There are two kinds of people in this world, those who know it all and their daughter. One of the rondys I attended before being sequestered in Alaska has a great 22 target trail walk that we always shoot several times a weekend if we get the chance. Due to my kind face or obvious low IQ I am almost always grouped with new shooters and normally this works out well because I’ve made every mistake in several books and am still able to sit upright and take nourishment.
A couple of years ago my wife and I waited at the first target on the aforementioned trail walk for the rest of our group. They turned out to be two brothers and the daughter of the oldest brother. Intros were made all around and we proceeded on the walk. My wife was her usual self and smacked the first target center and stepped aside for the next shooter. The brothers were coaching the daughter with all their accumulated woods lore and shooting knowledge. I learned that she had never shot a gun much less a front stuffer and was not surprised when her head was a foot away from the stock and looking the other way when the bullet exited the muzzle to zing off among the tree tops. Pop and uncle had just a touch more style but not enough to threaten the course record.
Things went swimmingly for a couple of targets with me having to hustle to stay even with the wife. I noticed that our partners had to clean between shots just to get a ball down the bore. The daughter was having a particularly hard time with it and I began to fear that she would give up all together. I inquired as to what she was using as far as loading materials and found that they were using reclaimed motor oil as patch lube! Ya see they were Maxi-ball shooters and had never experienced round ball with patches before.
I did what I thought was the right thing and hustled the daughter over to my wife and sent them on ahead to the next target. The two brothers refused any advice knowing full well that “lube” had to be oil and that was that. They struggled through the remaining targets having to, at my insistence, let several groups play through. Fortunately the guns were TC’s and withstood the pounding of the ramrod, the short seating of the ball and the miles of patch material rubbed up and down the really fouled bore.
The daughter stood with my wife at the end of the trail her transformation complete. She cradled the rifle gently in the crook of her left elbow grinning from ear to ear as she announced to her kin the fourteen consecutive “killed” targets she scored on the remaining trail with a reduced load and real patch lube. Neither adult had above a 4 on their score card missing nearly every target when the monotonous cleaning began. My wife later told me that the daughter was a quick learner and a short shooting lesson along with something less than 150 grains of 3f was all she needed to begin seeing the fun of this sport.
I haven’t seen any of them since but I hope that the daughter insists that she be taken shooting once in a while. As a young man it was very hard for me to admit that I could use some advice. Fortunately I was raised around horses and mules and there was just enough pain in my life to mature me sooner and I’ve been the better for it. We all were beginners at one time and the luckiest of us ran into someone willing to share the secrets of our sport and we were smart enough to listen.
