Long Range Shooting
The 5.56 rifle is not designed for long range shooting. It is possible to hit one’s target out at longer ranges if the rifle is sighted in at a fixed distance. The point of impact of a bullet is much different at 200 yards than at threehundred yards. Longer shots are difficult as a person does not usually know exactly what range they are shooting and a few yards estimated incorrectly one way or the other can make a lot of difference. We have targets set up at one hundred, two hundred, three hundred, and six hundred yards just to practice for fun, never giving much thought to the practical application.
Jag, the terrier, sees himself as a vicious watch dog and a great hunter. In his younger days, he was better at both, but still gives it his best effort. Most days are spent in
a chair, on the porch, guarding his domain. If he sees a deer on the far side of the lake, he will bark, rather halfheartedly. A person can tell by his bark how seriously he perceives a threat.
Saturday morning, I was working in the office when I heard Jag on the porch above me, barking with a bit of sincerity. Being busy working, I ignored him. My wife upstairs in the living room went to see what he was getting so worked up about. She called downstairs, “There is a coyote by the 300-yard target!” I glanced up and sure enough. A coyote was standing broadside a few feet from the target. This was really poor planning on his part. He was watching Jag intently as he stood in his chair, barking in his most vicious voice.
This is the time of year most dangerous for dogs to be around coyotes as it is their breeding season.
It is not uncommon for coyotes to come into a person’s yard to attack pets. Even big dogs can be badly injured if not killed in conflicts with them. I do my best to keep the coyotes as far away from the house as possible.
When I grabbed the rifle and got to the porch, the coyote was still standing
there, right in front of the target. I drew down on him with the threehundred-yard setting on the scope, putting the crosshairs on his chest, squeezed the trigger, and the coyote dropped. By this time, Jag was out of his chair, across the porch, and heading to the kill sight. I jumped into the Ranger and followed the happy hunting dog. Before we got to the coyote, Jag suddenly veered off, following another track. I could see he was on a coyote track but did not know if the tracks belonged to the one that was dead or if it had a mate waiting in the thick brush in the timber. The little dog has great faith in my hunting abilities, which is sometimes misplaced. He also has more courage than brains. He dove into the brush, far enough ahead of me I could not see him. I was beginning to become concerned when I saw a rabbit shoot out of the weeds at the timber’s edge and Jag starting yipping like he does when he is on a hot trail. If he was originally on the scent of a coyote, he became distracted in mid-chase and switched to rabbit hunting. That suited me. I would not like to be in close quarters combat with a coyote. When he lost the trail of the rabbit, Jag followed me
back to the Ranger for a ride home. He was a happy little dog, knowing he played a major role in there being one less coyote in this world. I
was pleased I had practiced at three-hundred yards and the coyote had the misfortune of standing by the long range practice target.
“You look a lot like your brother Newell,” she said.
“Pardon me,” I asked. Aunt Di repeated, “You look a lot like your brother Newell.” She was looking at a photo my sister Theresa had posted where she and Newell were flying together in his airplane. I could see some similarities.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I clarified, “I was here first; I do not look like Newell.”
“Well then, Newell looks a lot like you,” Di said. Then, as I was sipping coffee, she asked, “You two are about the same age, right?” I nearly shot coffee out my nostrils!
“Newell is seven years younger; however, people often guess him to be much older than me,” I embellished. We shared a good laugh about that. “He didn’t look so much like me until his goatee turned grey,” I told my aunt.
“I think Newell has his beard dyed grey so that he can look more like me.” We shared another laugh about that. But Newell didn’t
always look like me. When I was a little boy, my hair was brown; Newell had blonde hair at that same age. I wore glasses; he did not. Yet, despite our age difference, there was a bond between us. I suppose he was about five when I used to take Newell for walks down Hegg Avenue in Madison, Wisconsin.
One summer day, while walking, we stopped to watch a neighbor building shelves in his work truck. The truck was a bluish-grey Chevrolet 20 Step Van. The passenger side door was open, so we peered inside. I shared my deductive knowledge with my younger brother.
“They probably call it a Step Van because you have to climb those two steps to get inside.”
The van had two hinged doors on the back for loading things. A wall with a sliding door separated the cargo area from the
driver’s compartment. There was another sliding door on each side of the front to get in and out. The driver’s seat was mounted on a post and sat pretty high. The shifter on the floor was very tall to reach the driver’s seat. On the passenger’s side, a fold-up jump seat was mounted to the wall; that could be Newell’s seat.
I was curious about his van and asked a lot of questions. I was impressed by the fact the man could drive
his Step Van with the doors open. Finally, I asked, “Do you think we could come inside and take a look?”
“Probably not,” the man answered, then shooed us away. “I’ve got a lot of work to do,” he said. “Why don’t you boys run along now?” I couldn’t understand why the man used such a cool truck for work. I could certainly think of better uses.
As we walked home, I told Newell, “We could buy a Step Van like that and turn it into a camper. Where he was building shelves, we could build bunk beds. We could close the sliding door for privacy at night.” I had more ideas. “We’d make a kitchen behind the driver seat and put a bathroom in the back.” I liked the idea. “We could make a closet for our clothes and have a place to store things like a broom to sweep the floors.” I could seriously envision this dream happening.
“When I’m old enough to get my license, we’ll drive the Step Van around the United States and go places and see things.” It would be fun traveling with Newell, but eventually, he would grow up, too.
“When you get old enough to drive, we can get another Step Van for you. That way, when I get married someday and have kids, we would each have a Step Van to live in.” Newell was also keen on the idea, but he was only five years old.
At home, we started a list of things we would need: wood to build the
beds, a kitchen sink, a toilet, and such. I looked at Sutherland Lumber advertisements in the newspaper and wrote down prices for various materials. Then, one day, I walked to Ben Franklin to check the price of a broom and a small round waste basket for the kitchen. Money was starting to add up – we would have to watch our budget. “We won’t need a dustpan; we can just sweep the dirt out the door.”
Things were coming along nicely, but we were missing two essential items to bring this dream to fruition: a Step Van being one. I remembered seeing a Step Van on a used car lot while riding in the car with Dad.
I rode my bicycle to State Street, near the capitol building downtown. I found the lot with the Step Van. I climbed into the driver’s seat. Holding the steering wheel at ten and two, I pretended I was driving. My imagination was running wild.
I was on a country road far away, with farms on both sides. Gravel dust was rolling off my tires, trailing a cloud behind me. The air smelled fresh but like cows. I would pull into one of the farm driveways to see if I could buy a gallon of milk and maybe some eggs, too.
“Can I help you with something?” I nearly jumped out of my skin when the salesman poked his head inside the Step Van door.
“I want to buy this van,” I said. “How much is it?” I remember trying not to act surprised when he told me the
price. “Can we start the motor; I want to hear it run?”
“When you come back, bring your dad, then we’ll start the motor,” the salesman said. “In the meantime, I can’t let you play inside my vehicles.” He told me to get off his lot. I knew that salesman would be sorry for running me off when I came back waving cash in my hand to buy the Step Van. Then I remembered the two big things we needed for this project: a Step Van and money. We didn’t have either, but that didn’t stop me from planning.
I went home and reported to Newell that I had found our Step Van. “We can cut a hole in the side to put a window by the table. Mom can make curtains for us.” Oops. I said the word; Mom.
“Is Mom going to go with us,” Newell asked. “No, she’ll probably stay home with the other kids,” I told him. “But we can come home to visit.”
Newell got teary-eyed.
“But I’ll miss Mom.”
“We haven’t even left yet,” I said to him. But it was too late; my little brother withdrew; he was no longer on board with this idea. But that didn’t stop me from continuing
to dream. The idea of turning a vehicle into a home is something I still think about to this day.
“I could easily convert a school bus into an RV,” I tell my wife. “We could sell the house, travel all over the country, and live in the bus.” Although she loves to travel and graciously lets me ramble on, my wife is sitting on the proverbial bench with Newell over that idea. Unfortunately, I never got to convert a Step Van into a camper, but Step Vans still inspire me to this day. “Honey, we could buy this Step Van, build a kitchen
inside it, and go on the road selling lasagna, homemade rolls, pasties, and pies!” But, of course, my wife poopoos the idea of a Step Van food truck every time I mention it.
I looked again at the photo Di had shown me on her computer screen. In conclusion: Newell does appear to look somewhat like me (or at least, how I will look when I am older), But he has been a bad influence on Melissa when it comes to Step Vans.
