Desertdog
Member
Finally, a place where people want to shoot from the hip
http://www.mensnewsdaily.com/archive/m-n/maney/2005/maney021005.htm
by Russ Maney
While I support an individual's right to bear arms, I'm not a gun person — not a hunter, never owned a gun. My wife is a decidedly "non-gun" person.
So, with double-barreled naiveté and curiosity, we headed down to the semi-annual Knob Creek Machine Gun Shoot in West Point, Ky.
Strange choice for a Sunday afternoon's recreation? Call it a case of, "This we gotta see for ourselves."
The basic idea is that owners of heavily-regulated, fully-automatic weapons can do there what they can't do most other places: open fire.
As the license plates in the parking lot confirmed, people come from all over the country to blast away and network with fellow enthusiasts.
On our way in, we passed an SUV towing a full-size and (apparently) fully-functional Civil War-era cannon. My wife whispered, "We're definitely not in Kansas anymore."
Kansas no, Testoteroneville, definitely.
As soon as we got near the main "upper range," we were strongly encouraged to purchase ear protection. As we did, I asked, "We're well back from the firing line. How loud can it be?"
Just then, a horn sounded and all hell broke loose. (A well-worn cliché, but I've never seen or heard anything that fits it better.)
The source of this controlled chaos was the most intimidating lineup of heavy artillery this side of Iraq: Gatling guns, M-60s, .50-caliber machine guns, M-16s, Uzis, machine pistols and a host of other lead-spitters I couldn't identify. All firing at once.
There were guys standing, squatting and lying on their bellies, blasting away like the bullets were free and the last guy with any left was the loser. The piles of spent shell casings looked six inches deep in some spots.
Down-range, there was a hillbilly's front yard of old appliances, cars and other targets. Several of the cars quickly disintegrated into orange fireballs, no doubt a result of some carefully placed gas cans. The rest were soon obscured by smoke and dust.
The destructive force of these weapons was truly amazing. My first thought was of any veteran who has seen combat. I can't imagine such weapons aimed at me.
After watching this fusillade for about 10 of the incredible 30 minutes it went on, we wandered over to a big pavilion, where those guns not currently in use — and every imaginable accessory — were being bought, sold and traded. It was there I saw the sign that said "machine gun rentals."
This sign led to the smaller, "lower range," where an interesting assortment of automatic weapons was indeed for rent. At roughly a buck a bullet, I was all set to show some fiscal restraint. But, my wife said, "Oh, come on, you can't come all the way here and not shoot something." Gun smoke must be a hallucinogen, but who was I to argue?
Within minutes, I was holding a loaded, fully automatic AK-47. I chose this firearm because, ever since the Vietnam war, it seems to be the gun of choice for our enemies. I wanted to see what it was like to shoot one myself.
With my wife safely positioned to snap some action photos of Rambo Russ, I listened to about 30 seconds of instructions and then took aim at a rusty car. Though I just fired short bursts, my 30-round clip was quickly empty. No wonder so many bad guys like this gun — lightweight, minimal kick and frightening power.
For the record, while certainly participants in a unique hobby, most of the owners and dealers didn't appear to be anarchist nuts or "gun culture" extremists. I suspect you'd find the same level of fanaticism among serious Hummel collectors, "Star Trek" enthusiasts or even college basketball fans.
They were extreme about safety, though.
Orange-shirted security guys were everywhere, and everyone handled the guns like the very expensive and dangerous weapons they are.
They were to "normal" guns like NASCAR race cars are to regular autos — for use only in very controlled surroundings — and a lot of fun to watch.
"What is it with guys and guns anyway?" asked my wife, after we got back to our own little DMZ. Yes, other than one woman in camouflaged pants, calmly pumping rounds into a refrigerator, the shooters were all men. I think the answer is, "Guys just like to blow stuff up." While it pales in comparison, I remember loving to bomb my little army men with firecrackers when I was a kid.
Every guy I've since told about my experience wants to go next time. Okay, but we gotta get there early enough to see that guy fire his cannon!
Russ Maney
http://www.mensnewsdaily.com/archive/m-n/maney/2005/maney021005.htm
by Russ Maney
While I support an individual's right to bear arms, I'm not a gun person — not a hunter, never owned a gun. My wife is a decidedly "non-gun" person.
So, with double-barreled naiveté and curiosity, we headed down to the semi-annual Knob Creek Machine Gun Shoot in West Point, Ky.
Strange choice for a Sunday afternoon's recreation? Call it a case of, "This we gotta see for ourselves."
The basic idea is that owners of heavily-regulated, fully-automatic weapons can do there what they can't do most other places: open fire.
As the license plates in the parking lot confirmed, people come from all over the country to blast away and network with fellow enthusiasts.
On our way in, we passed an SUV towing a full-size and (apparently) fully-functional Civil War-era cannon. My wife whispered, "We're definitely not in Kansas anymore."
Kansas no, Testoteroneville, definitely.
As soon as we got near the main "upper range," we were strongly encouraged to purchase ear protection. As we did, I asked, "We're well back from the firing line. How loud can it be?"
Just then, a horn sounded and all hell broke loose. (A well-worn cliché, but I've never seen or heard anything that fits it better.)
The source of this controlled chaos was the most intimidating lineup of heavy artillery this side of Iraq: Gatling guns, M-60s, .50-caliber machine guns, M-16s, Uzis, machine pistols and a host of other lead-spitters I couldn't identify. All firing at once.
There were guys standing, squatting and lying on their bellies, blasting away like the bullets were free and the last guy with any left was the loser. The piles of spent shell casings looked six inches deep in some spots.
Down-range, there was a hillbilly's front yard of old appliances, cars and other targets. Several of the cars quickly disintegrated into orange fireballs, no doubt a result of some carefully placed gas cans. The rest were soon obscured by smoke and dust.
The destructive force of these weapons was truly amazing. My first thought was of any veteran who has seen combat. I can't imagine such weapons aimed at me.
After watching this fusillade for about 10 of the incredible 30 minutes it went on, we wandered over to a big pavilion, where those guns not currently in use — and every imaginable accessory — were being bought, sold and traded. It was there I saw the sign that said "machine gun rentals."
This sign led to the smaller, "lower range," where an interesting assortment of automatic weapons was indeed for rent. At roughly a buck a bullet, I was all set to show some fiscal restraint. But, my wife said, "Oh, come on, you can't come all the way here and not shoot something." Gun smoke must be a hallucinogen, but who was I to argue?
Within minutes, I was holding a loaded, fully automatic AK-47. I chose this firearm because, ever since the Vietnam war, it seems to be the gun of choice for our enemies. I wanted to see what it was like to shoot one myself.
With my wife safely positioned to snap some action photos of Rambo Russ, I listened to about 30 seconds of instructions and then took aim at a rusty car. Though I just fired short bursts, my 30-round clip was quickly empty. No wonder so many bad guys like this gun — lightweight, minimal kick and frightening power.
For the record, while certainly participants in a unique hobby, most of the owners and dealers didn't appear to be anarchist nuts or "gun culture" extremists. I suspect you'd find the same level of fanaticism among serious Hummel collectors, "Star Trek" enthusiasts or even college basketball fans.
They were extreme about safety, though.
Orange-shirted security guys were everywhere, and everyone handled the guns like the very expensive and dangerous weapons they are.
They were to "normal" guns like NASCAR race cars are to regular autos — for use only in very controlled surroundings — and a lot of fun to watch.
"What is it with guys and guns anyway?" asked my wife, after we got back to our own little DMZ. Yes, other than one woman in camouflaged pants, calmly pumping rounds into a refrigerator, the shooters were all men. I think the answer is, "Guys just like to blow stuff up." While it pales in comparison, I remember loving to bomb my little army men with firecrackers when I was a kid.
Every guy I've since told about my experience wants to go next time. Okay, but we gotta get there early enough to see that guy fire his cannon!
Russ Maney
