Oh, Shoot!

A well-known adage for writers is to “write what you know.” Which explains why you’ll never find a sex scene in one of my stories.  I suppose I could give it a try, but then I’d break another writing adage: Don’t bore your readers.

Thankfully, I don’t write romance. I write mysteries, so it’s a given that at least one of the characters will end up dead. And because shooting someone with a gun is much more expedient than waiting for a character to die of natural causes, it makes sense that I should know something about guns and how they work.

So when I saw the opportunity to visit a pistol range while at Sleuthfest – a conference for mystery writers in Orlando, Florida – I signed up. Now, I hoped, I’d be able to infuse my killing scenes with more drama, passion and excitement than any sex scene I wrote would ever be able to achieve. Plus, as I discovered when I took a trap shooting class (See Pistol Packin’ Mama), I just like pumping things full of lead.

At the conference hotel I boarded a bus bound for the pistol range along with a group of middle-aged writer types who all looked about as dangerous as Jessica Fletcher and that Cabot Cove sheriff played by Tom Bosley. All, that is, except that pair of Texans, who probably not only knew how to shoot, but were no doubt packing their own heat. That’s why everyone let them have a whole section of the bus to themselves. Then we gave them our lunch money.

The bus took us deeper and deeper into the heart of Orlando until there was nothing but pawn shops, check cashing joints and strip clubs. “Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Disney anymore.” If there were any hidden Mickeys around, I didn’t want to see them.

Upon entering the pistol range, we were confronted with a large sign that stated: “No live ammunition allowed beyond this point.” I immediately felt right at home because I have an embroidered sampler with that exact quote hanging in my front entryway.

We were ushered into a small classroom where Tim, the instructor handed us each a questionnaire to fill out. It had the typical questions that you’d expect, like “How many felonies have you committed?” and “Have you ever been caught?” I think more useful questions – at least in my situation – would be “How freaked out are you right now?” and “ Do stressful situations make you want to shoot everyone around you?”

I answered all the questions then signed that all-important waiver. You know, the one that says if I shoot myself or if someone else shoots me, either accidentally or intentionally, it’s my own damned fault because I signed the waiver.  Tim then gave us a brief safety talk, including good advice like don’t look down the barrel of a gun when you’re trying to figure out why it didn’t go off, which sounded exactly like something I would do. None of this was doing anything to calm my jittery nerves. So I was an excellent candidate for handling a loaded firearm.

We each had the chance to fire a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver, chambered for a .38 to lessen the recoil, and a 9mm Glock semi-automatic. If that makes me sound like I know what I’m talking about, then I have a bridge in Brooklyn I want to sell you right after I get done shooting its lights out.

When it was my turn to go in the room where they do the shooting, I took my target, a blue silhouette of a man with a bull’s-eye on his chest, with me. There was nary a mark on the man, and I was afraid he’d look the same way when I was done with him. I pinned the target to a garage door opener contraption and the instructor sent it out about 30 feet, but it might as well have been 100.

Then the instructor gave me 10 bullets and told me to load them in the magazine. We’d been told that the only people who refer to a magazine as a “clip” are novices and people whose parents are first cousins. Apparently, this imprecision of language is a sore spot with gun enthusiasts, and people who say “clip” when they mean “magazine” deserve to be shot. And gun folk really don’t like it when you call a magazine “the bullet-holding thingy.”

Inserting bullets into the magazine turned out to be harder than I thought. If I ever have to reload during a shoot out, I’ll end up dead. But at least, as my lifeblood flows out of me, I can take solace in knowing that it was my inability to reload a magazine – and not a clip – that led to my untimely death.

I started with the Glock and managed, just barely, to hit the target. If the blue target man had a mouth, he’d probably have been smirking. Once I’d fired five rounds, the instructor had me shoot the next five rounds with the hammer cocked (there’s your sex scene – happy now?), which was much easier. Each time I pulled the trigger, my aim became better and better. Who’s laughing now, blue target man?

When I finished firing both the Glock and the .357 Magnum, I left the shooting range with my shot-up target and waited for the others to finish. I was feeling pretty good at this point because A) I was still alive, and B) my target looked respectable for a first-timer. The only people who’d done better were people who’d done some shooting before and people who spend a lot of time playing video games.

As they say on late night infomercials, “But wait, there’s more.” If we wanted to, we could fire a .44 Magnum, aka the Dirty Harry gun. Ten of us volunteered, including me. We each were allowed to shoot five rounds and this time we were allowed to aim for the head. I know what you’re thinking, “Did she fire six shots, or only five?” Well, to tell you the truth, in all the excitement I kinda lost track myself. But I can tell you that the blue target man ended up not feeling too lucky. Punk.

If you squint, I do sort of look like Clint Eastwood. 

Hippos In Lake George

One of my pet peeves about nature is, well, all that nature. Especially when that nature is in the form of untamed wildlife. Bears? Terrifying. Coyotes? Ditto. Bobcats? We’re talking nightmare material. Aggressive squirrels? Don’t get me started. 

Although one of my hobbies is collecting phobias, I prefer collecting them at home where I can worry and fret in the relative safety of my family room. But now that I think of it, it’s been a while since I cleaned beneath the sofa cushions. Hey, who cued the music from Jaws?

So imagine my surprise – and terror –when I was sitting on said sofa the other night, minding my own business, while my husband was watching a show on the Geographic Nature of Discovery Planet channel.  I wasn’t really paying attention because even shows about nature raise my blood pressure to a level that can be alleviated only by eating a bowl of ice cream. Since my pants were already feeling a bit snug, I focused on worrying about other animal-related issues instead.  Like whether dust bunnies harbor Lyme disease-carrying ticks and how some little lizard knows I’m paying too much for my car insurance.

My ears perked up, though, when I realized the show’s narrator was talking about Lake George. I’ve been swimming in Lake George for years and I have the black and white photos taken with a Brownie camera to prove it. “How nice that they’re featuring ‘The Queen of American Lakes,’” I thought. But something in the narrator’s voice told me this was no Chamber of Commerce fluff piece. After all, this is the network that takes every opportunity to remind us that we’re all just one wrong turn away from being something else’s dinner. So what was the subject of the show: killer zebra mussels? Asian clams gone bad?

Turns out, they were talking about hippos. Now they had my full attention. I was eager to get a look at the confused hippo that had made a wrong turn at the equator and ended up in Lake George’s chilly waters. So I did what I usually do when I want to get a better look at something – I grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

To my horror, the accompanying footage made it clear that the narrator wasn’t talking about one hippo, but hundreds of them. Enough hippos to make the Minne-Ha-Ha paddle for its life.

I already have enough trouble getting up the nerve to swim in Lake George – especially where the water’s deep (okay – you can stop playing the Jaws music). My imagination gives me plenty to be afraid of, even when I try to convince myself that a super croc would rather eat a jet ski than a swimmer like me. Now I was going to have to contend with hippos, too.  Something told me it was going to take more than a kayak paddle to fight them off.

And then, as so often happens in my stories, things got worse. Turns out all the hippos are dying. Not from natural causes, or because the water in Lake George is too damn cold, but from anthrax. That’s right. ANTHRAX! Does the EPA, DEC, APA, LGA, and ADK know about this? (I left out WTF, but I’m sure you were already thinking that).

Just as I was about to cancel my summer vacation plans for the next 100 years, a map appears on the screen. They were talking about Lake George, Uganda not Lake George, NY. Never mind. I’m going to get some ice cream.

I Will Survive!

Recently a man became stranded on Mount Marcy and ended up having to spend the night alone in a shelter he dug out of the snow. Fortunately he was rescued the next morning. You can read about it by clicking here. The article discusses things you need to do to survive a winter’s night in the Adirondacks, such as staying with your group, staying calm and dressing properly. The article neglects to mention my cardinal rule for survival: staying home. Think about it – when was the last time you heard “Woman stuck at home with only a glass of wine and a good book. Film at 11.”

            Still, there is a possibility I could become stranded on a cold Adirondack night – like if my car breaks down on the way home from a Winter Clearance Sale at the Lake George outlets. The thought of having to rely on the heat generated by an over-swiped credit card chills me to the toes of my buy-a-pair-get-a-pair-half-off shoes. So I signed up for a winter survival skills workshop through Becoming an Outdoors Woman (BOW). I figured at the very least I’d learn how to make a shelter out of shopping bags.

Sonny & Sheila Young, certified Adirondack guides based in Saranac Lake, NY, were the instructors. We started the afternoon inside a warm classroom. Considering it was 0° F outside, I assumed we’d stay inside and talk about survival skills in theory. I was wrong.  We were told that after a discussion of necessary supplies and what to do if you unexpectedly have to spend the night in the woods (in the woods? What would I be doing there?), we would go outside and put what we learned into practice.

Sonny asked us what is the most important key to surviving in the winter. I fought the urge to say, “an adequate supply of cabernet.” Which was smart because an unofficial survival tip is don’t tick off the guy who knows how to get you back home. It turns out, the key to winter survival is preparation. We were given a list of the things you should take with you when going outside in the winter – a map, compass, something to help start a fire, extra clothes, and a first aid kit. There was not one mention of brownies, which made me question whether they really were experts. But according to Sonny, people can go quite a while without food. That was news to me because I was already planning what I was going to have for dinner.

            Then they took us out into the woods, gave us all flint strikers, and told us each to start a fire. Everyone took off through the trees to gather things they thought would burn. Unfortunately most things don’t look flammable when they’re covered with snow. Dying a cold and lonely death out there became a distinct possibility despite the fact that buildings were visible through the trees.

            Finally I’d collected enough bark, twigs and sticks to try lighting it with the flint striker. I got plenty of sparks, but none of them took. Then I remembered they’d also given us two matches. I looked around. Everyone was still using the macho striker method but no one had managed to get a fire started. I wondered if using the matches would be considered cheating. Since I was getting colder by the minute, I figured the only one I’d be cheating was Death.

I found a rock under a tree, took one of my matches and struck it against the rock. The match flickered and then went out. Not surprising since I was standing three feet away from my tinder pile at the time. (Note to BOW: consider offering a workshop entitled Survival Skills for People Too Stupid to Live) I would have cried, but my tears were frozen in their ducts.

            I tried the second match, this time leaning over my little pile of tinder, but for some reason it wouldn’t light. I went back to using the striker. All of this had to be done without gloves, so my fingers were turning numb. “It would be nice to warm them by a fire, “ I thought, and then I remembered, “Oh, yeah, I can’t start one!” The irony was as bitter as the wind chill.

Others in the group were getting their fires started. Soon I’d be the only fireless one. I’d seen enough nature shows to know what happens to the weakest in the herd. I took a deep breath, telling myself not to panic and to remain positive. Then I looked down at my pathetic pile of icy twigs and was positive I was going to die.

 There’s an old saying among outdoors people – actually I’m just making this up, but there should be – that you need to save your hide before your pride. So I took that to heart and lit a piece of birch bark in someone else’s fire and used it to start my own. Not exactly kosher, I know, but fortunately there wasn’t a rabbi around to issue a citation.

            I learned a lot of things in that class. First, don’t get stuck in the woods in the middle of winter. Second, if you do get stuck, bring lots of matches. Third, make sure you’re with someone who can start the fire for you. And finally, I don’t care what the experts say; I’m bringing brownies.

Here I am with the fire I (kind of) started.Please disregard all signs of civilization in the background.

It's A Trap!

I have a problem with wild life. Correction: make that wildlife, because my actual life is pretty dull. My most pressing wildlife problem at the moment involves otters that visit my dock every night. I’ve never actually seen one of them, but I’m aware of their presence because they leave what my mother would refer to as their “calling card.” And if that’s their calling card, I assume that they like to call each other “stinky fish poop.”

That’s right – those cute little aquatic animals everyone loves to watch at the aquarium are actually sleek vessels of foul-smelling doom. Nearly every evening they torpedo my dock with droppings that smell like the scrap heap from Satan’s All-Night Sushi Restaurant and Chum Bucket Emporium. Any horizontal surface is fair game for their deposits: dock posts, kayaks, even flip-flops. And what they don’t poop on they drag into the water to play with and leave on the bottom of the lake. Thoughtless bastards.

I’ve tried various things to dissuade them from visiting my dock, including dried coyote urine, which resulted in giving the entire area a festive, unattended restroom vibe. I eventually called a guy who advertised the humane removal and relocation of nuisance animals. He told me, “Lady, it’s outside. There are going to be wild animals. Get used to it.” But I didn’t want to get used to it. I wanted to get even.

So naturally when I learned that the Becoming an Outdoors Woman program (BOW) was offering a course called “Beginning Trapping,” I was eager to sign up. At last, I thought, I’d find a way to be rid of my otter problem. And while I was as it, I might also learn how to keep chipmunks from digging in my garden.

The instructors were knowledgeable and experienced trappers. The first thing they stressed was the importance of responsible trapping and knowing the laws. Then we were told that a responsible trapper must kill a trapped animal quickly and humanely, either by shooting it or by asphyxiation. That’s when I realized that the proper use of Have-a-heart traps would not be on the syllabus. (Fun fact: otters and other aquatic mammals are biologically incapable of taking water into their lungs, so they asphyxiate rather than drown. Now you’re a shoo-in to win the next Grizzly Adams Memorial Trivia Bowl. You’re welcome.)

Once we’d covered the basics in the classroom, we hiked into the woods to observe actual trapping in action. We stopped at a place where the instructors said there were lots of signs that animals had been passing through. I looked around for one of those cute little Bunny X-ing signs, but there’s nothing except trees and rocks. I was going to raise my hand and point out it was impossible to see any animal signs with all this nature in the way. Then I remembered I couldn’t find my way back out of the woods following my own footsteps in the snow, so I decided to keep my mouth shut.

The instructors took out a trap and placed it in what they said was an ideal location. Again, I chose to defer to the experts, because at this point I couldn’t tell a rock from a hard place. Then it was time to bait the trap. My mistake was in thinking that by baiting a trap you would want to use something enticing to lure an animal to the trap. But there’s not a jar of Jif peanut butter or empty tuna fish can to be seen. Which was a good thing because all that hiking had made me hungry and I may have been tempted to go for the bait – trap or no trap.

Instead, one of the instructors whipped out a small vial containing a dark yellowish-green substance that looked like the reason penicillin was invented. She removed the cap, told us to smell it, and like a lemming with a craving for Kool-Aid, I blindly obeyed. An action I immediately regretted.

“What does it smell like?” she asked. I really didn’t know, because – on the plus side – I’d never smelled anything like it before. On the minus side – it was hard to think because I was too busy trying to find a way to reach inside my skull and rip out my own olfactory nerve so I’d never have to smell anything else. Ever again.

The instructor informs us that it’s beaver castor, made from the anal scent glands of beavers. You can buy it over the Internet, or you can also make it yourself. It can get expensive though because first you need a beaver. Then you have to buy it dinner. Otherwise it probably won’t let you anywhere near its anal scent glands. The effort might be worth it, though, because beaver castor glands are also used in perfumes (Axe body spray, anyone?) and is approved by the FDA as a “natural flavoring” (our government hard at work – bon appétit).

  It’s hard to imagine any animal being attracted to this scent. But maybe the idea is that once an animal gets a whiff it loses its will to live and willingly crawls into the trap to die.

Turns out, there’s a lot more to this whole trapping thing than Wile E. Coyote and the Acme Trap Supply Company would lead you to believe. So I guess my dock otters will live to see another day. I’m just going to have to get used to watching where I step.

Bobsledding For Dummies

Bobsledding is a winter sport with a long and illustrious history that I’m too lazy to go and look up right now.  I’m pretty sure, though, that it all started with a guy named Bob who had some serious thrill issues and needed to find a way to get to the bottom of a hill really fast. Unfortunately, either Bob didn’t understand that the quickest way from point A to point B is a straight line or else he had a lousy sense of direction because your typical bobsled run has more twists and hairpins than an overbooked hairstylist on prom night.

The result is that good old Bob invented an activity that has become the most dangerous winter sport. Sure, folks can get hurt playing ice hockey, but that’s called fighting and people pay good money to see that. The sledding sports (bobsled, luge and skeleton) are the only ones that actually list fatalities among their statistics. (Unofficially, there may be some fatalities associated with curling, but I think those people just died of boredom).

Keep in mind that each of these fatalities involved elite athletes who had trained in their sport for years. Why should they bear all the risk, you ask? Turns out, they don’t have to. There are six Winter Olympic sports complexes in the world that offer bobsled rides to average people who possess that dangerous combination of cash and the willingness to sign any waiver that’s put in front of them. One of those Olympic venues is Mt. Van Hoevenberg in Lake Placid, NY, site of the 1932 and 1980 Winter Olympics. Since Lake Placid is practically in my backyard (I have a big backyard) and it’s been some time since my last near-death experience, I was eager to give bobsledding a try.

Wanting to model recklessness and rash decision making for my children, I talked my family into going with me. Once we’d signed up we were placed in a van, driven to the top of the run, and left there. The only way back down the mountain was via the chute of death – I mean bobsled track. There was a small cabin where we were fitted for our helmets, which we were told should be snug. And I must say, I don’t believe my head has been squeezed that tightly since I came through the birth canal.

Then it was time to get in the sled. A driver (i.e., someone who actually knows what he’s doing. At least I think he did. I didn’t ask to see his bobsled license) sat in front. We then were loaded into the sled from tallest (my husband) in the front to shortest (my 7 year old son) in the back. I don’t know if you know this, but the back of a bobsled is totally open. So not only would I be unable to see my children on our way down the mountain, I had to hope the pusher guy (an official bobsledding term) would be able to hop in the sled in time after getting us started so that my son wouldn’t fly out the back. Yeah, I’m putting all this on my application for Mother of the Year.

I’ve heard that in space no one can hear you scream. But on a bobsled you don’t want to scream for fear that any sudden exhalation of breath may upset the delicate balance of the hurtling vessel of doom and wind up capsizing the whole thing. They may call it a “track,” but there’s no guarantee you’re going to stay on it. This is no ride at Disney World, people. Check out this YouTube clip if you want to see what it was like. I hate to brag (okay, I actually do like to brag) but our run time was 10 seconds faster than the one in the video. 

One of the last things they told us before sending us down was to sit up straight. That’s because your instinct is to hunch down to avoid what you’re certain is going to be immediate decapitation. But if you are hunched over I can tell you from personal experience that your head is going to get slammed into the side of the sled. Which, even with the fits-like-a-second-skull helmet, doesn’t feel too good. When I got to the bottom I asked my husband to check out my head, but he said I should have had it examined before the ride.

The whole ride was somewhat of a blur mostly due to the wind-induced tears in my eyes. Not to mention that being in a chute made it hard to know where I was on the course at any given moment. So I was surprised when I found out afterwards that the course does a 180 at the bottom of the mountain and sends you back up to the finish line.

We stopped at the finish line by sledding into a pile of snow. Getting out of the bobsled was not a graceful moment, I can assure you, given the rubbery nature of my legs. But I managed a smile as we posed for a picture, despite the worst case of helmet-hair since the invention of helmets, because I was just so happy to be alive.

 The course at the Bobsled Experience is just a fraction of the course the athletes use in competition. And although I thought we were going fast, they go much faster. So to all the men and women of the U.S. Olympic Bobsledding Team, my helmet is off to you. Thank God.

This is me standing with my back to the official New York State "Hey Wing Nut, Don't Say We Didn't Warn You" sign. I'm clearly hoping that my extra-swoopy bangs will create enough drag to slow the bobsled down.