effect anytime someone even lightly threatens to ban ARs. I hate to say it, but I think we’re just stuck with gun violence in this country ‘cuz of the politics surrounding it. Nothin’s gonna change. It is what it is.”

“Sadly, you’re probably right.” my great uncle said as he reached for his earmuffs, “But, before we get too worked up over this issue neither of us have any control over, why don’t you shoot your cousin’s rifle for a bit? You’ll be the first person to ever shoot that little thing.” 

I took in a deep breath as I sat back down on the bench, and began my rigid gun safety check routine.