The Weekend I Became Qualified To Fight In The American Revolution

While I normally come off as a Susie homemaker type, once in awhile I surprise even myself with hobbies and passions I didn’t realize that I loved until I have experienced them. This is the first of several posts that I will write in the coming months about said passions.

This past fall, life, as I know it, once again paused for Shooting Sports weekend. Unbeknownst to the majority of the population of Indiana, a group of dedicated volunteers meet twice a year at Camp Ross in West Lafayette to teach adults how to be safe and effective shooting sports instructors.

Of course these instructors had never met me, or they would have run for the hills. Or perhaps they HAD heard of me and were hatching plans of escape. Whatever the case might have been, L1 and I gathered our things and headed down to West Lafayette to meet up with Laporte County for a geriatric supper at 330 in the afternoon.

You may ask WHY we were eating so early, but with the check in time being at 5 p.m. CST, we seem to always eat at 3:30 in the afternoon on the Friday of shooting sports camp. (I look at it as a training run for learning to beat the crowds to supper once I am finally able to brandish that senior discount. ;)

Upon arriving at camp, L1 and I parked the van and went to check in. I am not really sure how we managed it, but we sort of cut in front of twenty or so people in our eagerness to start the weekend. Our reunion with Chris was heartfelt; as was every other reunion we had that weekend. L1 and I were assigned room 9.

I had been in room 9 the first go round, so I was well aware of the bed from H-E double hockey sticks that was stuck in the corner. It looked innocent enough, until you crawled into it. At that point you realized its capacity to be a torture chamber. I artfully avoided said bed, and opted for another, snagging top bunk. L1 selected the bunk beneath mine, and we were good to go.

Lynn, from Laporte County, was concerned that she may not be placed in our room. I told her to just ask Chris to PLEASE put her in with us. With a bit of finagling, Chris made it happen. Just another reason I love state staff. They truly do care, even about the seemingly little things.

As is par for the course every Friday evening of camp, it started pouring down rain while we unloaded the van. It only took us three trips. That must be a record. I am notorious for over packing for the weekend, but I see it this way: I am going to be outside all weekend, never knowing if it will be cold, hot, wet, dry, etc. I want to have everything I MIGHT need to be as comfortable as possible. There used to be a time where I could pack for a 10-day mission trip across the country with only one small duffel bag. Sigh. I must be getting old. ;)

  

I retired to room 9 to attempt sleep, however the sounds of snoring, paired with the bed conditions kept sleep at bay. With no cell service, I just laid there, wondering what in the world I was thinking when I signed up for muzzleloader class.

Muzzleloaders are great things. Really. They are. The problem is that they are really big. And loud. And messy. And loud. And heavy. Did I mention that they are LOUD?!? I had shot one once, in the spring. I had almost freaked out at the very THOUGHT of shooting it, but somehow muscled my way through it.

Truth be known, I didn’t even WANT to take muzzleloaders. The only reason I did, was because it was the last discipline that Jeremy needed to take, and I always go to class with Jeremy, so hesitantly I signed up.

I finally left the grandiose idea of sweet slumber behind and got ready for the ¼ mile hike to go to coffee hour. I love coffee hour at camp. It is such a gathering of fantastic people at 530 in the morning (430 CST). We all gather round the coffee pot, teasing and chatting until breakfast is served at 7 am. I look forward to the time to get to visit with shooting sports instructors from across the state.

At last, it was time to head off to class. After a few words of welcome from Tim, we were dismissed to our classrooms. I made no secret of the fact that I was in muzzleloader class solely on the fact that Jeremy was there and since he was my protector, I was hoodwinked into signing up as well. As I entered the class, I told the instructors that my name was Annie and this was Jeremy and we came as a matched set. They all just looked at me like I was a tad crazy, but agreed to let me stay glued to him for the time being.

Being the OCD girl that I am, I listened closely, taking several pages of notes, as there was to be a 100-question test at 9 pm. We practiced loading the muzzleloader, using a Pringles can, felt and a tennis ball. We learned the rules of firearm safety. We learned the steps to shooting a firearm. I learned that I can only take in so many facts at one time or my head will spin. When I felt that I was most surely at the breaking point, the instructors announced it was time to go to the range.

The previous evening, I had tried out my amplified ear protection. They made it possible to hear everything going on around me, but muffling the shots when the firearms went off. What a great idea! I also realized that my usual hairstyle wasn’t going to work very well. The bobby pins hurt my head with the earmuffs on, so I switched to braids with success. Of course I then looked like Pippi Longstocking, but I didn’t even care. I was aiming for comfort, not style. ;)

Lois, Jerry, Doug, and Mark were wonderful instructors. The rest of the class (6 guys) were very familiar with firearms and seemed to not be intimidated in the least by the very loud and heavy muzzleloaders that were set before us. In contrast, I was out and out scared. Thoughts raced through my mind…what if I loaded it wrong? What if it blew up in my face? What if I was horrible at aiming?…ugh.

I watched as Jeremy loaded the muzzleloader…first the powder…then the patch…then the ball…the tamping….so much tamping! FINALLY we were ready to go to the firing line. As “coach”, I was dutifully beside him, pretending to know what I was doing. Mercifully, Jeremy quietly told me what to do so I could then loudly tell HIM. This is exactly why I have always stuck close to Jeremy at these camps. He never makes me feel stupid. He always encourages me.

Jeremy aimed and fired, hitting his target. I was so excited for him that I hopped around and clapped. Jeremy was used to this behavior, but the others weren’t. Boy, were THEY in for an education!

As usual, I was last at trying my hand at the whole muzzleloader experience. I always like to go last so I can watch everyone else to make sure I do it correctly. I loaded my inline muzzleloader, being careful to include every step. I then marched to the firing line, Jeremy right behind me. Shaking, I looked Jeremy in the eye and asked if the muzzleloader would hurt me. He told me no, it wouldn’t. I made him promise. He promised. I then turned, aimed, and fired, keeping both eyes open until the last second.

After the voluminous smoke had cleared, and the large boom had faded away into the distance, I heard the faint squeaking of the metal gong target swinging back and forth. I started screaming and jumping up and down, celebrating my victory over fear once more. I happily returned to the bench to clean the barrel and move on to the side lock percussion muzzleloader.

Every time it was my turn, I relished in the routine and exactness of the muzzleloading. I also hit 7 of my 8 shots throughout the day, squealing with joy every time. Apparently all of the other disciplines got to share in my joy, as many came up to me later, stating that they knew when I had hit something, because they heard me screaming and clapping. So glad they got to share in the joy!

After lunch, we learned the history of the muzzleloader. Jerry knew so much about the history, that I wish we would have had more time to delve further into the topic. During this time, I was allowed to hold a pistol that was used in the revolutionary war. I found it all so fascinating and foreign, yet I knew I was slowly falling in love with muzzleloaders…the history…the routine…the exactness, everytime….sigh…. I was in OCD heaven!

In the afternoon we had the opportunity to shoot a muzzleloading pistol, a flintlock, and a matchlock musket. The matchlock was seriously as tall I was. It also held a HUGE ball. There was no cap for the matchlock. Instead, the was a smoldering piece of rope that touched off the black powder…right in front of YOUR FACE. I somehow missed THAT important piece of information. One minute I am sitting there all excited about shooting the biggest firearm of my life, the next, I am wondering what in the world happened, and did I still have my eyebrows? I joyously celebrated my actually shooting off such a large gun, and moved on. It was a good 20 minutes later before Lois informed me that I had actually HIT the target! I had been so preoccupied taking inventory of my face that I had not even looked to see if I hit something. I celebrated like it was 1999 let me tell you!

One of my favorite parts of muzzleloading was cleaning the firearms. Given I was terrible at it, but I enjoyed trying it anyway. I even got to reassemble a muzzleloader all on my own! I am sure that JP will love to put my new skill to use in the very near future.

After a wonderful supper of prime rib, the muzzleloading class took a spin on the even more primitive side, and learned to throw tomahawks. I do believe I have found my niche. I OWNED those boys on tomahawks. They may be better at firearms, but I was all over the tomahawk throwing. I threw them forwards. I threw them backwards. I threw them double. I rocked the tomahawks!!! Woo to the HOOOOOO!!!!!!

After the fun of tomahawks, we went back to class to study for the test that we took at 9pm. By this point, I had so much information in my poor head, that it just shutdown. I was not able to jam anything else in. Trepidatiously I took the 100 question test from Lois and began. By the time I turned it in, I was shaking and near tears. I waited with dread as the instructors graded it. I had walked into the class that morning, knowing nothing about muzzleloaders. I had now, 14 hours later, taken a test that I needed to pass to become a certified instructor. I scored 99 out of 100. While not a perfect score, I was still happy that I passed.

Knowing that we were going to have to plan a teaching practicum for the next day, I had already written up suggestions for what we should do. The boys agreed with the plan. After breaking it all up into parts and assigning roles, we all went to bed, thankful for the rest.

Sunday morning, after an early coffee run, I headed to church at 615 est. that is 515 CST. I am pretty sure that was the earliest church service that I have ever attended. It is also ranked among the best. While waiting for the church to be unlocked, a group of us gathered outside to gaze at the stars. Such beauty to behold in the heavens.

As Dennis welcomed us to church, I prayed the opening prayer and led us in an opening hymn. Usually we just listen to the sermon and leave. This time we had asked ahead of time if we could sing as well. After an amazing and convicting sermon from Dennis, we sang hymn after hymn, all from memory….some just humming along when words were forgotten. I do not think I have ever felt as close to God as I did, sitting in that little white chapel at 630 in the morning, raising our voices in praises to our Lord. We closed our time together singing the Doxology.

As the weekend wrapped up, we went through graduation, receiving our patches and diplomas. I was so proud and happy to have not only passed, but to have done so successfully.

It was at this point that it sank in…I was effectively shooting a type of firearm that men and women, hundreds of years ago, used as well. I had fallen in love with muzzleloading. Sometime between my scared scurry into class Saturday morning and my confident demeanor on Sunday afternoon, the love of muzzleloading had snuck into my life.

The historical significance….the repetition…the exactness…the feel of the firearm in my hands…the flash…the smoke…the smell…all of it represented so much more to me than just a simple firearm going off. It represented hundreds, even thousands of years of firearms. It represented that once more I was able to brave my fears, facing them dead on and claiming victory over them. It represented that each day that I am willing to leave my comfort zone and open myself to vulnerability and the chance of failing, I am also able to open myself to the successes and triumphs that lay in wait along my path in life.

I am not saying that each of us will fall in love with muzzleloading as I have. However, I AM saying that once in awhile, each of us need to choose the road less traveled, for we know not what may lay ahead. If a middle aged Susie homemaker housewife from the Midwest can lay down her apron for a weekend to try her hand at muzzleloading, a concept that is completely foreign to her, imagine what YOU can do in YOUR life.

As Robert Frost famously wrote, “I took the road less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” I challenge you today…don’t only TAKE the road less traveled….CHARGE it. Charge forward. Try something new. Something out of your comfort zone. Something that you have secretly wished to do. Take a class. Take a trip. Pick up the phone. Whatever your road less traveled may be, take with you this, from Dylan Thomas, “Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Rage, my friends. Rage. Challenge each day of your life, living it to the fullest.