Don't shoot yourself, DUMB-ASS!

 

I've never been on a real roller-coaster. I imagine the experience to be similar to my weekend at the Lone Pine Rangers and OMSA state shoots in Prineville Oregon. A lot of ups....a lot of downs. A few thrills and a few moments of terror here and there.

The Lone Pine Rangers held their annual Father's Day shoot in conjunction with the OMSA Oregon State Shoot at the Lone Pine Arena in Prineville Oregon; one of my favorite places to shoot or just hang out. I had dropped Drifter off with Lauman Training a month prior for a tune-up and would pick him up after the shoot.

Time and money restrictions have prevented me from traveling to CMSA shoots this year. I try to stick with local Jackpots and events within a 100 mile radius....which is pretty easy to do in Arizona. Not so much in the PNW. Since I'd be traveling to pick up Drifter anyway, I was thrilled to be making the Lone Pine Shoot.

We had a full SL3 class for the Lone Pine Rangers shoot on Friday. I needed one more qualified win for a move-up to SL4 – open division. I will admit the word “sand-bagging” entered my thought process...it didn't exactly linger there....but it did make an appearance. A win on Friday meant I'd be shooting with the SL4's at the Oregon State Shoot Saturday and Sunday. There are no guarantee's in life (other than taxes and death) – and certainly not in mounted shooting. I would not go out a sand-bagger. Jack deserves better and frankly, so do I. I'd try my best and let the balloons pop as they will.

I really like the gals in my SL3 class. They are fun, supporting and encouraging. Lynn L especially pushes me to do better. “You CAN shoot that fast...let him run!” We usually run fairly close raw times with Lynn outrunning me more times than I her. Friday proved not to be her shoot – she missed a balloon...I shot clean and had my last qualified win as a SL3.

The move up dance: The single most terrifying occurrence for any introverted mounted shooter about to advance to the next level. I don't dance. I don't sing. I don't hum...not even driving down the road in my truck all alone. I have my Dave Stamey CD's for the musical aspect of road trips. I am essentially talent free. I would say I do posses some skills. I am weirdly mechanical for a girl who never took shop. I can fix stuff that needs fix'in. I make a pretty good pie and at age 10 I could break down and reassemble a mini-14 blind folded. But talent? Not a drop.

I swear I stressed more over the inevitable move up dance than I did shooting against the SL4's. On top of that...I wasn't going to be able to just get it over with Friday night after the shoot because awards were to be combined for both shoots Sunday after the State Shoot. Fabulous. Oh well – I had two days to figure something out. Damn it - if I can put together a semi-automatic with my eyes closed...surely I can figure out how to do a two step...or a dosey-doe...or whatever the hell they call such sadistic maneuvers.

Shooting with the SL4 class was oddly stress free. I figured there was no way I would place in the money. We only had 3 people in the class and second doesn't pay. I'd go out there – have some fun and just go for it. Not having anything to lose can be liberating.

The end of the first days 3 stages found me winning the class by 4 seconds. Nicole S. , the gal closest to me, was outrunning me by an average of almost 2 seconds but missed two balloons. I actually had a chance. Liberation exited the building as stress entered. Nicole rarely misses a balloon and I was fairly confident she wouldn't miss another one on the last two stages. I stuck with my original strategy to simply go for it. I'd rather give it my all and miss a balloon than safety-up and still get out-run.

Jack had been stellar all weekend. He was calm, cool and never took a wrong turn. We had picked up a little speed and I had no trouble shooting my balloons. The last two stages were right up our ally. Big, loopy patterns without turns or roll backs. I said my usual little prayer before each run: “Dear God...I pray for a smooth, clean and safe run for myself, fellow shooters and horses. I pray for a run I can feel good about no matter the outcome. AMEN”

Maybe we didn't warm up enough. Maybe it was colder that morning...or maybe Jack was just done being in an arena. We made our tight send-off circle ready to pick up some speed. I drew my random pistol and killed the first balloon. The rest is a bit fuzzy. Jack planted his front feet and went to bogging. It wasn't a major bronc ride by any means and he's bucked a whole lot harder in the past. I could feel him wanting to get with it if I didn't bring his head around. I needed both hands to keep the situation from escalating and ending up in the dirt. I was already hammered and ready to shoot. I attempted to de-hammer and re-holster the same time he slammed his front feet in the ground. I heard the gun go off but figured I'd shot into my holster. I got him somewhat under-control – re-drew my pistol and commenced to shoot the random pattern. I re-drew my second pistol for the last five and could feel him start to coil again. I shot a couple rounds just so he wasn't getting away with anything and exited with a 60 and an expression of WTF just happened?

We exited the arena at the unloading bucket to empty my brass. Fellow shooter and friend, Dan Littlefield, magically appears and is pulling off my holsters and asking questions I didn't yet comprehend. This must be how the fancy people feel who have stable hands to warm up, tack up and all but actually ride their horses for them. “Sure...I'm fine, a little embarrassed but at least I didn't fall off!” Dan points at my left arm: “You shot yourself, dumb-ass.” I'm sure he didn't really say “dumb-ass” - but you sure feel like one when you look down and realize you just shot yourself in front of 50 people.

I suppose a normal persons thought process when gaping at a smoldering hole in their favorite button down Wrangler shirt and charred, bloody forearm would be to seek medical attention. It is apparent by this stage in my life that I seldom possess such normalcy... “Ah HA!....I bet I can use this little mishap to get out of that stupid move up dance!”

Second thought: “Holy mother of pearl this burns!” It's the burn that keeps on burning. Dan again magically appears with a first aid kit and zip-lock bag of ice. He wiped it down with antiseptic wipes, wrapped it in loose gauze and secured the ice pack against my arm with vet-wrap. Good to go....

They start with the higher numbers at CMSA shoots in the PNW. Starting with the 6's on down to the 1's. With under 50 shooters – I was 8^th out. I was out of the match even if Nicole dropped her guns and fell off her horse. There was no point to run my last stage other than I felt I needed to for my own confidence (suck it up and get back on that horse – cowgirl) and I didn't want Jack to get away with ending a shoot thinking he could avoid being in an arena by attempting to dump my butt in the middle of it.

Putting on holsters one armed proved more difficult than one might think. I could get them on but was struggling with cinching them down. I still had to bridle, get ear plugs back in Jack and I”m pretty sure my hat was on backwards. I was wrestling with the whole process when, as if Heaven sent – appears nurse Cayenne Pepper. I believe her name is actually spelled “Kyanne” but I couldn't for the life of me remember it until she told me it was pronounced Cayenne...like the pepper.

Nurse pepper and another friend and fellow shooter, Christa P Daniels, gathered what vet supplies they had between them and I followed Nurse pepper to her make-shift horse trailer turned ER.

Christa handed Nurse Pepper an antiseptic infused foam scrubber with soft silicone bristles. The term “soft” can be relative in certain situations. “Your gonna scrub it with that thing?” Nurse Pepper: “Yes Ma'am...we need to get as much of the gun powder out as we can. Burns infect easily. Once we get it cleaned up – I'll put a topical numbing agent on it to help with the pain.” Again...I might not think the same as most folks and I'm certainly no medical professional: “Hey...I have an idea...can't we put the numbing stuff on BEFORE you go scrubbing on it?” Nurse Pepper explained that it wouldn't do any good and commenced to apologize repeatedly as she scrubbed the wound clean. To my own credit – I managed to keep the swearing to a minimum and my arm still. The only things twitching and jerking around was my feet. Ah HA...perhaps I can incorporate this twitching and jerking into the dreaded move up dance should it occur!” When life gives you lemons....

I was not at all disappointed that I didn't have time to reload before the last stage. I would lope the pattern without guns and take another 60. Jack did not want to get in the arena and I could feel him tense when we passed the first balloon – but we managed to exit the arena without incident.

The burning progressed as the day went on but as Grandma would say: “It's a long ways from your heart. Deal with it.” I probably won't die and if it gets me out of the move up dance...it will all be worth it!

It did not get me out of the move up dance. As several of my fellow shooters pointed out: “You didn't shoot yourself in the foot, did you?” I sucked it up and managed the most awkwardly lame move up dance in the history of mounted shooting. Lone Pine Rangers president, Stew Butts, relinquished my check and dismissed me to my seat.

I spent that night trying to reason out what Jack's issue was. He hadn't really blown up on me in 13 years. Was he in pain? Possibly. I took him to Tanner Lauman for body work. He was out in multiple places that could have caused him to react as he did. Maybe I didn't warm him up enough for as cold as it was. Maybe it was just Sunday morning and he was over being an arena horse. Jack is not an arena horse and frankly, it's not my favorite place to be either. It's possible that by the last two stages he was simply done with it: “Human...I've got you to the level you wanted to achieve. I am cold, sore and over this balloon killing BS. It is time to deposit your ass in this arena and get back to the mountains where we belong. Shooting yourself in the arm....that's on you, dumb-ass!”