The first time I remember going shooting was during a family road trip to or from some campsite in New Mexico. Dad picked up some target-grade beer and drove us off into the desert to find a good backstop. Once we were there he shook the cans and set them maybe 50 feet away from the car. We set up a firing line, Dad made sure everyone knew how our guns worked and then gave us some ammo and let us shoot at the beer cans. It took me a few tries to hit my first can, and when I did it was a little underwhelming. I thought the can would really EXPLODE but it just sort of split, bubbled, and rolled down the hill.

I would have been about 13 years old for this trip and I can remember really not being into it. Guns were for killing things, and I didn’t want to kill anything. Combined with early-onset teenage funk I’m surprised that my parents were able to get me out of the car. It was a windy day and my (longish) hair wouldn’t stay out of my eyes when I was trying to aim. Somewhere stashed away in a physical photo album my Mom has a picture of me in my blue windbreaker, holding my rifle and looking sullen.

Around this time I would have been shooting a Winchester 67A (a single-shot, bolt-action .22 rifle which was to become my rifle), a Ruger 10/22 (a semi-automatic .22 rifle which was to become Eddy’s rifle), or a Ruger Mk. III (a semi-automatic .22 pistol). All of these guns had simple iron sights and were pretty easy to operate. The Mk. III was my least favorite because loading that magazine absolutely shredded my thumb.

This is probably not the first time I went shooting with my family - it’s just the first time I have a clear memory of it. Eddy would have been 7 or 8 in this story, so clearly my parents had no issues taking kids younger than 13 shooting. At the time of writing this I haven’t asked either of my parents when they think the first time they took me shooting was. It’s also probably not the last time we all went shooting, but this is the only one that really stuck in my mind.