Leaving Utah and entering Nevada I'm struck by the immediate change in tempo and sensibility: more traffic, more light...and casinos. I'm leaving a place that showed its angels and a devil. The angels are Cory, Frank, and Christina, the devil was the thief who stole my jacket...and that's the only thought he gets.
I'm sitting in a casino, across the way from where I've pitched the tent 150 feet from the idling semis. Drinking Coors and losing a couple of bucks at blackjack. Pulling thoughts together
Utah also solidifies a theme that has been flowing through the interviews and the conversations since I began the the tour - gun stories are family stories. Firearms are the connective tissue that hold the past to the present - father to daughter, mother to son - Cory building a range from scratch with family, friends, and the local Boy Scout troop, Christina and her father: the moments they shared, and the moments they missed. All the talk and debate, all the politics and division cannot mar the purity of the memories these firearms possess. 
Utah also served as a prism separating the gun culture into its definable yet overlapping components. Much as light can be both particle and wave, gun culture can be viewed both singularly and amorphously, precisely and statistically - but never accurately. It was in Richfield, Utah that I met both hunters and killers (the former despising the latter, and the latter not giving a shit). In conversation, the killers are the ones who scare the crap out of my friends; they just like the idea of ending a life. There's no thought given to harvesting for food, population control, respect for an intelligence not understood, only the kill. Nobody cares for these folk...they don't even like themselves much. But they are the wavelength that stands out, that causes the most fear...perhaps even more that the urban thug with a Glock or the movie theater maniac. These are the people that legitimately possess weapons that kill, and they like that feeling - that rush. These are not criminals; they are plumbers, teachers, lawyers, and musicians...and they are, mercifully a small, very small segment of the whole. In every way that matters, they don't count.
The vast majority of those who I have met, both on this road trip and through my other travels are best represented by Eddie (La Luz, NM) who, though restricted in movement, still makes it out to the range (with help from family and friends) to enjoy the satisfaction of a well-placed shot, the camaraderie of range folk, and the memories that sustain us all...those of family, however you define them.   

Sometimes this trip is just about my time on the range (that's what it started out as, after all)...the visceral enjoyment of the various elements of the muzzleloading craft coming together in a single, well-placed shot. But, ya know, these 56 year-old eyes can have a problem seeing through the smoke in order to determine whether that shot was, in fact, placed well.  Case in point.
The Avondale Gun Club (Avondale, CO) has this beautiful space and they let me shoot on the 100yd range.  There were some tires, plastic bottles, and this old paint thinner can.  I set it up on a tire, loaded the New Englander walked to 80 yds and fired...nothing happened. Now, I usually don't miss at that distance, and I was recording it, so damn!.  So I went back, loaded the Great Plains and repeated the shot.  Again with the nothing. Third shot (2nd with the GP) and this happened...not that I saw it (the eyes, the smoke, etc.)  So I went back for the New Englander. Fourth shot turned the can. So now I'm curious...did I actually hit the cans the first two times.  Photos do not lie. (Well, not these ones).  The reason the can did not fall over is because the .54 caliber ball propelled by 72 grains of powder blew through the can so powerfully that the little weight at the bottom of the can was enough to hold it. But the damage to the back shows the force of impact, ripping the thin metal to shreds. 
When asked why I enjoy this odd (to some - scary to others) diversion, it is because of the slow, meticulous, zen-like preparation of the firearm, the calm breathing and strength to hold the target through open sights, the explosion of ignition, the fullness of the sound, the smell of the smoke, and satisfaction of realizing that all the components came together in a breathtaking display of precisely focused energy.
And then there's the fact that it is just way too much fun.

There's a moment when the structure of an idea begins to take shape - the surge of adrenaline, the promise, the hubris. If that moment could only stand the smack of reality. 
When the idea of the 'interviews' came about, I thought of all the topics I could bring into play...and how they would fashion a grand narrative that would, if not enlighten, at least provoke discussion.  Hubris...who hasn't slipped beneath its sway. 
Here are Thomas and Megan. Thomas was the first interview (this is only a portion), Megan was the sixth. Between them are others who you will eventually meet, in addition to those who will follow.  What I have learned is that there will be no grand narrative, no overarching theme - just three questions:
1. What was your first gun? 
2. What is your favorite gun? 
3. What is your most memorable moment with a gun? 
The questions may start some others, but there will be no plan other than those queries. These questions are enough.  With Thomas and Megan, as with all the others, their generosity and spirit left no room for design or fashion.    
What I have learned so far is that my part in this road trip is trivial  

I didn't know what to expect from this first day, except a lot of driving. Joe Foss Range was a wonder of modern gun range amenities. The buildings and range looked to be about 6 hours old. Thomas (office manager) and Fritz (range manager) were the epitome of courtesy and professionalism, although the 15 minute live fire to 'however long it takes' ceasefire is a bit lopsided to a muzzleloader...not a lot of shots - oh, well, less $$ spent on ammo.
The Casa Grande Range was unsupervised so you had to rely on the intelligence of your fellow users not to blow your head off.  Of the the three ranges, I chose the one without the automatic fire and children without hearing protection. Uh, the cast iron pan didn't make it. Four wonderful interviews, in addition to the 2 at Joe Foss and I called it a day.  Drove to Tucson, had my bourbon, went to bed.  
Woke up to what proved to be a more frustrating day.  But that's for the next post. 

One of the more pressing issues when planning a road trip is the music needed for the drive. Fourteen days on the road (where the radio options are likely to be mediocre classic rock[argh], new Country[blah] and Jagger’s Gospel Radio Station) requires a variety that will maintain wakefulness and yet comfort the soul.  And, as I am of a certain age, I prefer the conceptual feel of the album over a collection of individual songs – although now that Ms. Swift has made her stance on the issue known, it may be that the ‘album-as-a-unified-whole’ is ripe for re-emergence. (The last album on this list being the exception because, well, it’s George Jones, sheesh)  I've given this much thought, and here's what I'll be listening to:

Heart Like a Wheel
Pet Sounds
Guitar Town
Ragged Glory
Lipstick, Lies, and Gasoline
All That You Can’t Leave Behind
Back In Black
Sheer Heart Attack
Close to the Edge
Jagged Little Pill
Led Zeppelin II
Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars
Get Closer
Goldberg Variations (GG)
Prisoner in Disguise
Three Pears
5 Days in July
Darkness on the Edge of Town
Hard Bargain
Dwight Sings Buck
Rumours
Humble Pie: Rockin’ the Fillmore
The Essential George Jones

The preparations for this road trip have kindled thoughts of the Titans; a group of early to middle-aged guys who 'peak-bagged' the Adirondacks in the 1990's. We scrambled and fell, laughed and grimaced, pushing ourselves hard over rock and through brush, wishing the vagaries of late autumn weather to turn in our favor. At the ends of the day as we nursed the cuts, sprains, and aches there were shared smiles that acknowledged the 'all things must pass' of our years. Our wives looked in askance at the need of 'guys-like-us' to endure such self-inflicted damage, but the camaraderie they understood - the sharing of life.
But this one's different.  A solitary journey is inherently introspective, but I have no burning questions, no unsettling issues to resolve. This journey is not about anything. It's not a mid-50's guy not buying a red Porsche, there is no crisis, no need. It's just a whim. Someone asked if I'm doing a documentary, getting the views of gun-toting folk in the back-country of the southwest. At first I thought, 'Well, that's just wrong'. But then something itched...
The ranges I've chosen are off the well-worn track - but not to those who use them. This is their home.  I'm a visitor, an outsider asking to share a piece of their space.  I come bearing arms from centuries past; two centuries now. A century idealized and romanticized. I'm probably, no, certainly carrying those ideals and that romance with me - and these may inform the beginnings of conversations. So the journey is not so solitary at all. But it still has no purpose...unless you count smackin' a steel circle at 150 yards at sunset a worthy purpose...uh, I sure do.   

There are days when the fates laugh in your face.  Gorgeous day for the .54's (Hawken and Great Plains Hunter) and the New Army.  Hitting just about everything I aimed at (considering the GPH has 1:32 twist and I'm loading RB's - take that ye experts).  Taught 2 young kids about muzzleloaders and showed them the before/after of the barrel interior with a bore light...the look on the faces was enough to last the rest of the day.  But...loaded my next round (72 grains RS, .10" patch, .530 round ball), primed it with #11 cap, took aim, and pfft.  Re-primed...pfft.  After a couple of remedial steps realized that I had to pull the ball...damn.  Got it out and what was there underneath...the bore light.  No good deed goes unpunished.  Went over to the long range (200yd to 600yd), and smacked the 200 thrice from the shoulder; the 300 once.  Was feeling pretty good...until I snapped the rod on the GPH.  Which led to a lesson for 2 more kids about the vagaries of black powder and the dangers of hubris.
Yet another day at the range: better than...well, a day not a the range.