I start early from my motel in Indian River as I am unsure how long it will take to skirt the cities to the south. Following Highway 75 as far as Flint, I keep heading due south via 23 towards Toledo. For a start traffic is light and I easily average 70 miles per hour. But the further south I get the more road works slow down progress. By the time I get level with Detroit traffic is fairly heavy. I make a perfect bypass of central Toledo, not missing any turns, and start following the shoreline of Lake Erie.
Some miles along this road is something of a novelty to an Aussie. Located just a couple of hundred yards off the road is a nuclear power station. Judging from the public outcry from the itty bitty reactor at Lucas Heights (producing radioactive isotopes for medical research) a full sized power station would cause a veritable civil war.
Just a few miles further I find the entry to Camp Perry, my destination for the National Matches. It is not far past midday, and I have ample opportunity to search out my room mates, who have booked accommodation in the air conditioned modules. I am glad of this, as temperatures are similar to Queensland in summer. It is very hot and humid.
I undertake to find Richard and Will. Not so easy when you consider there are over 700 shooters in attendence, and I have no idea what any of my companions-to-be look like. The firing line is busy with the Small Arms Firing School, and the scale of the place seems on par with a small township. I drive first to the large administrative building in the middle of the base. True enough, there is a large banner proclaiming a welcome to shooters in the National Matches, but in order to register I am directed back half a mile to a smaller building where a bunch of helpful army personnel present me with my competitors pack.
They then direct me to the Pistol Club clubhouse to find out where my accommodation is to be. Back past the admin block, a right turn beside the chapel, running along the rear of the ranges until the road curves around to the shoreline of Lake Erie. There, right on the beach is a "clubhouse" that looks more like a modern hotel. This resemblance continues inside, where I find a plush foyer leading off into several carpeted conference rooms. The ladies at reception are unable to find anybody I know on the lists of module occupants, so I will have to find my friends from Rhode Island on the range.
I drive back and park in the centre of the complex again. Wandering down a row of buildings off a laneway I discover "Commercial Row", a whole bunch of dealers and wholesalers who have set up shop for the duration of the Matches. Figuring this as good a place to start looking as any, I take the long walk through the shops, asking anybody who will listen if they have seen or know any of my friends. The last building I get lucky. Larry has seen both Will and Richard within the past half hour.
It takes another hour and a half to find Richard, after walking between the ranges, the canteen and Commercial Row. I check cars for Eastern plates and eavesdrop on conversations to see if I can pick up on the accent. Southerners are easy to pick, and I'm even getting good at some of the central states. Luckily the third time I hit Larry's shop he has Richard waiting for my return.
We find Will and head off to the modules. There I meet my room mate, John, as well as a bunch of other guys from Rhode Island, Connecticut and Massachusetts. They lose no time in telling me of my room mate's prior night antics, when introduced to Margaritas for the first time in a Mexican restaurant. "This tastes just like lemonade", he said. (Isn't that a coincidence?!) His friends agreed and kept a ready supply on hand (in jugs) to help him appreciate the stuff. Considerate fellows, as the heat had taken its toll and thirst can be a terrible thing. As they rose to leave John discovered the principal difference between a soft drink and a hard. Eye witnesses swear that he bounced from wall to wall down the exit hallway, terrorising a small child near the entrance. Perhaps the most telling effect was trying to put butter in his coffee at breakfast the next morning instead of cream. But his companions, being models of discretion, resolved not to mention his embarrassing escapade. Much.
I can see I'm going to fit in well with this bunch.
We pile into a couple of cars and head for The Crows Nest, a restaurant well known for its pre-smoked barbeque pork and spare ribs. The small town of Port Clinton is just a few miles away, and is the traditional feeding ground for hungry shooters. On the way we stop at a supermarket. I almost buy a gallon pail of ready mix Margarita ("just add Tequila!") but chicken out as I don't know John well enough to give him heaps just yet, and we are after all room mates.
The meal is excellent, and we arrange to meet next morning for breakfast.
We head back to Port Clinton for breakfast, to a small but briskly busy diner called Underwoods. Jack has the waitress wrapped round his little finger, you can see by the way she pours his coffee. I have my first real dilema of the trip when confronted with ordering. So many choices, and I'm supposed to know what I want. Coffee or decaf, how do I want my eggs done, what on the side, white or brown toast, and for all I know free range or battery chooks' eggs? Good grief, it's too early in the morning for this stress. Don't they know Australians don't have a clue about these things? She should have picked up on my accent and said, "Vegemite on toast okay, cobber?"
For all of that breakfast is great, if a little on the heavy side. We head back for Perry and prepare for the afternoon practice sessions. This is my chance to get used to the shooting conditions as well as range commands and safety procedures. The first thing that strikes me hard as I approach the firing line is the layout of the range. There are I think five range layouts of one hundred targets, each separated by a gap of about seventy yards. We are only using the three ranges to the right hand side of the field. There are no safety walls between ranges, so as one range may be shooting at 50 yards the neighbouring range may be at their targets changing cards. While not unsafe as such, I would never expect to see such an arrangement in Australia. In fact I know our referee council would have a collective pink fit at the very thought of it.
Each range is controlled by a single range officer in an elevated tower, giving commands through a series of loud speakers. For each twenty five shooters there is a line referee who has a green indicator to hold aloft when his section is safe, and he in turn has five officers with red indicators to hold aloft until their five shooters are clear and safe. In this manner the range is cleared very quickly, considering the numbers of shooters involved.
We are allowed a thirty shot sight in session, ten at 50 yards in 10 minutes, then two series each of 20 and 10 seconds (sustained and rapid fire) at 25 yards. I run through the first series alternating between my 22 and 32 FAS. My sights are nowhere near where they should be, which concerns me as I had them spot on in Seattle just over a week ago. But shooting outside with no shelter from sun or wind is a different story.
The second detail fills up quickly, but I wait for the final detail and run through again. Unfortunately I miss borrowing Will's spare 45, which I am due to shoot tomorrow. Being a warmup event it does not concern me much. Provided the first shot hits paper I will have no problem sighting in as I go.
This evening the Bullseye List members have a barbeque arranged. I have an enjoyable time putting faces to names I've come to know through the internet. Like shooters everywhere they are a fantastic bunch of people.