I first labeled this a "range report" but realized halfway through that it was more appropriately labeled a "range narrative." If you are looking for the short and sweet version, here it is: fired 100 rounds total, had three mag snags all with a gen 1 magazine. The rifle itself and the updated magazine worked flawlessly. Shot 75 rounds of CCI mini mag and 25 rounds of Winchester Xpert. The groupings were no smaller than... 12"... not the fault of the rifle. For more, keep reading.
First let me say that I am not a person that has had a whole lot of formal training with firearms. I grew up around them and most of my family lives in the northern Oklahoma area, so hunting quail, pheasant, and rabbit were the order of the day. But I haven't handled a rifle or shotgun in nearly a decade. I remember the basics of safety and position but calling me a marksman is about as accurate as calling the Grand Canyon a small chasm (as is proven by the groupings above.) Secondly, I'm not much of an outdoorsman, which is why I haven't been hunting in so long, so I stuck out like a sore thumb at the range (which will be proven later.)
Alright, to the range. Here in central Mississippi we have a public range called Turcotte which has a pistol range, a rifle range and a clay pigeon course. I've only ever used the pistol range as I have a Glock 20 (love the 10mm). Today I went to the range officer and asked where the rifle range was and he pointed me across the street where there was supposed to be a gravel road leading to the rifle range. I got back in the car, note the word car, not pickup truck or 4x4 or SUV or even crossover... car... as in a two door honda accord coupe. I drove across the street and was starring down a hill at a large field and a dirt path, note the use of two separate words here DIRT (not gravel) and PATH (not road). I assumed then that this was not the way to the rifle range and drove around aimlessly for the next ten minutes before realizing what you have already figured out by now, that yes indeed this was the way to the rifle range. As I turned onto the dirt path (I still refuse to call it a gravel road) the front of my car dug into the ground because there at the entrance was the first of many large ruts that I had to ford (that's right, ford not cross, these ruts were the size of small creeks and 18" deep in places!).
I finally made it to the range, my car squealing to let me know of it's displeasure for being suddenly made a "rally" car, and parked between two large SUVs whose tires seemed taller than my door. As I got out, I was met with the incredible clap of two rifles going off nearly simultaneously. Of course I hadn't yet been able to get to my bag to get my ear cover on. Later I found out that one was a custom rifle that was shooting 7mm ultra magnum and the other was shooting a .300 Weatherby magnum. I know this because the other two shooters (there are only three lanes) often stopped to dicuss the ballistics of these two different rounds as they relate to the ability to kill deer (weatherby) or Elk (ultra mag). As I haven't been around rifles much, I'm not sure about the relative sound and concussive force of these rifles but I can tell you that everytime that one of them went off I flinched. I tried not to, but invariably when you can feel the concussion in your chest it seemed almost impossible not to... then again I suffer from a nearly terminal case of wussitus, it could just be me.
Luckily the middle lane was available so I put my stuff down and began to unpack. I noticed that the two shooters around me had either a stand on which to place their rifle or a bag that they used to create an elevated yet very supported position. I, on the other hand, had nothing... except the bench itself (did I mention that I felt out of place.) Nevermind, I thought to myself, I'll put up my target (once the range is clear ofcourse) and I'll shoot as if I 've done this 1000x's before. I walked out to get the stand and staple my target up to it when halfway down the range I realized, "oh s***, I forgot the staple gun". So back down to bench to grab the staple gun as the other two shooters waited patiently for me to clear the range so they can once again start doing what it appeared they were put on this earth to do... fire large loud rifles. These were big men that looked like they were born with a rifle in their hands and chewing on rusty nails; they wore camo... the closest I ever get to rusty nails is when I find them laying on the ground and instead of camo, I was wearing a throwback ghostbusters T-shirt (I love that shirt!). Back down the range once more, I stapled the target to the stand and dragged the stand back to the 50-yard line (the other two men were shooting at 150 yards.) It's a walk of shame to take this stand and move 100 yards closer to you while two other men watch you eagerly waiting for you to get done because you are not skilled enough (or forward thinking enough to buy a scope first) to hit at the pre-approved 150 yards. I chose to stare mainly at the ground as I moving the target.
Nonetheless, I set my stand and made my way back to the bench. Now the firing could begin! BOOM! BOOM! crack. BOOM! BOOM! crack. And so it went as they went through twenty or so rounds and I shot through one magazines. "Range clear!" yelled the guy on my left and we all stepped away from our rifles. The two real men began to discuss their groupings as both of them had spotting scopes. I however did not. (Time for the Captain Obvious quote of the day.) 50-yards is somewhat far without any optics and .22 holes are small. So I asked if I could go and retrieve my target and the real men nodded at me.
When I arrived at the target I saw a narrow band of holes from top to bottom. It was like a column about 1.5" wide of randomly placed holes up and down the target. The column itself was about 2" to the right of where I was intending to send the round. Scared to bring back the target for fear that the real men might laugh themselves into vapor lock, I decided to leave the target.
When I got back to the bench one of the guys asked, "How's it looking?"
"I found the paper!" I replied.
Both men laughed heartily assuming that I was joking. I chose not to correct them. Over the course of the next thirty minutes I fired off another three magazines for a total of 100 rounds down range. I had three mag snags along the way and all of them with the same magazine (a first generation.) I know that I loaded the magazine carefully and checked the back window to make sure that the rounds were staggered and considering that it was happening with the CCI mini-mags, I don't think it was the ammo. Regardless, by the time I had finished with the last magazine there were three more 4x4/SUV's in the parking area and three large, rusty nail chewing, camo wearing men with guns that looked like they made really loud noises waiting in line to get a lane. So I packed it up, retreived my target (crushing it into a paperwad before getting back to the benches) and began to leave. However, before I could round everything up, one of the real men asked about what I was shooting. I told him what it was and he was intrigued. He claimed that he had served in both Korea and Vietnam (and he seemed to be old enough for that to be true) and gave me some nifty tales about his first experience with the M-16. He really liked the way it broke down and after he fired it stated: "I ain't owned a .22 in years but I might just have to get me one of them." A couple other real men waiting for their turn to make loud noises also oogled the gun before I finally made it back to my car.
As I pulled out, the front of the car (and no, I don't have any ground effects) grounded out on the DIRT PATH (not gravel road) and nearly everyone turned to look at me. I honked the horn and waved as I plowed through the road and the old vet actually cracked a smile and waved back.
All-in-all, the real men were very nice but my ego is still pretty bruised; however, it was still an absolute blast to shoot! I can't wait for the appleseed event next month because I DESPERATELY need some mentoring on stance, grip, breathing, and all other factors to marksmanship.
At least it's a start. Cheers!
-Squires
First let me say that I am not a person that has had a whole lot of formal training with firearms. I grew up around them and most of my family lives in the northern Oklahoma area, so hunting quail, pheasant, and rabbit were the order of the day. But I haven't handled a rifle or shotgun in nearly a decade. I remember the basics of safety and position but calling me a marksman is about as accurate as calling the Grand Canyon a small chasm (as is proven by the groupings above.) Secondly, I'm not much of an outdoorsman, which is why I haven't been hunting in so long, so I stuck out like a sore thumb at the range (which will be proven later.)
Alright, to the range. Here in central Mississippi we have a public range called Turcotte which has a pistol range, a rifle range and a clay pigeon course. I've only ever used the pistol range as I have a Glock 20 (love the 10mm). Today I went to the range officer and asked where the rifle range was and he pointed me across the street where there was supposed to be a gravel road leading to the rifle range. I got back in the car, note the word car, not pickup truck or 4x4 or SUV or even crossover... car... as in a two door honda accord coupe. I drove across the street and was starring down a hill at a large field and a dirt path, note the use of two separate words here DIRT (not gravel) and PATH (not road). I assumed then that this was not the way to the rifle range and drove around aimlessly for the next ten minutes before realizing what you have already figured out by now, that yes indeed this was the way to the rifle range. As I turned onto the dirt path (I still refuse to call it a gravel road) the front of my car dug into the ground because there at the entrance was the first of many large ruts that I had to ford (that's right, ford not cross, these ruts were the size of small creeks and 18" deep in places!).
I finally made it to the range, my car squealing to let me know of it's displeasure for being suddenly made a "rally" car, and parked between two large SUVs whose tires seemed taller than my door. As I got out, I was met with the incredible clap of two rifles going off nearly simultaneously. Of course I hadn't yet been able to get to my bag to get my ear cover on. Later I found out that one was a custom rifle that was shooting 7mm ultra magnum and the other was shooting a .300 Weatherby magnum. I know this because the other two shooters (there are only three lanes) often stopped to dicuss the ballistics of these two different rounds as they relate to the ability to kill deer (weatherby) or Elk (ultra mag). As I haven't been around rifles much, I'm not sure about the relative sound and concussive force of these rifles but I can tell you that everytime that one of them went off I flinched. I tried not to, but invariably when you can feel the concussion in your chest it seemed almost impossible not to... then again I suffer from a nearly terminal case of wussitus, it could just be me.
Luckily the middle lane was available so I put my stuff down and began to unpack. I noticed that the two shooters around me had either a stand on which to place their rifle or a bag that they used to create an elevated yet very supported position. I, on the other hand, had nothing... except the bench itself (did I mention that I felt out of place.) Nevermind, I thought to myself, I'll put up my target (once the range is clear ofcourse) and I'll shoot as if I 've done this 1000x's before. I walked out to get the stand and staple my target up to it when halfway down the range I realized, "oh s***, I forgot the staple gun". So back down to bench to grab the staple gun as the other two shooters waited patiently for me to clear the range so they can once again start doing what it appeared they were put on this earth to do... fire large loud rifles. These were big men that looked like they were born with a rifle in their hands and chewing on rusty nails; they wore camo... the closest I ever get to rusty nails is when I find them laying on the ground and instead of camo, I was wearing a throwback ghostbusters T-shirt (I love that shirt!). Back down the range once more, I stapled the target to the stand and dragged the stand back to the 50-yard line (the other two men were shooting at 150 yards.) It's a walk of shame to take this stand and move 100 yards closer to you while two other men watch you eagerly waiting for you to get done because you are not skilled enough (or forward thinking enough to buy a scope first) to hit at the pre-approved 150 yards. I chose to stare mainly at the ground as I moving the target.
Nonetheless, I set my stand and made my way back to the bench. Now the firing could begin! BOOM! BOOM! crack. BOOM! BOOM! crack. And so it went as they went through twenty or so rounds and I shot through one magazines. "Range clear!" yelled the guy on my left and we all stepped away from our rifles. The two real men began to discuss their groupings as both of them had spotting scopes. I however did not. (Time for the Captain Obvious quote of the day.) 50-yards is somewhat far without any optics and .22 holes are small. So I asked if I could go and retrieve my target and the real men nodded at me.
When I arrived at the target I saw a narrow band of holes from top to bottom. It was like a column about 1.5" wide of randomly placed holes up and down the target. The column itself was about 2" to the right of where I was intending to send the round. Scared to bring back the target for fear that the real men might laugh themselves into vapor lock, I decided to leave the target.
When I got back to the bench one of the guys asked, "How's it looking?"
"I found the paper!" I replied.
Both men laughed heartily assuming that I was joking. I chose not to correct them. Over the course of the next thirty minutes I fired off another three magazines for a total of 100 rounds down range. I had three mag snags along the way and all of them with the same magazine (a first generation.) I know that I loaded the magazine carefully and checked the back window to make sure that the rounds were staggered and considering that it was happening with the CCI mini-mags, I don't think it was the ammo. Regardless, by the time I had finished with the last magazine there were three more 4x4/SUV's in the parking area and three large, rusty nail chewing, camo wearing men with guns that looked like they made really loud noises waiting in line to get a lane. So I packed it up, retreived my target (crushing it into a paperwad before getting back to the benches) and began to leave. However, before I could round everything up, one of the real men asked about what I was shooting. I told him what it was and he was intrigued. He claimed that he had served in both Korea and Vietnam (and he seemed to be old enough for that to be true) and gave me some nifty tales about his first experience with the M-16. He really liked the way it broke down and after he fired it stated: "I ain't owned a .22 in years but I might just have to get me one of them." A couple other real men waiting for their turn to make loud noises also oogled the gun before I finally made it back to my car.
As I pulled out, the front of the car (and no, I don't have any ground effects) grounded out on the DIRT PATH (not gravel road) and nearly everyone turned to look at me. I honked the horn and waved as I plowed through the road and the old vet actually cracked a smile and waved back.
All-in-all, the real men were very nice but my ego is still pretty bruised; however, it was still an absolute blast to shoot! I can't wait for the appleseed event next month because I DESPERATELY need some mentoring on stance, grip, breathing, and all other factors to marksmanship.
At least it's a start. Cheers!
-Squires
