My happy place is defiantly not a beach. Not that I have any issues with beaches. Truth be told, the ones I have been to are very nice. Bit heavy on sand, but pretty and they do have a nice relaxing sound. But not as peaceful or as focused as my happy place.
This is my happy place. It’s a place I have been. It’s a place that would shock the liberal masses and no doubt some of my acquaintances would say that this is a sign that I will be a mass murderer one day, but my friends will understand. I bet some have a similar happy place.
Its late summer, and the trees and grass have that rich emerald color without the golden tinge that they will acquire as the seasons progress. The concrete is cool and comfortable beneath the light padding of the canvas olive drab shooting mat. The mat is faded and a little frayed at the corners, having seen years of hard use. I am wearing thick jeans, a tee shirt under a sweatshirt under a thick shooting jacket that matches my shooting mat as I lay, propped up on my elbows, with my legs stretched out behind me, knees slightly bent, holding my position balanced and my ankles crossed, completely relaxed. The jacket is cinched tight, acting almost as a corset around my ribs, pressing my arms up. Around my bicep I can feel the tight band of the thick heavy leather sling, and I feel it pressing into the back of my forearm, wrist and hand were the trailing end wraps like an ivy vine up to the swivel. The rifle is pressed just as tight into my body. The heavy wooden stock is slick against my cheek, the butt held to my shoulder and the groove where the sling swivel attaches cuts into my left hand, my fingers curling around only lightly grasping the wood. My right hand curves around the front of the stock, with my forefinger lightly resting on the slender metal trigger.
I am aware of the shooter to my left and too my right. I can hear the distinctive pops, slightly muffled by the earplugs, coming sporadically from up and down the line. If the pop is close, a moment later I will hear the slide and click of a bolt being pulled back, the faint dig of brass ejecting. Then the heavier slide and deeper click of the bolt being pushed closed on a fresh round. I can sense the almost akward presence of the spotting scope on my left. I know that if I move suddenly and without control I will knock it from its delicately balanced stand. Occasionally I can hear the deep and sonorous voice of Paul, our shooting coach. I can feel his movement behind me, as he travels up and down the line, stopping here to correct a position, there to peep through a spotting scope.
The smells that cushion me are those of old dry canvas, leather, and the sharper tang of gun oils and metal. A light breeze will mix in the smell of summer in the Piedmont. The light perfume of the grass, the deeper woodland sent of mast beneath the heavy dark trees, rich red dirt and the slightly fishy wet smell of Holiday Lake. The hot brass is a sharp smell, the cold brass slightly stale, metallic and bitter and above all wreaths the slightly sulfurous scent of burned powder. To others, perhaps the scent of the guns is dirty or stinky. I know it is not the same as the perfume of rich roses, or the glorious sent of fresh cookies. It is not appetizing like rich red meat grilling over hot coals nor does it have the comfort of soft cotton, washed and pressed. The smell of guns is one of focus, support and peace.
My vision is narrow. I do not see the round plate of the back peep. My eye has focused beyond that, to a solid black dot, 50 yards downrange. I know in my mind that that dot is not solid and my mind adds the detail that would come into sharp relief if I bent my head up, away from the stock, placing eye at the scope. The dot would turn into a black bulls eye printed on thick cream paper. The outer two circles are black on cream, then the thick rings of black, separated by thin rings of cream. The closer to center they become smaller, ending in a dot, smaller then the tip of my pinky finger. That is the ‘x’. That is my focus. The black dot is centered in the black metal ring of the foresight. The ring is a little blurry, but I pay attention to it. Only when my focus has lined up the rings of the sight can I make my move.
It is not a big move. In fact, it barely qualifies as movement. My awareness of the others begins to fade. The only thing that will recall me to the world around me is the loud order to cease-fire. My vision stays with the dot, while I control my body. Breathing becomes slower, deliberate and in my head the sounds of heartbeats is steady and even. A breeze will make me readjust, but on days like today, there is almost no breeze. Finally, I am ready, my finger tenses slightly, wrapping firmly against the trigger. A breath in and I am ready, breathing out as my finger pulls back. Slow and steady, I am not in a rush.
I feel the break first. Then the slight jerk of the rifle, and I can feel this pop, more then I hear it. My eye stays on the target. Even now, after the small chunk of lead has left the barrel I remain. I release the trigger as slowly as I squeezed it back. I take another couple breaths, before I relax my body a bit, raising my head from the now warm stock. My hands stay on the rifle, only my finger has moved, resting flat across the trigger guard. My head comes completely out of my position. Looking through the scope I see where my shot landed. If it is off I will frown slightly, thinking through my shot, asking myself if an adjustment is needed. Sometimes this is the moment when I will raise my right hand to the peep sight. Perhaps it will be one click, sometimes two. Usually down and to the right, adjusting my sight to my normal habit of shooting a bit high and to the left.
Sometimes, what I see makes me smile. It is a satisfied smile, proud and sometimes a bit smug. I know, objectively that the shot is not perfect. An Olympian would perhaps be frowning over these shots. I am happy to be in the nine ring, joyful to be in the ten and ecstatic over a shot that can be scored with that elusive ‘x’. The one bulls eye I have kept over the years scored 50x.
There is no perfect shot. If your shots are all perfect you have nothing left to shoot. There is always an adjustment to be made. Occasionally, you get awfully close though. This is the drive, but it is not the reason.
Adjustments made, I return to my place on the mat. Operating the bolt, one of my favorite things about these old rifles, is the end of the shot. The end of one shot, but the beginning of another is started as you slide a new round into the chamber. My fingers move smoothly as my hand rises from the breech and grasps the round ball of the bolt handle. The movement is swift and firm, slide forward and at the end of the slide is two clicks, first the bolt settles into place, and then the downward rotation as you lock it in. A moment is taken to settle back, relaxing my muscles into the support of the jacket, letting the sling hold my arm in place, resting the weight of myself and the rifle into the concrete as my skeleton provides the structure of my position.
Shooting describes what I am doing, but each shot is its own event. The plural of shooting is at odds with the style. It is the shot, singular, which describes what I have done, and what I will do. Each time I slide that bolt closed, it is akin to a new day. The events of the previous shot are gone. It is only the now.
The reason is the peace of the focus. For those few minutes of each shot, you are only a rifle, a dot 50 yards away, a small bit of lead wrapped in brass, nothing else and everything else. The action is not fast, the movement is not energetic, and the activity is all consuming. This is the joy of the shot. The shot is not just the pulling of the trigger; it is the steady build up to the moment. If you define your shot only by the pull of a trigger and the bang of the gun, you have lost all the focus, all of the balance, all of the peace.
I return in my head to that range in my head often. It will always be one of my favorites. I can go back to one of the most defining moments of my life. It is that place and time in which I learned the meaning of Zen. It would be years later that I learned to use that word to describe what I did in those summer retreats. Yet when I was taught the definition, I knew, immediately, the meaning.
This is my happy place. It is a summer range. It is the existential of shooting. It is memory. It is present.
Above all, it is the peace of focus.
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