In case you haven't figured it out, I am not, by any means, a city boy. The city, and all that comes with it, is a means to an end. It supplies me with a place to work, and that's pretty much it.
It's never really offered me much, other than an example of how the other half lives. The other half being sheltered entitlement babies, and yuppie schmucks.
So, I find myself steering clear of the city on weekends. I certainly get my fill Monday through Friday.
My friend Stew called me up on Friday,asking if I had worked anymore on getting my zero squared away on my 20 inch AR rifle. I had it pretty much where I wanted it, but it never hurts to put some more hits on paper to confirm, not necessarily the rifle, but yourself. Stew had a Remington 700 in .308 Winchester that he desperately needed to sight in, and "desperately" is not an over-exaggeration. If you've had a rifle such as that for over 3 years, and never fired one shot, it is in desperate need of testing, and frankly so are you.
We loaded up the truck on Saturday morning, and headed out to the Farm, a remote location in central North Carolina, well off the beaten path, where your neighbor is seldom seen, the roads are still made of dirt, and if you do happen to meet a fellow traveler on the road, one of you will have to give way to the other, simply to allow passage. I'm sure to the average urbanite , wandering down a road such as this paints images in the mind, of banjos, and genetic deficient hillbillies, hell bent on violence and forced sexual congress. But to me, it's a Freedom Road, leading to a lifestyle unfettered by modern hustle and bustle. This Road winds and twists around as though those who cut it followed a drunken blacksnake through the dark.
The Farm itself, a redoubt, a place for a blue collar boy such as myself to find a little bit of tranquility, in a world going to hell in a handbasket.
A fair day lay before us, the temperature not terribly high, and surprisingly the humidity at a minimum.
Which for anyone who had spent a summer in NC, they will tell you that is certainly rare.
Stew dug around in the back of his truck, mumbling a few profanities in regard to the cluttered state of his once well organized system, finally dragging out an old leather rifle scabbard, brought with him decades ago when he came back East from Oklahoma, his home stomping grounds.
I had always wondered why a man such as he would have stuck around with us tenderfoot rascals after retirement, but he told me he was too old to move back, but I digress.
From within the leatherbound case, he drew forth an unfired Remington 700 Tactical, chambered in .308 Winchester, with a threaded 1:10 twist heavy barrel, resting in a green Hogue Overmold stock.
Mounted on the top was a Sightron 3.5-10x44 ccope. So strange, from such an old case from yesteryear, comes such a modern day piece of hardware.
Oh, the anticipation of firing a new rifle. It's something hipsters, and gourmet coffee house loiterers will never understand.
We started off at the 50 yard bench to simply get on paper, but we found that out of the box, the Sightron was fairly close as it was. After about 5 rounds, we moved to the 100 yard bench.
Wind was nonexistent, so really the only thing that would affect our shots, should be quality of ammo, and our own capabilities or lack thereof.
Such a smooth and simple weapon, this Remington 700. As I toted it up the line to the bench, I was surprised that it wasn't quite as heavy as I thought it would be. The smell of burnt powder and CLP filled my nostrils, and the faint warmth emanating from the barrel felt like memories of an old friend.
Some of the happiest days of my life were spent pulling triggers with folks I have loved and respected. Some still here, some who have gone on. These are the days that I live for.
Toting a rifle up the line, on a beautiful summer day, a type of absolute freedom...it is one of those brief moments of perfection I talk about.
At 100 yards, Stew sat down behind that glorious beast, determined to leave the Farm having tamed it.
With each squeeze of the trigger, each adjustment of the windage and elevation, that Remington pulled in to where he wanted it. The goal of one ragged hole became reality, as each shot made the previous larger. My old friend stopped, removed his ear protection and said, " Give her a try , that's why there's an extra box of ammo. "
I took hold of that brilliant piece of American engineering,actuating the bolt. Even out of the box, without any level of custom work done, it was smooth. I put my 3 shots in for the group, and sent the bolt home,drawing it firm into my shoulder.
The glass of that Sightron scope was as clear as about any I have ever looked through.
Looking out across the range, I picked a lone orange target and placed those crosshairs in the center.
Dropping the safety, I let everything that buzzes around in my head fade into nothing.
No worries, no agitations. No overthinking, no shaking.
Forgetting everything in life and the whole universe, I took a controlled breath.
I stopped, I squeezed the trigger.
"She's in the black, dead center." Stew lowered his binoculars, and smiled.
Again, I worked the bolt, and drew it into to my shoulder. The emptiness filled my mind once again.
And in a brief moment of perfection, it was "in the black. Dead center.
"100 yard ain't even hardly a good run around the block for this. We need to work her out at 200 at a minimum" , Stew declared, and I knew what this meant. We were going to have to build another shooting lane in the near future. But it would be worth it.
There are some people that will never understand those moments.
It's beyond their comprehension.
Stew was ecstatic, thoroughly impressed with what had up until a few moments ago, been nothing but a safe queen. Now it was christened and destined for many a session at the range. Hopefully.
Several boxes of ammunition later, Stew wasn't just infatuated, he was in love.
The sun was high in the sky, with lunchtime beckoning. A call that a well fed country boy such as myself cannot resist, so we broke for lunch.
It was time for me to take out the rifle I had brought and see what it would do...
(I will post Part Two tomorrow if possible.)
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