Monday, January 11, 2010

Of Fresh Air and Firearms

A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the People to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.
- 2nd Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America

This past Saturday my buddy Clint invited myself and another buddy, Mike, to take a ride down to his 800 acre hunting camp in south Georgia to spend the day engaging in the very manly pursuit of firing various and sundry guns. We do this, not because it is fun, but to celebrate and confirm our 2nd amendment rights as citizens.

OK, we do it because it is fun.

Clint's camp is new Warm Springs, Georgia. Warm Springs is famous for being the home of the "Little White House" of FDR. From Wikipedia:

Warm Springs first came to prominence in the 19th century as a spa town, due to its mineral springs which flow constantly at nearly 32°C (90°F). It is famous for the Little White House, where Franklin Delano Roosevelt lived while president, because of his paralytic illness. He died there, in his room in the Little White House, which is now a public museum. He was a constant visitor for two decades and died there in 1945.

Cute historical town, but that isn't the point of this entry.

Back to the guns.

Lovely, lovely guns.

Clint's camp is set on 800 acres of woodland and is absolutely gorgeous. We drove up some old lumber roads to a gully that he uses as a shooting range. Absolutely gorgeous day - not a cloud in the sky. The only thing remotely bad is that it was COLD. Joint achingly, ball shriveling cold. As in 21F (-6C for my metricly inclined readers). It rarely gets this cold in Atlanta/Southern GA. A picture from the truck ...


We were dressed for the weather though and proceeded to unload the implements of destruction ... a nice collection of shootin' irons: A couple of Sig Sauer 9mms; a Smith & Wesson .357; a Colt 1911 .45, a custom made Thompson Center .300 mag rifle (the Black Mamba) and a .444 Ruger (that one is the back-up rifle of choice for Alaskan Grizzly Bear hunting guides - JUST Clint had to have one after his Alaska trip) and is one big bastard.

Being spiritual men we laid the implements out on the altar for preparation. OK, it was the tail gate, but in the woods that counts as an altar.



We proceeded to shoot up targets for the next couple of hours. The Rhino does indeed love the power and feel of the .357... it looks a little small in my massive paws does it not?


Who wants some?

Clint pulled out the rifles. Gorgeous. The rifles that is, not Clint. Although he is rugged, I'll admit. Not to mention a dead shot.


Colonel Beasley had himself a good ol' time as well. He spent some time firing the 9mm Sig that he named "Delilah". Why that name? Because she is a nasty bitch that spits death. He said it's a biblical thing. Who am I to contradict him? All that I know is that he looked very, very happy ... he does look happy, doesn't he?


My fave was the 9mm Sig. Very sweet. I was a pious man and worked through several boxes of ammo in sacrifice to the Gods of Explodey Goodness. Just awesome fun.

I'll leave you with this final pic. I've entitled it "Havock Who?" and it is meant to remind certain excitable Aussie ferals to keep their peace. Just sayin' is all.


We followed the shooting fest with a late lunch of red meat.

A good time was had by all.

It is good to be a 2nd amendment loving Rhino.

9 comments:

  1. Looks like a fine lads day out.

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  2. You described my version of heaven. 'Cept I'd prefer it a fraction warmer.

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  3. Looks like a grand day out except of course that it's waaaay too cold.

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  4. MagFRAKINGnificent

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  5. As the cool young people say "Dat's da shiznit bro."
    at least I think they do.
    The Bobette reminds me daily that it is a very long time since I was within yodelling range of cool.

    Does look frosty tho.

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  6. and to think..you didnt have to fill out any paperwork to go do that,you didn't have to have the government officials involved

    and you have a 1911..

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Comments are welcome. However, being an ass may result in a horrible, albeit accidental, goring.