Busted

I developed a love for handguns in the late seventies and started a collection that was destined to grow. I'll admit I became obsessed - reading all of the gun literature I could find, haunting gun shops and shooting almost daily. I'd swoon at the scent of gunpowder, the bright muzzle flash, the stout recoil and, of course, the craftsmanship of the hardware itself -- a marriage of fine-figured wood to metal, beautifully polished and fitted.

It was fortunate I lived at the edge of a vast woodland on the outskirts of Rochester with a trail leading from my house up into the wooded hills. Nearly every night I'd hike about a half mile into the woods to set up my targets in an area with an  earthen berm for safe backstop. This nightly ritual improved my shooting skills considerably and I shoot competitively to this day.

It was a warm night when I last went up with my gear in a backpack; guns, ammo, earmuffs, shooting glasses, targets, and beers.

At the time I was dating a girl who would eventually become my wife and lifetime companion. Things were getting serious between us so we had arranged for me to meet her parents the very next evening. But this night didn't go as I'd planned.

After about an hour of shooting, the light began to fade so I packed up to head back while there was enough light to see the trail. I kept my Smith model 41 tucked in my belt.
There was a startling commotion as I turned to leave and out of the dim woods stumbled four sheriff's deputies screaming, "Police! Put your hands in the air!" I immediately wet my pants for the first time since childhood and whimpered, "Look what you made me do!".

These guys were covered in sweat and blood from the thick tangle of  underbrush and brambles. Also, they were under full mosquito assault since they hadn't the forethought to apply mozzie repellent. It's fair to say they were in a foul mood.

I said, "Guys, I have a gun in my waist-band. I'm going to set it on the ground." As I lowered my hand toward my belt two of them were on me in a wink. One yanked my arm up behind my back while the other kicked my feet out from under me and pinned me to the ground with his knees. But they were careful to avoid my sodden crotch.
Once the dust had settled, I underwent intensive interrogation and managed to muster more politeness than I'm normally capable of. It happens that one of the deputies heard gunshots while patrolling the dirt road below and suspected possible poaching or other such malfeasance so he called for back-up.

I showed them my shooting "range", and did my best to convince them my activities were innocuous. At some point I showed them a center-clustered target and one of the cops said, "Not bad." That's when the tension eased and they started to lighten up.

My infractions turned out to be fairly minor. It's illegal to discharge firearms within city limits but I was actually only about twenty steps inside the boundary. And the guns in my backpack could have been considered "concealed" (a no-no) but they were unloaded and I had the proper registrations with me.

Once the encounter was defused, I guided them to the path so their trip down the hill would be much easier than the one up. By now it was dark and their flashlights served well.

As we were making our way back I said, "I'm glad you guys didn't arrest me. I'm supposed to meet my girlfriend's parents tomorrow night." One of them said, "Try not to wet your pants."