Shooting Sparrows

The sparrow landed on the fence post in the far left corner of the shooting range. The little bird’s gray and brown feathers blended with the tumbleweed and dried out vegetation of the desert valley. I think he was wondering where all of the noise was coming from. There was nothing within 100 miles that made a sound outside of nature and the occasional automobile off in the distance. The pops of the rifle shots must have peaked his curiosity.

Denise’s family owned the K-Arrow Ranch, a private summer camp of 2500 acres in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, complete with a stable of horses, a lake and the shooting range. Looking out over the endless desert, I was sure I had seen this land in an old John Wayne movie. Movies were my only reference for a place like this.

As a city boy, the sprawling hills of the K-Arrow Ranch were scary and intimidating. Denise warned me of the dangers on the ranch. There were mountain lions, especially on the tree-lined shores down by the lake. There were black bears and rattlesnakes; and if I was lucky enough, I might see a scorpion. I felt myself sweat with each creature she added to the list. She ended her warning, “So, don’t go out alone unless you have one of the .22 rifles in the gun locker. The key is right here.” She lifted and placed the key on the end table next to the locker.

I sweat even more.

I had never shot a gun. I had always wanted to, a rifle especially. I had learned through my cinematic education, rifles were more accurate than hand guns. So, I got up the nerve to ask Denise if I could take one of the rifles to the shooting range. She looked perplexed as she repeated her words, “The key’s right there. Feel free,” she said, nonchalantly. “Just make sure there are no horses down range.”

The exhilaration of unadulterated freedom filled my soul as I unlocked the cabinet and reached for the prettiest looking long-barreled rifle. Everything considered “dangerous” I had ever done in my 20 years of life always had to be done with permission and, most importantly, under adult supervision. I felt like a free range cowboy. With my rifle slung over my shoulder, and my ice cold Pepsi in my hand, I headed out into the desert heat to conquer the wild, wild west.

The dirt road that lead to the lake crossed between the watering pond and the shooting range. Standing on the dike, I was at the highest point before the road began to descend deep into the old river valley. The range was to my right. Looking further down the road, about a mile out, it turned to the left and disappeared into the plush vegetation that lined the dammed river turned lake. “That’s where the cougars hide,” I thought as I stopped to survey down range to find no horses in sight. It was safe and I shuffled my Air Jordans down the steep embankment of the dike that acted as the backstop for the shooting range.

The shooting range was an old cattle corral with a split log fence surrounding the pulverized red-tan dirt. At the target end of the range was the dike that held the watering pond. On the shooting end, was a raised, wooden plank platform that stretched across the length of the corral, like a rickety, old town sidewalk. Over the the top of the platform was a free standing roof built to keep the sun off of the campers’ heads during summer days like this one where the temperatures were in the mid 90s.

I set my Pepsi down in the shade and put the box of 200 lead bullets next to the can. The rifle’s cartridge could hold a couple dozen rounds and I set to loading the gun right away. With each round I slipped through the chamber door, a slight mechanical “click” would inform me the gun was ready for another. The chamber door kicked back the last bullet. The gun was fully loaded.

My heart was racing but my hands were steady. Standing on the platform, I raised the rifle down range and took aim at nothing in particular. There were no targets to shoot, except hay bails and rocks. I pulled the trigger. Bang. There was hardly a kick as the gun went off. A tiny puff of dust went up in the middle of the 20 foot tall dike. The still air carried it off in slow motion as it dissolved into nothing.

I shot a few more rounds, but it was impossible to see where the bullets hit the hay bail; and even though the shots made that movie-like ricochet sound in real life, the rocks would just disappear into a dust cloud. I couldn’t tell if I hit the rock or not. I emptied the chamber with no real feedback as to how well I was shooting.

The sparrow watched as I reloaded the gun, surveying the corral and beyond.

I took a sip of the Pepsi that was quickly warming in the desert heat. I decided to guzzle the rest of it, then walked the can out to the end of the range. The sparrow watched until I got a little too close for comfort and flew away. I returned to the wooden platform and set up for my newly placed target.

I cocked the rifle. Click click. And took aim as the sparrow returned to his front row seat.

Bang. The bird took off and was gone. He had the answer to where the noise was coming from.

The Pepsi can sat in the middle of the corral, untouched. I cocked the gun. Click click.

Bang. Too high. Click click.

Bang. Right. Click click.

Bang. Left. Click click.

I was all over the place. The Pepsi can sat in the same place, undisturbed. I couldn’t hold the rifle steady in a standing position. I leaned up against one of the beams that held the roof over my head. I took aim.

Bang. The can shot into the air, tumbling as it landed on its side ten feet to the left. I reset the gunsight onto the new position. Bang. Another miss.

“Dang,” I said in my best cowboy drawl, “Harder than I thought.”

I finally decided to lay down on the platform, giving my arms total support. Click click.

Bang. I missed but finally had a line on the shot relative to where I was aiming. Click click.

Bang. Hit. Click click.

Bang. Click click.

Bang. Click Click.

Bang.

Hits all! I had the can dancing. I found my shot. I spent that cartridge and an entire second one turning the Pepsi can into a colander. It was practically see through.

As I loaded the chamber once more, the sparrow came back to check on things. The sparrow’s tiny head turned in all directions, in small quick movements — up, side, other side, down, side, behind, at me, at the bullet riddled Pepsi can. As I loaded the new cartridge, a haunting thought came to me, “I wonder if I could pick that sparrow off of that fence post?”

As I loaded the gun, bullet by bullet, I felt myself get quiet. I felt the top of my heart swell with adrenaline as my lungs surged with oxygen. I knew how to breathe deeply. I understood this moment through the power of the cinema. I’d make a fine soldier.

Breathe through your nose, out your mouth. You got this.

I was in stalking mode. As the click of the cartridge received each bullet, I became aware of every sound I was making. In the silence, I wondered if I could even kill anything. I shrugged it off with a surge of ego machismo, “Don’t be a pansy. What if you have to kill a cougar?” I looked back to the bird, “If you can shoot that sparrow, you can shoot anything.”

Quietly, I fixed the rifle site onto the small bird. Just as I settled in for the shot, the sparrow took off into the sky, like it knew what I was about to do. I took it as a sign, like an angel shooed it away. I was relieved.

“Why would you kill an innocent bird?” said the angel, landing on my left shoulder.

“He has to learn,” said the red devil, appearing on my right.

“The bird’s gone. It doesn’t matter,” I said to both of them as I set my sight back onto the Pepsi can.

Before I was able to pull the trigger, the sparrow returned to his perch. The devil flicked his tail across my ear. “He’s back. Now’s the time. You can do it.” Without hesitation, I veered the sight twenty feet over, took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.

Bang! Poof!

The bird disintegrated into a pluff of feathers. I was instantly nauseous.

“Why?!?!” Screamed the angel, through my left ear, at the devil on my right. “Why the fuck did you do that? You piece of shit, mother fucker! God Damn! Why?”

I was horribly disturbed. I could feel my soul pierced by the same bullet.

Maybe it flew away! I told myself. I didn’t see it fall. Did it really just disappear? I walked to the corner of the corral only to come upon the still bird, shocking me into the reality of guilt, of grief. I hung my head and listened to the silence of the lifeless sparrow. I felt for a moment like I was the wind, apologizing to the Great Spirit, for taking this life for nothing but sport.

I looked up from the sparrow. The desert was full of scavangers. The vultures will make good use of her, I thought as I eased myself out of the piercing blow to my heart.

As I walked back to the wooden landing, the devil drilled his pointed tail into my right ear, “What’s wrong with you? Men hunt… men need to learn to kill, to eat, to defend themselves. Men have gone to war and have had to kill each other. That was just a tiny bird, lunch to the local field hawk. Get the fuck over it and man up.”

Just then, another sparrow landed on the same perch. “There,” said the evil one. “Again.”

Maybe it’s easier after the first kill, I thought. I wondered where the angel had gone as I lined up the site on the second sparrow. She finally spoke, “Are you really going to do this? Didn’t the first one teach you a lesson?” I looked down the rifle sight at the tiny bird as it looked around, taking in the beauty. “He’s just enjoying the day, probably wondering where his brother went,” the angel continued, throwing guilt into the mix.

Satan poked me in the ear, “Are you going to man up, or not? Shoot the damn bird.”

I felt myself wash with apathy. I pushed the angel away as I smothered any empathy I may have had for the unassuming creature. I felt myself go numb inside. Dead.

Bang! Poof!

“GOD DAMN IT!! What the fuck! You are a genuine piece of shit!” She erupted from beneath the layers of naivety and ignorance. Her voice resonating from a mumble to a roar, “Why? Why?! WHY!?! There was absolutely no fucking reason to kill that tiny, little innocent bird! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

The angel was pissed. She filled me with nausea. In the desert heat, I felt cold and clammy. My whole body was fatigued and shaking, uncontrollably. She went so cold she froze the devil from his perch, snatched his tail from my ear and flung him back to Hell.

This was not a movie. I was not a killer. My mind ran through every western, every war movie I’d ever seen. I felt betrayed by Hollywood, by my childhood heroes. I was a product of American propaganda. The shock of reality hit hard.

Shooting time was over, forever. I emptied the cartridge of bullets and returned them to the box. I felt my rubbery legs walk me out to pick up the see-through Pepsi can. Each step brought me closer to the empty fence post. I was a sorry human being, humbled before the Great Spirit.

I returned to the sun-bleached platform, picked up the gun and the half box of rounds. As I slowly dragged my dusty Air Jordans back to the ranch house, I couldn’t hold the gun far enough away from myself. My strength was drained from my hands but the feel of the death stick repelled it from touching another part of my body. The twisted history of humanity, our history of senseless violence, flooded my head in confessional thought.

I entered the empty ranch house and went straight to the gun cabinet. I put the killing machine into its slot and the murderous projectiles into the drawer underneath. I closed the cabinet and locked them away for good.

The angel sent me to dream with the Great Spirit. I woke a pacifist.