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I had to stalk the rifle I blew up. It didn't want to be destroyed. It was sitting on a rifle rest under the range canopy. It looked to be sleeping. I crept up on it slowly, hiding behind the roof pillars to avoid being seen.

When I got to within five feet of it, I thought that I'd been discovered. I dove down behind a shooting bench, to the right of the Remington bolt. At first I thought that it might have been blind on that side, but learned later from a Remington employee (Mike Walker maybe?) that bolt actions have problems seeing out of the right side (and the left side for LH rifles)because of the handles. They are also hard of hearing because of their triggers.

Anyway, I slid along the cement floor, slowly sat up beside the rifle, and jammed a loaded cartridge into its breech before it had the chance to slam its bolt shut.

Remingtons are probably the most skittish of all the bolts. You could tell that it was nervous. Mere seconds after I chambered the cartridge, it went off! Luckily I had crouched down below the table top. All I heard was KABOOM!

It was just a plain Jane ADL in 308 Winchester, but it looked like an art exhibit after 30 grains of pistol powder got 'sploded behind a 180 grain Core Lokt! As it expired, I heard it whisper, "Bastards..." And that was that.

The others came running over after they heard the commotion. Old Man Winger - we called him 'the Prospector' because he dressed in dirty, worn work clothes and carried a steel pan in his backpack - yelled,

"Ha! That will serve him right! Smug little rifle! No one can hurt me! I was made with a tough ring of steel!' Bah! Take that you domestic piece of sheit*!" *edited so it wouldn't get bleeped.

Later that afternoon, some short guy, smoking a cigar came over to our table and said, "You'd never do that to a Ruger No. 1."

And he was right of course. I have too much respect for them.