Although I may be reluctant to admit it, I am notorious for knocking things before trying them. I make my opinions about certain practices and habits known, and yet I am pretty slow to turn around upon myself to judge. As some of my regular readers can attest, (and you know you know who you are...) arguing with me is a bit like wrestling with a relentless, rabid, three million-toothed hammer head shark. More often than not, though, I end up swimming away with my tail between my ... fins. Whatever. I've learned recently that I should keep my mouth shut 9 out of 10 of the times that I have an opinion.
As we slow-quickly rounded the jagged edges of a twisting tree-lined driveway, I reveled. This was not just any mountain vista. This was slice after snowy slice of paradise. The tangerine sun looked about ready to descend, and the spread-out city of Missoula stretched and yawned, waiting to catch its long, angling rays. The sky: periwinkle. A welcome change from the nickle-colored sky I see every day in New York. As I lost myself in the view, and we came closer to the lodge that Mark calls home, I began to hear an unfamiliar noise that ricoched off the once sleepy looking mountains. The mountains woke up, standing tall at attention. I cringed.
Four puffy-jacketed boys and their loud, long, and metallic toys welcomed us as we climbed up to the wrap-around deck. Mark shoved earplugs into my innocent ears and I positioned myself far back from the action. My nerves heightened, my judgments soaring, I watched. With the expanse of the snowy, tree accented yard before them, the boys played with their toys. Clay pigeons were flung, bang. Fling, bang, fling, bang bang. The sliding clicks, the shells falling, the vegetables exploding... The more I watched, the more I secretly wanted to try. Shyly, I inched toward the table strewn with guns and ammo, and the red-headed, baby-faced gent named Ty could see it in my eyes. He handed me his AK-47. My conscience cried as my finger wrapped around the trigger of deadliest hand-held weapon I had ever heard of. Power got the best of me. After one shot, I didn't want to stop. .22: check. 30-30:check. 12gage: check. etcetera. I tried them all. I bruised up my shoulder. My heart beat faster than it does when I run. From across the country, I had judged this Saturday afternoon activity for long enough. Frankly, I can judge no more. It's fun.
Regardless of how much fun it was though, I must say that I still think it's a silly waste of money, and dangerous as the lapping fires of hell (which await the people who use these things on their fellow man), but I guess you could say that about most people's hobbies. Knitting... golf... scrapbooking...
