This past weekend I had the curious experience of participating in what subscribers to the British country sports magazine
The Field would term a shooting party. Along with friends I followed a Nissan Altima out to a patch of gravel in the aptly named "Shotgun Creek" wildnerness area to practice gun safety and take aim at a range of gentle targets: clay pigeons, cardboard boxes and an insulated drink cozy with an extra-terrestrial icon.
For the record, the primary appeal of this event was the opportunity to doll up in fine, purpose-specific hunting clothes (ideally, a tweed jacket and plus fours). Since the day was quite warm, however, I substituted a sporty red
Engineered Garments cruiser jacket and distributed Filson and Hunting World hats to my fellow party members.
For the most part, I spent my time during this event (what I mentally termed a gun carnival) giggling at my fellow participants and marvelling at the strange, balanced coexistence between our own group, a secondary party of shooters (teens wearing "police" t-shirts and using long range deer rifles to shoot at paper targets from ten paces) and several motorcross riders who kept circling our impromptu shooting range and popping wheelies.
