It sounds incredibly loud, and as the report echoes off the Spearfish Canyon walls, I wonder what I've gotten myself into. Knowing less than nothing about guns, I wonder if the gun I'm here to shoot will make that much noise and briefly consider getting back in my car and leaving before anyone realizes I've come.
I've arrived at the range, just outside of Spearfish, at the invitation of Nancy Errea, state director for Second Amendment Sisters and an owner of Jack First gun shop in Rapid City. I'm here for the last Ladies Shoot of the season, an SAS-sponsored event that aims to promote target shooting as a recreational sport, improve gun-safety education and raise awareness of gun ownership for women.
I suspect Errea has invited me because she thinks I am a bleeding heart liberal who wants to abolish the Second Amendment. I don't, of course, but I've long since learned that members of the National Rifle Association don't make much distinction between gun control legislation and the complete eradication of their constitutional right to bear arms. But Errea is right in thinking that I've never owned a gun, never shot a gun, never even held a gun in my hands.
The first of many things I will learn this afternoon about guns is that the cannon-like boom I heard when I first emerged from my car was not made by a handgun. It came from a high-powered rifle used to hunt elk and other big game. I am reassured by this information, but only slightly. I'm still a little jumpy as she shows me to a table of handguns, perhaps two dozen or so revolvers and semi-automatics of various
This strikes me as an odd thing to say, since I'm feeling a little nauseous just looking at them lying on the table. But, despite my reservations, I pick up a big, black semi-automatic pistol that shoots .22 caliber bullets. In my hand, it feels exactly like what it is -- a piece of steel that can kill. Nothing about it feels good.
I'm not sure why I have this reaction to guns. I've never seen anyone or anything shot, I've never seen firsthand the damage they can do. But I have an intuitive, instinctual feel for their potential violence and I don't much like it. Perhaps in another lifetime I was the victim of a gunshot wound. I'm aware that this reaction is not entirely rational.
Art Aplan, my firearms instructor for the afternoon, is nothing if not rational.
Aplan is a patrolman with the Sturgis Police Department, and he may be the most meticulous, methodical, detail oriented person I've ever met, which makes him perfect for his job as range service officer at the Ladies Shoots. As the RSO, he issues commands for loading and firing guns, oversees gun safety and generally keeps inexperienced shooters like me from making a stupid mistake.
I carry my pistol (barrel pointed at the ground) to the ammunition table, where I'm issued a box of .22 caliber bullets. Real, live bullets, I'm told, which makes me slightly more queasy. Next, I put on eye glasses and ear protection and stand at the firing line, a blue line painted on the grass about 25 feet from a line of paper targets, along with seven other women shooters. I'm secretly relieved that the target is just a blank piece of white paper, not one of those human outlines you see on television.
Art Aplan instructs Journal staff writer Mary Garrigan in the use of a handgun while Nancy Errea, South Dakota director for the Second Amendment Sisters, looks on.
Aplan teaches me how to use the gun sight, fill the ammunition
clip and load it into the gun. He demonstrates the proper way to
carry a gun (trigger finger along the barrel of the gun), the proper foot
stance (stand tall, feet shoulder width apart, knees loose) and the proper
hand grip and trigger pressure (think of holding a fine chine teacup).
And when he says "Shooters may fire" I methodically
empty the entire clip pretty much into the center of the target.
And then I do it again, only better.
I don't mean to brag, but apparently I'm a
natural-born target shooter. Aplan says if the newspaper thing doesn't
work out for me, perhaps I have a future in law enforcement.
Next, they let me shoot a revolver with a
long barrel and a lot of lick, then a double-action, 38-caliber revolver
and then a 9 mm Glock, one of the so-called "Tupperware" guns because of
its plastic body.
So much for my fear of guns.
When I was done, however, I had that adrenalin
induced shakiness. Errea assured me that that reaction goes away
eventually. I thought, I'm not so sure I'd want it to.
I learned two important things about myself at the Ladies Shoot.
First, I hope I never feel the need to shoot another handgun. Second, I'm
very glad I know what to do with one if I do.
Mary Garrigan is a Journal staff writer.
You can write to her at the Rapid City Journal, P.O. Box 450, Rapid City,
SD 57709