by Hap Rocketto
My loyal fans will remember that I am a classic movie fan. I have just finished watching the Marx Brothers’ A Day At The Races. While trying to regain my breath after the gut wrenching comedy a thought shot through my mind. One of the great comedic scenes is that of Chico Marx selling “tutsie-fruitsi” ice cream, from a push cart. This reminded me of the many and varied methods that high power shooters have devised to help them carry their gear from yard line to yard line. It is called ‘walking back’ by those who do it.
The truly serious high power shooter pares his equipment to a minimum and carries it. The shooting coat is worn and the rifle is slung across the back. The mat is rolled around the scope rods and the two are toted over the shoulder, not occupied by the rifle, like a hobo’s bindlestiff. The rest of the gear is packed into the stool and that dangles from the shooters free hand as he walks back. My imagination paints this shooter looking like Gary Cooper striding down the dusty main street of Hadleyville in High Noon, but that is the romantic in me.
There is a certain element of the high power community that has moved into a more ‘Yuppie’ type of transport. These shooters have added wheels and back rests to their shooting stools. They employ golf cart frames, plastic boxes with bungee cords, and other impedimenta to make things, to their minds, easier but, alas, less traditional. They are also less efficient, if one believes Rocketto’s Law of Shooting Kits which states that the amount of equipment will expand to fill available space. Deep down inside I also harbor the disdainful thought that these shooters drive BMWs, call them “Beemers”, and probably have a stash of warm runny Brie and iced Chardonnay in the bottoms of these mobile shooting boxes.
On occasion a shooter of grand character and experience is blessed by the gods and transcends all manner of transport. One such is Dick Scheller. Dick simply has nothing to prove to anyone. He is Dick Scheller and you can take him that way or you can leave him. He cares not. Dick’s transubstantiation from shooting character to shooting legend became apparent when he showed up at Camp Perry with a garden cart to move his gear about. It reminded me of Chico’s “tutsie-friutsie” wagon. It was a large open wooden box with tall wire rimmed rubber wheels and a large metal handle by which it was pulled or pushed. No one had ever seen anything like this applied to such a purpose.
Dick just dumped his junk into it. To protect his stuff from the weather he covered it with an old square of frayed and patched OD canvas he had acquired during his 40 odd years in the National Guard. He is generous of spirit and offered space to any and all comers. “Hey, I got plenty of room! Just toss your gear in!” was his greeting.
The guys that carried their gear, true shooting cognoscente, realized that they were in the presence of greatness and in salute slowly rolled their toothpicks from one side of their mouths to the other. The abysmally ignorant BMW crowd, totally unaware of his state of grace, snickered contemptuously at Dick while snacking on broccoli quiche and bottled designer water. All Dick did was fire thirty good shots, win The President’s Hundred, toss the trophy rifle into the cart, roll it into his van, and go blithely on his way.
