F.E.A.R.

Conservative commentators have often noted that the political left in America have a strange love affair with fear. They fear death, they fear life, they fear that someone might get hurt. They fear that drinking coffee or eating eggs will kill you, and they fear that we’re destroying the planet. Fear of being offended. Fear of being judged. The list goes on so far that we could be here all day and not name a tenth of the things the left is afraid of.

It does not escape me that when the left tries to insult us, they label us as either being afraid of something or as “fear-mongers.” Take for example the epithets “homophobic” and “islamophobic.” If I understand correctly (and I do), a phobia is an irrational fear of something.

Regardless of the name-calling, I can assure those on the left that I fear no evil. What have I to be irrationally afraid of? People can do as they wish, until they step on me to do it. They don’t live their lives to please me, nor do I live to please them. The only harm done is perhaps a wounding of pride or a pang of conscience, but there’s no more damage done than there is to me when the leftist tells me that I’m afraid of gays or Muslims.

The pioneer spirit is what made America great. We’ve torn that down, and replaced it with a nation of hand-wringing ninnyhammers, afraid of the merest sunburn. It’s time to sort that out. We need to grow a national back-bone. We start that process by toughening up individually. We’ve become too sensitive, like a tooth that is offended by cold. Life is too short to allow other people the power to offend you. Simply ignore it and move on.

“Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist
in nature, nor do children of humans as a whole experience it.
Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure.
Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”

-Hellen Keller

Well Wishes

Our best wishes go out to Nathan, our man in Mobile, who has just been drawn for a Colorado cow elk this September. This time, he will be limited by license to muzzle-loaders only. We have hinted that the proper equipment for this enterprise should be one of the fine reproductions of the Pattern 1853 Enfield, though we will admit that the 1861 Springfield rifles are nice too. Either are preferred to any of the more modern muzzle-loading rifles that will develop absolutely no trace of character or style for at least the next 150 years.

In any case, muzzle-loader or center-fire, if Nathan sees a cow elk in September, it will be in his pot by November.

Kipling

The only thing that I was taught about Rudyard Kipling’s writings in school was the poem “White Man’s Burden.” It was explained to us that Mr. Kipling was a racist, as was the standard in his day, and that we should be ashamed that men such as he ever breathed air. That was the end of the Kipling discussion.

This is but another of the many fold proofs that I have succeeded in life thus far in spite of my public education. Well, today we have much more sensible views on race. I believe that Dr. King was right when he said that we should judge people on the content of their character, not the color of their skin. I took him at his word on that, and I live it. Note that Dr. King’s words in this case are in direct opposition to the non-judgmental left who think it wrong to judge anyone at all, under any circumstance.

I do judge men on the content of their character. I also judge their worth largely on what they can teach me. I never met Jeff Cooper, but I’ve read his words. They told me all that I need know of his character, and they have taught me much. One of the many things that I have learned is that the English language is a wonderful tool, rather like the M1911. Like the M1911, English is not perfect, but one skilled in its employment can perform amazing feats. The love of the English language often lead Col. Cooper to discuss the many books this gentleman had read as exemplars of our tongue.

Col. Cooper seemed to enjoy Mr. Kipling’s work, though he (Cooper) confessed to enjoying Kipling’s poetry more than Kipling’s prose. I’ve never been terribly opposed to poetry, having written some awful examples in my younger years, but I think I like the prose better. That may have something to do with the fact that I’ve mostly read his children’s stories to date. The fact is, Kipling’s children’s stories contain more depth and substance than much of today’s “grown-up” sophistry.

Much of his work is available for free at www.gutenberg.org. I recommend his “Jungle Books,” “Puck of Pook’s Hill,” and his “American Notes.” These are all excellent, and it is high time that we stop pretending that enjoying them makes racists of us. The absolute worst that can happen is that we read, enjoy, and end up making ourselves be better company for ourselves.

Range Report

We were treated to a report earlier this week from our man near Birmingham of a trip to his local pub. Public shooting range, that is. Our man Robb has a fondness for his pop’s early Long Branch Enfield No. 4 Mk I. I think it is of 1939 manufacture, which would have been the first year they were made. It is fitted with an excellent aperture sight, graduated from 200 yards to way out past Fort Mudge at 1300 yards.

He hadn’t been there too long, when a tacti-cool, mall-ninja type arrived on scene with an AR-15 in caliber 5.56 NATO. Our intrepid mall ninja asked Robb a few questions about his “old piece of junk,” and commented on how far battle rifles had come in the last 50 years, as he stroked his Armalite. Robb commented as they had, but obviously in the wrong direction.

The mall ninja took umbrage at this remark, and Robb allowed as to how he’d like to see what they guy could do with that “Poodle Shooter” he was petting. Now, my first response was that Robb had done the man a disservice by insulting his Poodle Shooter. An armed society is a polite society, and that isn’t the sort of thing one does in polite society. However, Robb soon set my mind at ease by explaining that he’d in fact done his good turn for that day. He took the guy to school.

Mall ninja had brought for his improvised course-of-fire, two watermelons. A challenge was issued forthwith, and Robb being polite (not to mention sure of what was about to happen) allowed the tacti-cool gentleman to fire first. The AR-15 spoke. Robb reports that search crews have finally given up on finding any trace of that first round, and have conceded it “lost.” The AR-15 spoke again. Miss. Next, the AR-15 spoke 28 times, as rapidly as the trigger could be jerked.

When the smoke cleared and all ears had stopped ringing, two inches were found to be missing from one end of the target. Mall ninja allows how he’d like to see Robb do any better than that! All that noise! All those shots fired so quickly!

Here begins the lesson. Robb selected a single .303 British hand-load from his plastic cartridge box. It was topped with a 180 grain round-nosed bullet. Robb pressed the round into the magazine, but left the bolt open. He then dropped to sitting position, 45 degrees to the target, heels dug-in, left arm looped into the leather sling he’d attached to the rifle for exactly one purpose… to steady the rifle for one-shot kills.

Robb flipped up the aperture sight, and cranked the knob all the way down past 200. Then he pushed the bolt forward and down, chambering the round. Once his sights were on target, he took a deep breath, started letting it out, and held it. His right index finger then left the side of the rifle, and touched the trigger. Slowly, he pressed the trigger through the length of its long first stage until it stopped. A few more pounds per square inch… The Enfield had its turn at the podium. One hundred yards later, 180 grains of copper-jacketed lead impacted with five pounds of watermelon at about 2200 feet per second, exactly where Robb had been aiming. The watermelon exploded, just as he’d known it would. One shot. One dead watermelon. One gobsmacked mall ninja. One smug Robb.

Now, our man Robb isn’t one to stay smug for too long a time. He was gracious, and after the other guy had calmed down, Robb explained to him that the sound of 30 incomming rounds hadn’t done much to impress that watermelon. What had impressed the watermelon was the one aimed shot. Then he gave the guy some instruction on how to properly shoot (without the aid of a bench even!), and let the guy take a few rounds with the venerable old No. 4. I don’t know if the guy let Robb have a go at his Poodle Shooter, but it would have been poor form not to.

---

As it happens, I had quite the opposite experience on the same day, at my local pub. All of the 100 yard lanes had been roped-off by the game wardens who run the place. I thought that was pretty rude for a Saturday, particularly since both the range and the rangers are kept going by the state’s coffers. So, I settled in at 50 with my Fazakerly No. 4 Mk 2. I took about a dozen and a half clay birds down range, and stood them up along the backstop.

The range went hot, I loaded five, and popped five consecutive clays. The first round got the attention of three young guys shooting .22’s next to me. They all came over after my fourth shot, and wanted to know what I was shooting. I took shot five, scored, and stood up. We talked for a couple of minutes. It seems that one of the guys had served four years in the USAF, and hadn’t been too happy that during that four years, they only let him fire 80 rounds of caliber 5.56 NATO. He said that he’d had to sell his personal AR-15 for the money, but he had enough left over after getting out of his jam to buy a Ruger 10/22. I told him the truth, that the Ruger 10/22 is a fine rifle, and he should get many good years from it.

He asked me how much I’d payed for my Enfield, and I told him $160. He nearly giggled with glee. He’d payed more than that for the Ruger, and didn’t know he could get such a fine rifle as the Enfield for that cost! I explained the process and priviliges of a Curio and Relic FFL, and then I set the hook. I handed him the Enfield and two rounds. Then, I showed him how to work the flip-up sight. He dropped-down to a perfect sitting position, shouldered the rifle, then made two one-shot-kills against the clay birds. He got up grinning. I let his two friends have a go as well, and I even let them shoot my Kimber.

Everything was good until the guy in camo BDUs and a “Knob Creek Machine Gun Shoot” T-Shirt arrived. That is a story for another day, but I leave a word of warning: Go to every length to avoid people wearing camo at gun ranges.

This guy SO gets it.

http://munchkinwrangler.blogspot.com/2007/05/this-is-my-rifle.html