Captain Shooty

There are likely to be many out there who will object to the fact that I am now an owner of a handgun. Well, ok. Not quite. Apparently there’s the whole ‘pistol permit’ I need to get before I can bring the gun home, but that’s just a matter of time and paperwork. Fact is, I’ve got a gun.

What is it with people feeling the necessity to own handguns? Let me lay out the reasons why I want this one. No, it’s not because I’m some sort of militia-type who wants to seceed from the country. It’s not even for protection against home invasion. The ‘coolness’ factor, while it’s there, is still not the reason why I want a gun.

I’m a geologist. More specifically, I’m a paleontologist. When I’m doing field work, there’s really no telling what you might bump into. Where I work there are rattlesnakes. And occasionally badgers, bobcats, and bears. (There is also the slightest chance of bumping into some unpleasant members of the human race as well, though most people you might encounter are not interested in doing you any harm.) I take students with me to remote areas where such animals could be encountered. These places are usually a good hour hike to our vehicle and two hours drive to civilization. I can’t just call 911 if something comes prowling around. I need a weapon for protection.

Last fall (like a year ago) I went on an elk hunt with my dad. We chatted about weapons and such, and I expressed to him my desire to have a handgun. I told him about the gun that I really wanted: a .44 caliber revolver. Why do I want that? Here’s where the ‘coolness’ factor comes in. But also, I wanted something that would actually protect me against the attack of a large mammalian predator. We went back and forth about it. Dad would much rather me have a 9mm semi-automatic pistol, which makes sense, but my heart says ‘revolver.’ .44 caliber is a bit much for me, says Dad. I say, ok, just something that will work. .357, he suggests.

Well, we hadn’t talked about it since then, but when we came out to visit them in Utah, Dad waved me into his garage. He pulled out a beautiful .44 caliber revolver. I got giddy. He has, of course, reminded me of all the things he doesn’t like about revolvers, including the fact that they really don’t have much of a safety to keep them from firing accidentally. He apparently couldn’t find a .357 revolver, but he found this, and got it for me, cautioning that he won’t let me take it until he’s sure I can handle the extra umph of the .44 caliber.

We took it out this morning and fired it. Once I got past the initial terror, expecting a huge kick, I discovered that I really didn’t have any trouble shooting it. Then, Dad loaded the .44 magnum shells and I tried that. That was substantially more kick, to be sure, but I still hit the target. Yup. I like the gun.

Tonight, Dad’ll show me how to clean it. My husband has been researching how best to get it home to us. (There’s that whole permitting thing again.) But I love it! It’s exactly what I wanted. Maybe I’ll later add a smaller gun to the arsenal, but this is the weapon I want. And it’s perfect for what I need it for.