A venue for traditional wingshooting will soon open, tailored specifically for women – and it’s about time.
Called the Ladies Shooting Syndicate, it’s the brainchild of Blixt & Co. in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The Ladies Shooting Syndicate is by membership only. It organizes splendid shooting trips to luxurious destinations for like-minded women. In effect, Blixt & Co. has transported the Golden Age of Shooting into the 20th century for women with adventurous sensibilities.
My Afternoon With Olympian George Quigley
Written by Rick Robinson
Author, part-time fisherman and lousy shot
The picture which the folks at Shotgun Life have used to introduce me to you ought to tell you something. All the people profiled in this fine publication are pictured holding their favorite shotguns. My profile picture has me holding up a beautiful lake trout which I caught on the Niagara River cutting the border between New York and Canada.
What that has to do with clay shooting is what my story is all about.
Fishing (or at the least brackish lake water associated with it) is in my family’s blood. My dad had hunted when he was a young man, but by the time I was born he was afflicted with horrible arthritis. So, instead of hunting, he taught me how to shore fish at a young age. On my mom’s side, I had an uncle for which fishing was his life. Just to be able to fish on a daily basis, he spent his twilight living with a Seminole Indian tribe in the Everglades.
So, fishing is one of my sports of preference. Although, the way I fish, calling it a sport is an insult to sportsmen everywhere. I spend more time choosing my cigar for the day than I do choosing my lures. Quite honestly, it’s the quiet and solitude which I enjoy about fishing. Catching a fish is a side benefit.
One of my regular fishing companions, Lytle Thomas, mistook my love of fishing for being an all inclusive outdoor sportsman. Lytle spends his weekends hunting things with and without a pulse.
“I’m running a charity sporting clays shoot next week at Elk Creek,” Lytle said excitedly to me one day. “I signed you up to shoot in my fivesome.”
“I haven’t shot since elementary school,” I replied, hoping that would end the conversation.
“Yeah, I know,” he persisted. “You told me about it. Remember? You won a shotgun for breaking clay pigeons. It’s like riding a bike. You’ll be fine.”
Lytle was only half right. My bragging was catching up with me. My dad had taken me to a youth shooter’s safety clinic when I was a kid. After a lecture from a local 4-H volunteer on safety (don’t ever point a gun at anyone except your calculus teacher), everyone got a turn at the range. Clays were going to be thrown out for us to shoot. The prize for the most clays hit, winner take all, was the shotgun we were using. I missed the first one and then hit all that were served up. My dad was proud (although I do remember overhearing him explain to my mom that I had my eyes closed on each shot).
Dad had visions of some kid in my class with buckshot marks on his face from me trying to shoot rats along the river banks and convinced me to trade the shot gun to a neighbor for a baseball bat and glove or something. Dad was a smart man.
“Anyway, it’s a celebrity shoot,” Lytle snapped me back to reality. “Our celebrity is George Quigley.”
I gulped. I knew just enough about clays to understand that George Quigley was an Olympic shooter. But the thought of spending an afternoon with any athlete who is the best in his sport intrigued me. I accepted the invitation.
“Great,” Lytle exclaimed and told me the real reason for the invite. “My boss is also in our group and he sucks. I put you on my team so that he’ll have someone to beat.”
George Quigley is a legend around my community. He is one of the best known ambassadors of shooting in the world. He and his dad are both nationally ranked. George, Jr. was on the United States Olympic Skeet team which finished 6th in the 1996 Games in Atlanta. He won a gold medal at the 1994 World championships in Cairo.
On the day of the celebrity sporting clays event, I showed up at Elk Creek Hunt Club in Owen County, Kentucky – the home of this year’s US Open. Lytle had loaned me a 12 gauge Beretta 682 Gold E to use for the day. In the parking lot he told me that it was bored and ported to reduce recoil and declared that I was going to use 1 ounce loads of number 8 shot rather than the standard 1 and 1/8th ounce loads.
I pursed my lips and nodded a knowledgeable nod. I had no earthly idea what he was talking about. I took the gun anyway.
After a quick refresher on gun safety in the pro shop where we watched a Dick Cheney speech, I headed to the course.
I looked for Quigley, but didn’t have to really search the crowd. At 6’5″ and around 250 lbs. he stood out. And, he was the only guy at the practice range who was actually shooting. Everyone else was just standing around watching him. “Pull,” he’d shout and two clays would fly out. He’d shoot twice and both clays would explode. “Dead Pair,” he’d say as the crowd applauded.
I decided to wait to introduce myself.
I showed up at our first station. All the men in my group (including Lytle’s boss) were dressed in gear appropriate for a shooting event – ammo vest, shirts with padded shoulders, and orange hats. Suddenly my ensemble of a Bass Pro Shop baseball cap and “Fishermen do it With a Lure” tee-shirt didn’t seem like such a good choice. These guys were serious.
I retreated to what I normally do when I’m intimidated – I became a smartass.
“This clay pigeon thing sounds like fun,” I said approaching the Olympian Quigley with my hand extended. “I hear they are good eatin’ when grilled.”
Lytle shot me a WTF look.
Quigley just stared at me. “Oh God, he’s pissed,” I though to myself. “I’ve just insulted the king and his own sport. This is not a good start to the day.”
Then, Quigley smiled a rather sly grin. “They’re a lot more tender if you boil them first.”
He was as nice of a guy as everyone had said.
I stepped onto the shooting platform, took my first two shots and missed both targets.
Quigley stood behind me shaking his head. He gave a quick beginners lesson on how to balance my feet and gave me a better way to position my shotgun on my shoulder.
“And your eyes,” he said.
“Yeah?” I responded.
“Try opening them.”
What the hell? It had worked the last time.
As I proceeded to each successive station, my shots inched closer and closer to a target. Although I have to admit, I didn’t particularly care if I ever hit a clay. Learning to shoot was one thing. Learning to shoot under the tutelage of George Quigley was quite another. I was watching one of the best and from a very close range.
What was remarkable about George Quigley was the zen-like manner in which he zeroed in on his intended targets. I make jokes about me shooting with my eyes closed, but George’s approach to shooting was just that. He didn’t shoot with his eyes. He shot with feeling. He and the gun were one unit. He didn’t need his eyes. He shot by pure instinct.
George Quigley hit 99 clays out of 100 on that hot summer day. His only miss was a clay that was thrown from behind him. I swear that the shot went past my head as a warning that I better start trying harder. George said it didn’t come anywhere near me. Just to make sure, I started paying closer attention (and standing closer to Lytle).
I feared that George had visions that the president of the National Sporting Clays Association was waiting for him in the pro shop. Being an ambassador of the sport is one thing. But encouraging someone like me to enter the sport was enough for the Association to ban him from competition.
Whether a result of George’s stellar lessons or pure dumb luck, with a few stations left, I suddenly got the hang of it. He was right; you don’t shoot with your eyes. It’s all feel. Each time I hit a clay, Quigley would boldly declare “Dead Pair.”
Suddenly with one station left, I found myself tied with Lytle’s boss. I had the distinct possibility of not being the worst shooter in the match. Lytle glared at me. His whole point of inviting me was to lose to his boss. Quigley, knowing why I had been invited, winked at me. I went 5 for 5.
Dead Pair!
Rick Robinson is an attorney with the law firm of Graydon Head & Ritchey, LLP in Northern Kentucky and the author of political thrillers. His debut title, The Maximum Contribution, was named a Finalist for the Next Generation Indie Book of the Year for political fiction and earned an Honorable Mention at the Hollywood Book Festival. The sequel, Sniper Bid, was released on Election Day and opened on Amazon’s top seller list of political thrillers at #46. He is published by Publisher Page, an imprint of Headline Books. He can be reached via e-mail at: richardleerobinson@yahoo.com.
Visit Amazon.com for Rick’s novel, The Maximum Contribution.
Visit Amazon.com for Rick’s novel, Sniper Bid.
A WOMAN’S APPROACH TO SHOOTING FOR FUN AND FRIENDSHIP
Written by Elizabeth Lanier
Getting Started
PULL – What can I say? It is my favorite four-letter word. Why, you might ask? Well, it’s the word used to release a clay target, but what it really turns loose is more fun than you can possibly imagine.
From the moment I step into a shooting box and put two shells in my gun, I cannot help but feel a huge surge of adrenaline and anticipation. As I close the shotgun and prepare to say “that word”, I have to smile and be thankful for the serendipitous journey that has led me to love saying “PULL,” and beyond.
Several years ago I gave my husband a gift certificate for shooting lessons. He was already a rifle shooter, and occasionally an upland bird hunter, so I thought a lesson aimed at the clay target disciplines would be a fun gift for him. I went along the day he was supposed to take the first lesson, ended up shooting with him, and I loved it.
Between carpooling three children around, after school activities and keeping up with home and family obligations, I managed to squeeze in (and steal) his remaining shooting lessons.
Somewhere between the love of pulling the trigger, the desire to succeed, and introducing new shooters to this sport, I realized that it was the “why” of the misses and not the “where” that really mattered.
It was the realization of the importance of good first experiences that compelled me to become an instructor. To know that when I was guiding them through their first attempts with a shotgun, that I was setting them up for success.
When I was initially approached about discussing women’s shotgunning and the pros and cons we face, I was not sure if I could bring any new and novel approaches to shooting. The more I thought back on my own progression in this sport, both as a shooter and now as an NSCA Certified Shooting Instructor of men, women and children, I realized what I could do was be a voice of advocacy and assurance for recreational women shooters through my own experiences.
I stress recreational. The women shooters who are proficient competition shooters already know the fun and fulfillment of shooting. They know the skills and intense mental focus required to compete. No doubt it was the pure pleasure of starting as recreational shooters that compelled them to hone those skills.
I believe there are many, many women who, given the proper introduction to the shotgun sports, would not only love this sport, but excel in it as well. So I say if you have thought about it, why not give it a try?
I know, I know…..what do women think of when they hear someone say “shotguns” or “shooting”? They think of a man’s sport, heavy guns, loud noises, camouflage clothing and killing Bambi or Donald Duck. It does not have to be any of that.
As a female shooter I think of the fun and excitement I experience every time I pull the trigger. I feel a great sense of accomplishment when I hear the bang and see a clay break.
For women who have family members wanting them to shoot or women who just want to try it, I encourage you to seek out a qualified instructor who will guide you through the learning process, paying careful attention to your eye dominance, good form and proper gun placement in the shoulder. They will know the right gauge gun and the best shell to use for the first lessons.
Many well intended people have introduced women and children to shooting with a favorite old hunting gun and perhaps some left over shells from a duck or goose hunt. “It’s easy, just point and shoot”. Trust me, this is not the best way to get started.
If you have started shooting and are looking for fellow shooters, don’t be afraid to go to a nearby shooting range. I have met many wonderful people in the shooting world at nearby gun clubs.
I met another female shooter, now a friend, at a pheasant shoot. After a brief conversation about finding other women to shoot with occasionally, we exchanged numbers on the only paper we had, shot gun shell box tops, and agreed to meet and shoot. I told her it would be fun to try and get other women shooters to join us and try to shoot on a regular basis. We both knew of a few women who shot with their husbands or kids, or had maybe hunted with their father or grandfather in their lives, so we called them to join us. Before you knew it, we had a women’s shooting group.
We now have about 25 members. We have housewives, garden club members, doctors, lawyers, artists, as well as a pilot and teacher. It is a fun loving, diverse group of women who have gone from shooting once a month to occasional 2 day excursions planned around shooting courses, shopping and all the shenanigans that go along with it all……fun shooting, good gear and great dinners, all topped off with a whole lot of laughs. Every now and then we even let our husbands join us.
Like I said, why not give it a whole hearted try? Whether a beginner or more experienced shooter, there is always merit in good instruction and learning to shoot better and better by building your shooting inventory….to me that includes getting the gear but we will talk about that later.
Women communicate. They will convey their feelings if they are anxious or excited. They are gatherers. They like to understand and replicate instructions and often learn much more by visual demonstrations that just an explanation.
Stay with Shotgun Life….soon we will talk about how we gather information, process it and incorporate it into building that shooting inventory we are talking about. We will also discuss trying to find good “girl” gear, starting women’s shooting groups, shooting and shopping adventures and more. Whew….so much to cover, so little space……….stay tuned.
Elizabeth Lanier is an NSCA Level I instructor based in Virginia. Please send your questions to elanier@shotgunlife.com. Every week, she will update her monthly column by selecting one question and post both the question and answer to her column so that all her readers can benefit.
Question for March 2009:
Hi, Ms. Lanier,
I just recently read your article and like the way you think! Look forward to reading your future articles. I haven’t been shooting very long and would like to know what your opinion is on which choke I should use in Sporting Clays for an over-under gun? I shoot just for fun and camaraderie.
Thank you,
Debbie
Elizabeth’s Answer:
Dear Debbie,
Thanks for your interest and I’m glad to hear you have taken up shooting.
In response to your question about chokes, I will just briefly tell you how they work first. A shotgun choke is a constriction at the end of the barrel of the gun. It tightens the shot string of the pellets just before they leave the barrel. I had an instructor give the analogy that the choke worked much like the nozzle on the end of a garden hose. The more open it is, the more open the spray is as it leaves the hose; and the tighter it is, the further the stream goes before opening up.
The most open choke is a cylinder. Then you have skeet, improved cylinder, modified, improved modified and full chokes. And, to confuse you more, there are choke tubes sizes between many of those.
You stated you are a beginning shooter so I would suggest using skeet chokes in both barrels to begin with, or a skeet choke in the bottom barrel and an improved cylinder in the top as you improve. These chokes work well with light loads such as 7/8 oz. to 1 oz. with number 8 shot.
There was a golden time in America when fresh-faced kids could routinely bring their guns to school, stash them in their locker with books and lunch boxes, and then after football practice all run out to a big field and shoot at rusty cans and elusive squirrels with their very own .22.
As a girl growing up on a ranch in Texas, those days are still a living memory for Judy Rhodes – and it’s her mission in this God-given life to share that boundless joy with other women today.
Judy has been toting a gun since the age of four and she got her start hunting rats, pigeons “anything that was a nuisance” using her first Red Ryder BB gun. At 8, she got her first real gun, which was a .410 shotgun.
Judy recalls that during those days she was “a ringleader of organizing people to go out and shoot. Maybe 30 kids would go after a game… only two girls, and the rest were guys…it was a time when girls weren’t encouraged to play sports.”
But being a rancher’s daughter, Judy said she didn’t know there were any limitations for girls. “I was used to the call of the wild.”
Little did Judy know at the time that those wonder years of her life would set the foundation for her to become one of the leading advocates for introducing women to the shooting sports and that very same call of the wild.
When she left home to attend Oklahoma University, her natural talents as a hunter and leader roped in some “Yankees” from the East Coast, where she demonstrated her early talent to get people involved in the kind of life that Judy loved.
She recalled how she had invited those East Coast guys back to her home in Texas. “It was my first time around Yankees who had never been exposed to the outdoors,” she says, laughing.
Judy remembered how she would get them on a horse and to touch a cow – often the first time her new friends got that close to livestock – or any big animal. Then, at night, Judy introduced them to hunting as they stalked coyotes.
After college, Judy returned to Texas where she landed a job as an interior decorator working on high-profile projects such as the Ritz Carlton in Dallas. Back home now, she got right back into hunting, which turned out to bring her some business because there simply weren’t that many women at the time who shared her passion for the sport.
One day, she was on the job and “a cowboy gets in the elevator. He’d just come back from hunting in Wyoming.” What neither of them realized was that they both worked for the same company. In fact, as the vice president of finance, he signed her checks.
The stars were aligned, and they got married. For their honeymoon, they went hunting in Wyoming.
In 1999, Judy was recruited to the board of the Women’s Shooting Sports Foundation — an arm of the National Shooting Sports Foundation. The charter of the WSSF was to get women more involved in the shooting sports and hunting, as well as function as sort of a lobbying group to influence manufacturers and retailers on the special needs of women shooters (and Judy has some strong opinions about that).
When the WSSF ultimately dissolved, she started the Texas Divas, which is short for Texas Women’s Shooting Sports/DIVAS. It is now known as Women Outdoors Worldwide – Divas WOW – and remarkably is celebrating its tenth anniversary this year.
Today, DIVAS has members in 49 states and 15 foreign countries. Over the years, DIVAS has taught over 800 women how to shoot a shotgun. They don’t call them chapters, they’re called liaisons because it’s a sisterhood – women who need encouragement to enjoy the outdoors.
Her motto is “Women Helping Women…Women Teaching Women…Women Supporting Women.” Her leadership in shooting, hunting and civic organizations led to a major story with photograph (including shotgun) in the Today Section of USA Today in March 2006.
She has also been featured in stories promoting women’s positive outdoor experiences throughout the world, including broadcasts on German Television and the United Kingdom BBC Television.
Maybe that’s where she got the TV bug. She started Divas in the Outdoors Television Show for reaching women and families worldwide. The show taught simple techniques from professionals. Divas in the Outdoors was the number-two show on MOR (Men’s Outdoors and Recreational) shown on Direct TV, DishNetwork, Comcast and Turner Media.
All the while, Judy has been to South Africa 18 times, in addition to Spain, Argentina, Scotland, England, Canada and Mexico, as well as all over the U.S.A.
Her leadership, enthusiasm and commitment have made Judy the voice of outdoor women within the industry. As you can appreciate, she has a word or two for shotgun makers.
“Make guns that fit us.”
Judy believes that the Beretta 391 semi-automatic is probably the best-fitting full-size gun for women on the market. Otherwise, she recommends that smaller framed women get themselves a youth gun.
But knowing Judy, we can expect to see a lot more shotguns on the market tailored to women.
“When we conduct our clinics women are afraid and we tell them that women can’t be afraid. They know what guns can do, but don’t know how to use them. But once a woman hit her first target its amazing how they want to go out and be a marksman and buy their own guns,” she observed.
There was something else Judy discovered about women involved in the shotgun sports.
“Women enjoy the smell of gunpowder.” She went as far as to say that women considered the smell of gunpowder a turn on.
Does that mean there’s a new women’s fragrance in Judy’s future? Not really, but she is exploring the possibility of returning to TV this September.
“It will involve a lot of women and the outdoors,” she said.
Judy honestly feels that she has been chosen by a higher power to get women involved in hunting, shooting and the great outdoors. “It’s a sisterhood, a bonding, to make sure we have that next generation of women shooters. This is a mission I believe that I have in life.”
Irwin Greenstein is Publisher of Shotgun Life. Please send your comments to letters@shotgunlife.com.
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She’s a teacher, an artist, and a ballet aficionado originally from Brooklyn, New York–and an avid clay shooter!
If this doesn’t entirely add up, don’t be surprised. Sometimes, even Bonnie Berniger herself wonders how she ended up becoming passionate about clays shooting.
“My friends can’t understand how I can go from the arts to shooting,” she says. “People from Brooklyn don’t understand that shooting could be a sport. They associate a gun with crime. When I come into work happy after a weekend of shooting, they looked at me very strangely.”
It started in a pizza and sandwich shop in South Philadelphia, and eventually led to one of the great finds in the world of big-bore collectors.
Today, Bernie Liberati can legitimately claim he is the only man to own two consecutively numbered L.C. Smith 8-gauge shotguns — a highly coveted find given that only 35 total were ever made.
The achievement is a far cry from the kid who delivered pizzas and sandwiches in South Philly. Delivering food in that neighborhood may not sound glamorous, but it opened the door into the world of big-bore shotguns for Bernie…
After working there for a while, the shop owner had taken Bernie out hunting one night.
“We didn’t get anything, but I had fun,” he said.
The Boy’s First Shotgun
Afterwards, his boss suggested that Bernie may want to buy a shotgun. Bernie didn’t own a shotgun (or any other kind of gun for that matter). The man offered to get one for Bernie, and soon the delivery boy entrusted his boss with the cash to buy his first shotgun.
It turned out to be a 12-gauge Daiwa, made by Singer Nikko in Japan.
“It was beautiful,” Bernie recalled.
So beautiful, in fact, the man offered Bernie $175 — a full $25 more than what the boy paid for it. Did Bernie bite? No way. But it was his first introduction into the value of shotguns — planting a seed that would grow into a fascination with the thunderous big bores.
Telling Dad About the Shotgun
In the meantime, though, Bernie had to contend with his father. You see, when he came home that night with a shiny new shotgun in a cardboard box, he father reprimanded: “You can’t bring that in the house.”
I said “I have no place to put it.”
Dad: “That’s your problem.”
As the sun went down, young Bernie was relegated to the porch. Wearing only a t-shirt, it was like sitting in a refrigerator out there — until his mother intervened.
“My mother was inside, complaining, ‘How could you let my son sit out in the cold?'” Finally, his father let the boy in…along with his brand new shotgun.
Bernie and his friends loved to take his new Daiwa out to a field near the Philadelphia airport. “We’d set up a skeet machine and no one would bother us. The police would come by to make sure we weren’t doing anything wrong, that we weren’t drinking.”
Yes, those were the good old days.
Fast forward to 1992…
Bernie’s father, now 78, wanted to retire from the customs house broker company he owned since 1963, Morris Friedman and Co. So rather than sell the business to a stranger, he gave it to Bernie.
A Fateful Meeting With Jim Stahl
One day, Bernie was hard at work in the office, when one of his regular contacts from U.S. Customs stopped by — a guy named Jim Stahl. He suggested to Bernie they go trap shooting one night. (As fate would have it, Jim would become active in the L.C. Smith Collectors Association.)
They had such a good time they thought it would be a good idea to make it a regular Wednesday night ritual.
After a few times out trap shooting, Jim invited Bernie to go hunting… and they had a great time doing that too.
As their friendship grew, Jim introduced Bernie to side-by-side shotguns. Bernie was bowled over when he discovered that Jim’s collection actually reached 25 side-by-sides.
“That’s unbelievable,” Bernie told Jim, laughing about it today and given the size of his own collection.
Bernie’s Shotgun Education
In conjunction with the side-by-side collection, Jim was an avid collector of books related to vintage and big-bore shotguns.
Thanks to Jim, Bernie embarked on his shotgun education.
But Bernie was about to get hooked.
One Saturday afternoon, Jim took Bernie to visit Hollowell’s Gun Shop in Connecticut.
“We’re walking around and Jim says what kind of gun do you want?”
Bernie’s wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted, but he knew what he didn’t want: a 12-gauge.
“Everybody has a 12 gauge,” Bernie remembers telling Jim.
As they wandered the around the store, Bernie thought he would go for a .410.
“But there was this 10-gauge Remington. It was cheap and unique,” Bernie said.
Out of the Corner His Eye…
Then lightning struck…
Out of the corner of his eye, Bernie spotted an 8-gauge J.P. Clabrough “in the middle of the table. It was the first 8-gauge I’d ever seen.” After negotiating about 90 minutes, Bernie brought home the first two big bores of what would become an extensive collection.
“And that’s how I started. I was fortunate in that people were not that enthusiastic about buying them, and the prices were pretty affordable,” he said.
After years of collecting 4-, 8- and 10-gauge vintage beauties, Bernie was finally able to put it together: his prized consecutively numbered 8-gauge L.C. Smith Grade 2 shotguns.
The first one he purchased was number 46291. As fate would have it, Bernie bought it on Valentine’s Day 2006.
Only three weeks later, another 8-gauge L.C. Smith Grade 2 became available.
As Bernie tells it, “There was a fellow who was member of the L.C. Smith Collector’s Association. Unfortunately, he was going through some rough times.” The man needed to liquidate his collection, and the dealer who got it immediately gave Bernie a call.
When Bernie got it, he realized it was numbered 46290.
Bingo.
Well, from the kid sitting out on the porch that one chilly night with his first shotgun, Bernie now owns about 50 big bores.
“I like the fact that they’re unique, and have a history behind them,” Bernie said.
But these stunning shotguns aren’t mere museum pieces for him.
“I shoot them at least twice a year.”
Bernie Liberati today with his son, Bernie.
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This article is the second part of Deborah McKown’s four-part series on clays shooting in the San Francisco Bay area. Part I reveals a little-known skeet field inside city limits. Afterwards, Deb and friend Diane head to a nearby micro brewery with a stunning view of the Pacific Ocean. Now here is Part II…
Chris Corkell leads the way into the gazebo of station six at Pintail Point. She’s followed by her husband Charlie, instructor Wes Russum and their trapper, Kelly. The presentation is a report of outgoing crossers — in a breeze coming off the Chesapeake Bay — and Chris is up.
After Kelly pulls the lookers, Chris pauses to take in the shot. The landscape is flat with a trap house about 40 yards out, and beyond that a large dairy barn in the distance.
What she doesn’t realize is the conspiracy that’s developing behind her back. Charlie discretely took the three-button control from Kelly, and then he gets a sly, contagious grin.
Chris raises her Beretta 391 Teknys. It’s a serious gun. Stock cut down to fit her small frame, hydraulic recoil pad, impressive wood, and an extended ported choke that looks like the muzzle on a Howitzer. She’s in the moment — focused.
“PULL.”
Chris is suddenly baffled by the simo pair criss-crossing away from her. She whips around…and there’s Charlie laughing — along with everyone else. Chris gives Charlie that look (Oh that’s so typical of you) and joins in the laughter.
Passionate About Sporting Clays
In a way, you begin to think its Charlie’s way of getting even with her. After 27 years together, they took up sporting clays about 18 months ago. Now, all Chris wants to talk about is shooting….
Charlie is watching NASCAR and Chris wants to talk sporting clays. Charlie is watching football and Chris wants to talk sporting clays. And when Charlie is watching baseball, Chris wants to talk sporting clays.
You can tell who’s taking the sporting clays lessons and who isn’t. Not because Chris outshoots Charlie (they both shoot about 60 out of 100). It’s simply that Chris has found a calling. She’s on a mission. She wants to shoot competitively. And she’ll do whatever it takes to become a championship shooter. She’s willing to pay her dues.
“I’ve never been competitive at anything, until I got into shooting,” she says. “But I fell in love with the sport, and I would like some day to be the Maryland State Champion.”
Dig a little deeper and she’s hard-pressed to explain precisely why she loves sporting clays so much. Maybe it is a means of relieving stress and being able to get outdoors as she has an office job at Talbot County Planning & Zoning/Board of Appeals. Maybe it’s because sporting clays gives her and Charlie more time together. Or maybe it’s because sporting clays is a heck of a lot of fun.
The Sporting Clays Habit
Whatever the reason, she’s going with it. The couple is up to a monthly habit of numerous boxes of ammo per month. And Charlie is 100% supportive (despite the antics)
He proudly says that Chris is doing “real good” with her sporting clays. But for him, sporting clays is a different story.
Ever since he was old enough to pick up a shotgun, Charlie’s been hunting in Caroline County, on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. He still hunts birds and deer there. For Charlie, shooting has always been a way of life.
It All Started with a Remington 870 Pump
Ironically, Chris has never even owned a gun until that fateful day Charlie gave her a Remington 870 pump (in camo). The way it happened is that Charlie manages a 130-acre estate called Essex Farm, located in Royal Oak. Chris and Charlie grew up in Caroline County. One day, the owner purchased a manual trap machine to use on the property. To get Chris involved, Charlie gave her the Remington.
“The guys were hitting all the targets, and I wasn’t,” Chris recalled. “Right after that, I started taking lessons.”
Her initial instructor was Bruce Ney — a member of the National Sporting Clays Association U.S. team, former World Champion and in 2007 inducted into the NSCA Hall of Fame . As Chris tells it, when she showed up the first time with that Remington, Bruce took it away and let her use his Beretta shotgun.
Chris Crushes the Targets
Right after that, he fixed her and Charlie up with a pair of custom-fitted Beretta391
Teknys — drawing on his experience as an authorized Beretta dealer, instructor and stock fitter.
Now, when she hits a target, she absolutely crushes it — far exceeding anything she could’ve done on the sporting clays field with that Remington 870 pump.
Charlie, meanwhile, is more sanguine about the sport. While he really likes it, he found that sporting clays improved his hunting (there’s plenty of excellent duck and geese shooting on the Eastern Shore.)
Sporting Clays Comes Full Circle
In the brief 18 months that Charlie and Chris have been shooting, sporting clays has come full circle in their lives…
They’ve become active members in the local chapter of Ducks Unlimited, and Chris is organizing her first sporting clays shoot at Schrader’s Bridgetown Manor.
They’ve encouraged their daughter, Chastity and her husband, David to take up the sport, so that “We can shoot as a family,” Chris said.
And after Bruce Ney hit the sporting clays circuit, Chris started taking lessons from Wes, the resident pro at Pintail Point. As it turns out, Charlie and Wes grew up together playing softball.
Today, you can see all three of them laughing and enjoying themselves as they move on to the next station.
Useful resources:
http://www.pintailpoint.com/sporting_clays_one.asp
http://www.schradershunting.com/
http://www.berettausa.com/product/product_competition_guns_main.htm
In the back lots of Hollywood, when you say Jack, everyone knows you mean Jack Nicholson. In the shotgun industry, when you say Jack, everyone knows you’re talking about Jack Muety.
If you ever owned a Beretta, Benelli, Franchi, Stoeger or Blaser, Jack Muety has helped you find the right shotgun — and made sure you enjoyed it.
You would be hard-pressed to find another person with more insight into the American shotgun market than Jack. So when he says change is imminent in the shotgun sports, you have to take notice. He has the experience, stats and instincts to know what’s coming down the pike — and how it directly affects you.
He served as CEO and President of Blaser USA for 18 months before retiring in January 2008. While at the helm of Blaser USA, he introduced the company’s F3 shotgun to American shooters. With Jack’s marketing savvy, the F3’s rave reviews served as a springboard for its continuing success.
Jack was an easy choice for the Blaser USA corner office.
Before joining Blaser, he held the position of Vice President of Sales & Marketing for Beretta USA. The Beretta spot was Jack’s hard-earned reward after six years as the Vice President of Sales & Strategic Markets for Benelli USA, where he created the most successful brand of semi-automatics in America. He also applied the same ingenuity and experience to increase the popularity of Benelli’s extended family of shotguns which includes Franchi and Stoeger.
Reaching the Top the Old-Fashioned Way
Jack’s achievements came the old-fashioned way — from spending quality time with customers. He’s been recognized for his countless hours of volunteer service with Ducks Unlimited, Quail Unlimited, Ruffled Grouse Society, National Wild Turkey Federation, Safari Club International and the National Rifle Association. He serves as a volunteer coach of the trap and skeet team at the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis.
Now that Jack is retired, he spends his days sailing, hunting and hanging out at his beach house with his wife and friends. And even though he no longer reports to work, he still lives and breathes guns.
We First Met Jack Pheasant Shooting
We first met Jack at a pheasant shoot on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. We began talking and discovered that we shared many ideas about the shotgun industry.
Since then the economy has changed fast. Suddenly, we were hearing people we shot with bring up the prices of gas and shells in our conversations. These are the same people who only bought premium shotguns, who never hesitated to drive hours for wingshooting and sporting clays, and who spend just about every weekend enjoying the shotgun sports.
Of course we knew gas and ammo prices were skyrocketing, but when you start to hear it from investment bankers, advertising executives and software developers you realize how deeply the problem has crept into the psyche of the shotgun community.
We thought it would be a good time to give Jack a call to get his big-picture take on what was going on.
We caught up with Jack at the Fador Irish Pub in Annapolis.
“Right now, in the current market, there are several influencing factors,” he said. He went down the list: the upcoming election, a sour economy, a drop-off in new shotgun sales and the decline of the dollar against the Euro.
The New Regionalism
Jack saw a potential convergence of political and economic forces that could give rise to what we call a New Regionalism in the American shotgun sports. Shooters would stay closer to home for their clays and wingshooting. The local gunsmith would see a growth in business as people put off new-gun purchases. And the corner shotgun dealer would have a better inventory of used shotguns.
In a way, it was a return to the fundamentals — forsaking the bling and getting back into the heart and soul of the American shotgun sports. New Regionalism could be a homecoming to simpler days.
“The [shotgun] market is in transition right now driven by the national economy,” he said.
Whether you shoot a Holland & Holland, a Beretta or a Benelli, the rising prices of shotgun shells, gas and airfare is a point of conversation that comes up. For some shotgun owners, the higher cost of shooting has absolutely no impact. They shoot the same number of rounds, travel to the same wonderful destinations and buy the best guns available. Other shooters, meanwhile, feel the pinch and they comprise the majority of the market who will embrace the New Regionalism.
What Louise Terry Wrote
You can already see it happening. In the June 2008 issue of Skeet Shooting Review, the National Skeet Shooting Association President, Louise Terry, wrote how the “economic conditions” are forcing shooters to “curtail their shooting plans, and they may not be able to participate in as many shoots as usual this year.”
She laid the resolution squarely on the shoulders of the local clubs to consider new alternatives for line-ups that could cut-down on driving. In effect, it’s a national problem with a regional solution.
Even Jack talked about how he and his shooting buddies have started car pooling for their annual wingshooting trip to New England.
And then of course there are the escalating prices of shotgun shells. The culprits are the war in Iraq and the surging prices of lead and copper.
For the majority of shooters, higher gas and shell prices are an economic reality. But the decline of the dollar is also taking its toll.
Here in the U.S., the most popular shotgun makers are British and European. People were always willing to pay a higher price for those guns because they are “perceived as being better than guns made in the U.S., Turkey or Asia,” Jack said.
For U.S. shotguns, the perception is not just about quality; it’s about a company’s commitment to its loyal customers. For example, Jack talked about how Wall Street investment bankers like Cerberus Capital Management bought Remington — after it acquired Bushmaster. The Cerebus portfolio also included Marlin and DPMS Panther Arms. Jack believed that when speculators come into a shotgun company, shooters began to question management’s commitment to quality and customer service.
The long shadow of private equity in the shotgun industry is, in some ways, heresy to grass-roots shotgun owners. Fiercely independent, there could be a gathering of sorts around the home fires — the gospel of New Regionalism.
From Jack’s perspective this also presents a unique opportunity for shotgun makers. It gives them a chance to get back to basics. While their sales slip, the biggest shotgun makers should place greater emphasis on customer satisfaction. “They just can’t count on volume alone,” he said. “They have to take the approach ‘How can I help?'”
Well, we thought that sounded downright neighborly. And after all, that is the foundation for New Regionalism.
Useful links:
http://www.stoegerindustries.com/
http://www.blaser-usa.com/Shotguns.42.0.html
http://www.hollandandholland.com/brochure/guns/introduction.htm
The phone rang and I got my assignment: track down the elusive chaps at the Georgetown Trout & Gun Club for a daring exposé in Shotgun Life.
Only in certain circles did the name Georgetown Trout & Gun Club ever bubble to the surface. It was the equivalent of the Order of Skull & Bones at Yale that counted presidents, spies and billionaires among its ranks.
The Georgetown Trout & Gun Club was a name never spoken — only whispered with great reverence.
Members valued their privacy above all else. If you were fortunate enough to ever find yourself in the company of a member, you could never ask about the club. His customary reply is that the organization was established to promote interpretive dance.
The national media was all abuzz when the Georgetown Trout & Gun Club turned down the Washington Post for an interview. And the group’s reticence doesn’t stop there.
Most queries about membership fall into a black hole of silence. Or if you did receive a reply, it’s usually one word.
In our Information Age, you have to really dig deep for the smallest scraps of intelligence about this private men’s society.
An Extraordinary League
They say it was founded 700 years ago and is now the oldest and most exclusive sporting club in the country — if not the world.
It is “the extraordinary league of very ordinary gentlemen,” yet when you dig into the annals of the organization the members seem far from ordinary.
A former FBI spy who is serving time on espionage charges was booted from the club for non-payment of dues since 2001.
The club’s Director of Fishing left for Denver (at least that’s what he said) as part of the Federal Witness Protection Program.
Then there’s the Chairman…
He is only shown in photos as Sir David Niven. The Rules Committee stipulates that members must stand when the Chairman enters the room. The Chairman is always the last to enter and the first to leave. And he is never to be addressed by his Christian name, only as Mr. Chairman.
The Chairman is known for reciting The Iliad by heart in local taverns. His favorite diversion on road trips is staying in Howard Johnson motels.
A Powder Keg: The Smith Endowment
And the club’s secret handshake? It’s only known by two people: the Chairman and the Director of Ops.
Despite its secrecy, there was one powder keg that the group managed to quietly extinguish.
It was started by the club’s Smith Endowment, after word leaked that some of them claimed to have fathered children with the notorious blonde bombshell, Anna Nicole Smith.
So now that I finished due diligence on the club, my next step was to make contact. How would I do it? Would I ever get through? Would they completely ignore me? Was bribery appropriate?
The Phone Number
As it turns out, I had an ace in the hole. After digging and digging and digging, I found a phone number. I did a quick Avé Maria before I called it. A man answered. It turned out apparently to be the Director of Ops, since he answered the phone “Ops.”
I politely introduced myself. There was a long pause. I continued that I was with Shotgun Life and could I do a story on the club?
“Sure,” he said. He explained that The Great Challenge was coming up in a few weeks and asked if I would be interested in a press pass.
“You bet,” I said.
“Consider it done. And by the way…”
“Yes?”
“There’s one teeny-tiny stipulation.”
“Of course.”
“You cannot identify our members. You refer to them by their numbers. To shield our privacy, you understand.”
I couldn’t believe my good luck. I must’ve caught him in a good mood — or on the tail end of a three martini lunch. Regardless, I shot him off my email address. Over the next several days, I received missives about the upcoming Great Challenge. Finally, as we neared the date, the actual invitation arrived.
Attention able-bodied men — and The Chairman!
Remember that Saturday is our Great Society’s annual Sporting Clay Tournament in Remington, VA. Due to the success of last years event, we have many more guns attending and it will be much fun as we shoot and eat while enjoying the companionship of our fellow lads in the field. Several non-resident members are traveling from California, Pennsylvania and The Democratic Republic of Congo to compete.
Schedule of lively events:
8:00 am
Arrival, coffee and registration
8:30 am
Identity and gender check
8:45 am
Knife fight
9:00 am
Practice shoot through the APC course
12:00 PM
LUNCH
1:30 PM
The 2008 Challenge begins
3:30 PM
Awards Ceremony
3:30 PM
Departure
Optional
Sonnet reading
another knife fight
Be sure to see the Shooting League page on the club’s website for details, directions, convoy and late breaking news of the event.
This event will define, defy or defile you as a man.
PULL!
Knife fights? What was I getting myself into?
I laid awake nights leading up the Great Challenge. Knife fights was all I could think about. I obsessed over the knife fights. During the day, the distractions of daily life kept my fear at bay. But at night, when I turned off the lamp and lay my head on the pillow and the silence welled up around me…knife fights…glimmering steel in the darkness — and blood!
The final email before the Great Challenge revealed that this manly day of action would be staged at the Shady Grove Kennel and Hunting Preserve. Owned by the renowned trainer, Mr. R.N. Selby, Shady Grove was the venue for the prestigious 2007 Master National Retriever Trial hosted by the Rappahannock River Retriever Club.
Smelling the Pedigree
I could already smell the pedigree of the members.
On the appointed morning I donned my Harris Tweed shooting jacket, tattersall shirt, pheasant tie and Barbour hounds-tooth cap. My shotgun of choice was a 20-gauge Caesar Guerini Magnus — a lovely gun ideal for the highly anticipated Great Challenge.
In addition to packing ammo, water and a clean towel in my waterproof shooting bag, I added a roll of sterile gauze, white adhesive tape, antiseptic ointment and a fresh change of boxer shorts.
Finally, I removed my razor-sharp buffalo knife from its crocodile sheath for a quick once-over: mirrored stainless steel, full tang, trailing point blade with a polished buffalo horn handle. It had been a gift from my beloved uncle, my namesake, Cletus Clapp. I slipped the knife into my bag. There, I was set.
I departed from home just north of Baltimore in the wee hours of the morning, and some two hours later I arrived at Shady Grove in rural Remington, Virginia.
The First to Arrive
The gravel parking lot was empty, but upon my arrival a rugged-looking man pulled up in a sporting-clays cart. With his long Southern drawl, he introduced himself as Mr. Selby. Yes, indeed, I was the first to arrive, he confirmed, and then suggested I take a stroll down the pasture to the safari canopy in the distance, which would serve as the nerve center for the Great Challenge.
The canopy stood under a tree ringed by the sporting- clays stations. There was an underbelly of ominous storm clouds, with the heady scents of imminent rain and fresh-cut grass. The club’s coat of arms waved in the breeze from a low branch.
The hospitable and witty Mrs. Selby introduced herself as she applied the final touches on a beautiful spread of pastries, juice, fruit and coffee. Mr. Selby joined her to help attach the table skirt with Velcro.
Cup of coffee in hand, I mentioned that this was my first time shooting with the gents, and Mrs. Selby chuckled — shooting her husband an all-knowing glance.
Prodding Mrs. Selby
I prodded Mrs. Selby with a few delicate questions about the knife fight, but all she said is that I would enjoy the company of the boys. Mr. Selby remained mum as he worked the Velcro around the table. At the first opportunity, he hopped in his cart and sped off.
With the conversation clearly closed, I decided to reconnoiter the property on foot. The club house was a converted drive-up ATM booth with a sagging wood porch. A few pick-up trucks were parked nearby, some with kennels in the beds. Two Porta Potties stood sentry against the looming storm.
A pair of retrievers frolicked with each other as their owners attended to the property.
The sporting-clays stations looked like short-range shots, but experience taught me that these types of presentations could be tricky with deceiving quartering angles, sudden drops and small windows of visibility. My analysis later proved correct, but I couldn’t possibly foretell what our gonzo trapper had in store for us.
As I walked back to the canopy I noticed two men had arrived. They turned out be members 454 and 302. At the same time, a fetching member of staff in snug jeans named S. had taken to tending the food and beverages. Of course, the lads were preoccupied with S. — a slender, raven-haired beauty with penetrating eyes and a really, really tight body.
What About the Knife Fight?
Introductions all around. One of the members was obviously English, and the other, a former college roommate of the Director of Ops, had flown in from California specifically for the Great Challenge. They gave the impression of being decent sorts. At the first discrete opportunity I asked about the knife fight and everyone seemed to laugh at my expense.
After some chit-chat, a convoy entered the parking lot. The two members took leave for the convoy and I quickly followed.
About 10 gentlemen piled out of the vehicles. The Director of Ops immediately identified me as the new face and extended a hail-hearty welcome. A dashing and hospitable fellow, we walked together back to the canopy in an affable manner. I thought it indelicate to broach the subject of the knife fight with him, not wanting to blow the opportunity for this exclusive exposé at the risk of being pegged a chicken.
So as we sauntered along, he introduced me to members we encountered by their three-digit numbers. Of course I was the picture of decorum, but I judged each handshake by its strength and firmness, assessing whether or not I could take that guy in a knife fight.
Finally, the Chairman
We bantered about under the canopy when, out of the corner of his eye the Director of Ops saw something that turned his countenance sober. “I want you to meet the Chairman,” he whispered.
I glanced in the direction of the Chairman. All I could see was his back. It was a distinguished back, probably hairy based on the thickness of his mane. The Chairman was in the middle of a lesson with the resident pro.
As the Director of Ops accompanied me, he listed all the rules and protocols of greeting the Chairman. After each one, I had to say “Yes I understand” or “No, I do not understand.”
We deferentially waited until the Chairman acknowledged us. Shaking hands I said “A pleasure to meet you Mr. Chairman,” thinking that I could definitely take this guy.
“Welcome, Fielding-Clapp.” And the Chairman returned to his lesson.
“Good form,” the Director of Ops told me as we returned to the canopy.
The Practice Shoot
Soon, the Director of Ops had convened everyone for a pairing of the teams for the Practice Shoot of the Great Challenge. I was in a squad with the Director himself and member 327, a tall chap with an excessively long reach and big hands. Hmmm, I thought.
Ready with gun at hand, I observed the chaps as they prepared themselves. It was 09:00 and since the scheduled identity and gender check had not taken place yet I wondered if the men did it in the cars on the way up here to save time. As for me, well, they either didn’t care about my identity and gender or they had much bigger plans to spring on me.
And what about the knife fight? It too was behind schedule. Everyone seemed blissfully blasé about it as the team-up coalesced. One thing was absolutely certain: I had no intention of bringing it up.
We convened at station 3 for the kick-off of the Practice Session of the Great Challenge. The Chairman prepared to take the first shots. As skill and fortune would have it, the Chairman ran the station, followed by a genteel applause. The 50-round Practice Session of the Great Challenge commenced.
Our Wily Trapper
Our trapper proved to be a husky fellow with a booming laugh named B. We discovered that he worked full time for a military contractor in Virginia. His expertise was submarine logistics. He enjoyed trapping to spend quality time outdoors. He obviously took his profession quite seriously because B.’s trapping skills were every bit as wily and stealthy as a submarine.
He would give us the lookers then change their order when we called for them. He threw targets upside down, the centers punched out, midis, minis, battues — concocting any combination of simos on a whim that would take a contortionist to hit. He especially liked to tilt forward the portable platforms that held the manual throwing machines so the targets angled straight into the dirt. Nothing was too devious for that big lug of a chap and each round would be punctuated with his great booming laugh.
Now that we had the defilement out of the way, I look forward to a hearty lunch.
She Squeezes Between the Lads
We took to our vehicles and drove the few miles to the lodge. The house had a sprawling country kitchen and wide verandah where we ate our build-your-own sandwiches, wraps and savory side dishes. S. would squeeze between the lads ready to fill a glass or take an empty plate. It was a picture-book spring afternoon in this part of Virginia, and everyone was of lively disposition.
I was just about to ask about the knife fight when the Chairman stood and announced that it was back to Shady Grove for the Great Challenge.
With backslapping and fanfare we repaired to our vehicles. I wondered, which I would encounter next: define or defy? Or perhaps I would be defile all over again. Either way, with a full stomach and a perky attitude I was ready for whatever lay ahead in the Great Challenge.
The three-man teams were different this time around. My squad consisted of members 351 and 409, and we were accompanied by trapper, J. — a short wan fellow who was an excellent instructor.
The Chairman Chokes
Once again, the Chairman led with the opening shots followed by a polite applause after choking big time and missing all the targets.
The character of this squad and the Great Challenge itself was markedly more serious. Fifty rounds, and may the best man win.
The pressure of the competition compressed time. Before we knew it, the Great Challenge was over. I fared second in my squad — behind the architect and ahead of the movie producer.
No doubt, we were more than ready for the alcoholic beverages, cheese and crackers and more desserts. It was back to the lodge.
The Dreaded Ballerina Cup
Unbeknownst to me there was a palpable trepidation among some of the members. What I was about to discover is that the man with the lowest score of the Great Challenge wins the dreaded Ballerina Cup.
On the verandah we quenched our thirst with beer, wine and just about anything within reach that contained alcohol. The Director of Operations called the meeting to order with a slam of the gavel. Past, present and future business was covered in true parliamentary procedure, yet the well-lubed lads broke out into rollicking laughter as we moved to the prizes.
The Great Challenge of 2008 would prove to be the biggest upset in the 700-year history of the club. The Chairman took the floor and announced the results. The ace shooters didn’t place at all. The winner’s cup went to member 428. The second-place ribbon was awarded to member 305. And much to my own surprise, yours truly placed third.
Member 413 accepted the Ballerina Cup with fortitude and magnanimity.
Another Heaping of Defilement
The Chairman returned the floor to the Director of Ops. It was time to announce new members. He read off six names followed by their numbers, each garnering a round of applause.
The Director of Ops then called for silence. I felt certain that the knife fight would begin, with yet another heaping of defilement coming my way. This was going to hurt bad.
“We have one more new member to announce,” the Director said. “This is a big surprise, but the decision is unanimous. Let us welcome to the Georgetown Trout & Gun Club, Cletus Fielding-Clapp.”
It certainly generated the biggest applause of the day and I beamed with pride. A few words were called for. The Chairman stood beside me and I thanked everyone for acknowledging me as a member. It was a heady moment, indeed, to be standing right within spitting distance of the Chairman.
The group began to disperse. What an incredible feat, I thought, to become a member of the Georgetown Trout & Gun Club.
As we filed into the parking lot, I managed to find a moment to buttonhole the Director of Ops.
“What about the knife fight?” I whispered.
He looked at me in amazement, then broke out laughing.
Cletus Fielding-Clapp is a Nobel Laureate in the art and science of journalistic writing who is widely credited with coining the maxim of 21st century media: “I never let the truth stand between me and a good story.” You can reach him at letters@shotgunlife.com.
It’s at great peril that we publish the link to the web site of the Georgetown Trout & Gun Club: http://www.georgetownleague.info/. Please be advised that the photos of gentlemen depicted on the group’s web site are professional models paid to shield the real members from the prying eyes of the public.
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