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.
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.