Some of my fondest memories involve shooting with my father and older brothers. Back then it was normal to spend all afternoon shooting clay pigeons that were tossed with a hand-launcher, or having dinger-hitting competitions for bragging rights with a Ruger 10/22.
Yet, as I got older and moved to areas of the state with less accessible shooting situations, my range time slowly turned into strictly hunting preparation, confirming zero on my deer rifle, or checking the pattern on my turkey choke. Nothing has reinvigorated my love for shooting more than getting my pistol permit.
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