gun slinger

Inside each of us, a particle of redneck lurks. I got in touch with mine, today, at this pumpkin shoot in the back hills of East Kelowna.

My reason for going, in actual fact, was to shoot photos - not pumpkins or water balloons or small, animal-shaped pieces of metal. The pictures go with a story I'm doing on the 100th anniversary of the Hunting and Fishing Club (or whatever it's called) here in town.

The photo shoot turned out great - I got a fantastic cover shot of this total hottie pointing the barrel of a (forgot what kind of) gun straight at the lens. Don't know how well that will go over with the greater population of readers - if the paper even uses it (fingers crossed and double crossed) but it certainly has impact.

But the really impressive shots came after I put the camera away, and they set me up with a sexy little .22 (hmm, the model, who then became my coach, was also 22 - wonder if this is a theme?). I have to admit, it took some convincing - and not just because I'm anti-gun (after all, this is an appropriate place with all the safety measures in place, and no innocent animals were involved except a few from a metallic species). My last major experience with a firearm - about 8 years ago playing paintball - was a disaster. I couldn't hit the broadside of a barn (fortunately, neither could my noble opponent, who also happens to be my sister, so it's probably genetic).

But this - this was different. I had five shots. My target was a line of water-filled balloons. I pointed my viewfinder-thingy toward a yellow one in the middle and fired. Hoo-wa! But then I saw the bullet hit the hillside, metres and metres beyond. "See!?" I told everyone, including sexy model/coach, who was trying to convince me that girls are actually better with guns then boys. So I took aim again. Fire! And the yellow balloon in the centre of the line explodes!! And so did the expletive that shot out of my mouth in total redneck fashion. "Sorry," I explained, "I just can't believe I hit it!!" In the end, I missed two and hit five (he actually gave me seven shots). Them's pretty decent odds, I reckon. I felt like flying the Confederate flag on my way home. Or the Alberta flag. Yee-haw!

Anyway, it was more fun than I expected - especially hitting the mark. Upon revealing that to the president of the club, a very cool guy who's not, in fact a redneck (although he did wear a plaid jacket and camouflage hat and drove a red pick-up truck) he started teasing that I needed to find myself a good, redneck boyfriend who could take me shooting all the time. "Tempting," I told him, glancing back at model/coach. "But I'm actually into artists now."

Yeah, you can take the Rutland chick out of Rutland but you can't take the Rutland out of the Rutland chick . . .