I'm gonna give this a full write-up at some point.. but let me say WOW. I don't know what was more fun, shooting a scoped Barrett at 600 yards, or shooting a full auto BAR. (expect a bit of a write up in Go-Go Magazine if the editor says it's ok)
Rob
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The Battle of Fort Morgan © R.Williams 2002
A friend of mine once said, “Son, shootin’ machine guns and driving race cars is the most fun you can have with your clothes on.” Well, he left out salsa dancing with a hot latina and banging your rear sets in a sliding turn, but he wasn’t too far off the mark.
This past weekend not only heralded the celebration of Cinco De Mayo, it was also a good weekend to blow stuff up with heavy ordinance, thanks to the Rocky Mountain Fifty Caliber Shooter’s Association (www.rmfcsa.org) and Rocky Mountain Gun Owners’ annual fifty-caliber and machine gun shoot in Fort Morgan.
It was a long drive out of Denver to the prairie badlands outside of Fort Morgan, but the promise of cordite and mayhem kept my hammer down and my spirits high. The flyer read like a shooter’s wet dream: targets to 600+ yards, long range sniper rifles, cannons, and an arsenal of machine guns for rent.
Truth be told, I’m no stranger to firearms, I’ve been shooting most of my life. I’ve fired sub-guns, assault rifles, shotguns, safari rifles and a vast array of handguns. But I’ve never had the pleasure of handling belt-fed big caliber stuff. You know, the stuff you only see in movies, or courtesy of the Government.
My shooting compadre Mr. Bill and I happily paid our $5 entry fee and approached the firing line. Over a loudspeaker a voice warned us to put on our hearing protection as a 37mm Bofors cannon would signal the start of the shooting. Across a low defilade 600 yards across lay an army of propane tanks, 5 foot tall gas cylinders, burned out cars and gallon jugs filled with gasoline. There were close in targets of barricaded bowling pins and steel plates. A shooter’s paradise indeed.
When the Bofors went off I nearly bit my tongue off. You FEEL the explosion rather than hear it, followed by a cloud of ammonia-laced guns smoke. Suddenly the whole line opened up. MAC-10’s, M-16’s, Uzis, Grease guns, MG-42’s and honest to goodness Ma-Deuce 50’s. Tracers zipped across the range like lasers, blowing half filled propane tanks 40 feet in the air. Explosive shells rained and fire balls flung themselves skyward with Kubrikian glee.
Before Mr. Bill could stammer “wow” I had slapped down $20 for two magazines from a WW2 era Browning Automatic Rifle (B.A.R.). The B.A.R. is a full auto 30-06 that uses a magazine the size of an 8 track tape, and weighs a whopping 26 pounds loaded. (If you have 20 grand or so laying around you too can afford one.) I locked a magazine in the open bolt weapon and hefted it like a shotgun, keeping my left knee bent and leaning into the target. BOOMBOOMBOOM my first burst split a bowling pin in half at 10 yards and I moved my aim to farther targets. By the time I reached the burning car at 200 yards the magazine was empty. All the while there was a deafening roar of gunshots, cannon fire and bowling ball mortars lighting off around me. More fun? You have no idea! I repressed a desire to let out a rebel yell as I slapped the second magazine home and lit up the car at 200, spinning a burning propane cylinder like a catherine wheel. The big rifle barked and bucked but I stayed on target. I looked over at Mr. Bill with a Cheshire Cat grin and noted he was handing the vendor a fistful of cash.
We weren’t finished yet. We had come to shoot the Big Stuff. We at last found a scoped Barrett Model 82A1, a 10 shot .50 caliber semi-auto that was zeroed in at 2500 yards. (That’s over a mile citizen.) Gingerly I approached the black steel beast, picking a target some 600 yards away––a bright orange smiley face applied to a 5 foot high propane tank. Each shot was $3, I managed to put two out of three armor piercing rounds through the ten-inch smiley face. Best nine bucks I’ve spent in a while that didn’t involve a cocktail onion. Every man and woman who fired it left with a grin on their face.
Sadly, though smiling, Mr. Bill and I had to hightail it back to town so we didn’t get to stay for the night shooting. Suffice it to say, at next year’s “Battle of Fort Morgan”, We’re going at night.
Rob
------------
The Battle of Fort Morgan © R.Williams 2002
A friend of mine once said, “Son, shootin’ machine guns and driving race cars is the most fun you can have with your clothes on.” Well, he left out salsa dancing with a hot latina and banging your rear sets in a sliding turn, but he wasn’t too far off the mark.
This past weekend not only heralded the celebration of Cinco De Mayo, it was also a good weekend to blow stuff up with heavy ordinance, thanks to the Rocky Mountain Fifty Caliber Shooter’s Association (www.rmfcsa.org) and Rocky Mountain Gun Owners’ annual fifty-caliber and machine gun shoot in Fort Morgan.
It was a long drive out of Denver to the prairie badlands outside of Fort Morgan, but the promise of cordite and mayhem kept my hammer down and my spirits high. The flyer read like a shooter’s wet dream: targets to 600+ yards, long range sniper rifles, cannons, and an arsenal of machine guns for rent.
Truth be told, I’m no stranger to firearms, I’ve been shooting most of my life. I’ve fired sub-guns, assault rifles, shotguns, safari rifles and a vast array of handguns. But I’ve never had the pleasure of handling belt-fed big caliber stuff. You know, the stuff you only see in movies, or courtesy of the Government.
My shooting compadre Mr. Bill and I happily paid our $5 entry fee and approached the firing line. Over a loudspeaker a voice warned us to put on our hearing protection as a 37mm Bofors cannon would signal the start of the shooting. Across a low defilade 600 yards across lay an army of propane tanks, 5 foot tall gas cylinders, burned out cars and gallon jugs filled with gasoline. There were close in targets of barricaded bowling pins and steel plates. A shooter’s paradise indeed.
When the Bofors went off I nearly bit my tongue off. You FEEL the explosion rather than hear it, followed by a cloud of ammonia-laced guns smoke. Suddenly the whole line opened up. MAC-10’s, M-16’s, Uzis, Grease guns, MG-42’s and honest to goodness Ma-Deuce 50’s. Tracers zipped across the range like lasers, blowing half filled propane tanks 40 feet in the air. Explosive shells rained and fire balls flung themselves skyward with Kubrikian glee.
Before Mr. Bill could stammer “wow” I had slapped down $20 for two magazines from a WW2 era Browning Automatic Rifle (B.A.R.). The B.A.R. is a full auto 30-06 that uses a magazine the size of an 8 track tape, and weighs a whopping 26 pounds loaded. (If you have 20 grand or so laying around you too can afford one.) I locked a magazine in the open bolt weapon and hefted it like a shotgun, keeping my left knee bent and leaning into the target. BOOMBOOMBOOM my first burst split a bowling pin in half at 10 yards and I moved my aim to farther targets. By the time I reached the burning car at 200 yards the magazine was empty. All the while there was a deafening roar of gunshots, cannon fire and bowling ball mortars lighting off around me. More fun? You have no idea! I repressed a desire to let out a rebel yell as I slapped the second magazine home and lit up the car at 200, spinning a burning propane cylinder like a catherine wheel. The big rifle barked and bucked but I stayed on target. I looked over at Mr. Bill with a Cheshire Cat grin and noted he was handing the vendor a fistful of cash.
We weren’t finished yet. We had come to shoot the Big Stuff. We at last found a scoped Barrett Model 82A1, a 10 shot .50 caliber semi-auto that was zeroed in at 2500 yards. (That’s over a mile citizen.) Gingerly I approached the black steel beast, picking a target some 600 yards away––a bright orange smiley face applied to a 5 foot high propane tank. Each shot was $3, I managed to put two out of three armor piercing rounds through the ten-inch smiley face. Best nine bucks I’ve spent in a while that didn’t involve a cocktail onion. Every man and woman who fired it left with a grin on their face.
Sadly, though smiling, Mr. Bill and I had to hightail it back to town so we didn’t get to stay for the night shooting. Suffice it to say, at next year’s “Battle of Fort Morgan”, We’re going at night.