Wolf’s Firearms and Range
50 Gay Street in Manchester, NH
(603) 668-9015
Friday, April 14th, 2000 — 4:15 p.m.
Before now, my youthful expertise was restricted to BB guns and rifles. At summer camp, I spent weeks perfecting my shot in hopes of eventually reaching the highest level of NRA certification: expert marksman. But today was different. In my hand was a 9mm Glock—the kind you see on “Magnum PI” and in The Matrix—and as I was unloading a clip of bullets into a target approximately 15 yards away, I realized that I held the power of life and death in my hands. To have so much control was both an eerie and exhilarating feeling.
It had been yet another endless Harvard week filled with an entertaining lecture here and there, mostly dull sections and a few response papers. So as my three-day weekend approached (courtesy of strategic scheduling), I began to think about what I wanted to do with myself for the next 72 hours. As luck would have it, while in the midst of the ritual Thursday night drinkfest, I ran into a friend of mine. He invited me to join a group to go on a daytrip up to Manchester, N.H., to shoot various handguns and machine guns. No, he wasn’t dressed in army fatigues or preparing for Armageddon much like those punk kids in the pit, but rather he was a quiet, unassuming nice guy who you’d envision more at home on the links than shooting off a couple of caps. So with a great deal of curiosity and a bit of childhood nostalgia, I agreed to go.
On Friday afternoon, we set off for the hour-long drive north to Wolf’s Firearms and Range. My only other experience in New Hampshire was a plummeting run down Tuckerman’s Ravine so I was excited to see what else the “Live Free or Die” state had to offer. As we pulled off the highway, the usual American strip mall accessories of McDonalds, 7-11 and Mobil prevailed. The directions my friend had given me told me that Wolf’s was located in an industrial park and that it was “near the school and across from the baseball field.” So partly amused and partly disturbed, I pulled into the parking lot and was greeted by the cacophony of the girls’ Little League game going on across the street.
As I got out of the car, a U.S. Postal Service employee (in full uniform) was exiting the shooting range and heading for his car, a sight which led to an enduring “going postal” joke. More fearful of the other clients than the weapons themselves, I entered Wolf’s to be engulfed by the din of shots being fired. Working behind the counter was a pudgy 16-year-old who was in the middle of the process of instructing some other clients on how to handle an Uzi. As I looked around, I saw every gun imaginable. From the Dirty Harry revolver to the Galtin gun to the James Bond Ladykiller gun, Wolf’s was a shooting emporium—and I had no idea with which gun to shoot first.
After finishing his Uzi instruction, the boy instructed us to fill out a quick form (name, address, are you a mental patient?) and show him our licenses. Conveniently, my friend forgot his license but his Harvard ID worked just fine (but for some reason, it still doesn’t get him into the Grille). The first gun we decided to shoot was the 9mm Glock, a sleek black gun that is universally praised for its ultra-reliable nature (it can be shot underwater), and its light weight. After purchasing some bullets and receiving the appropriate eye and ear protection, we made our way though a set of double doors and into the range. There were about three people shooting when we entered. One was a middle-aged man who was shooting an automatic handgun while wearing a holster with two guns strapped to his waist. The others were a younger couple in their mid-twenties, who must have been on a date, as the guy was “helping” the girl on her aim.
Once we found our assigned line, or shooting position, we sent out a paper target of a human silhouette (they were out of the hostage situation ones) and loaded the clip. Being an amateur, I let my friend shoot first. He might has well have been blind. After unloading a clip into everywhere but the target and managing to shatter a supposedly bulletproof ceiling panel, my friend resigned and it was my turn. I began by shooting a few misplaced shots in the chest and the head but my aim quickly improved.
After mastering the 9mm Glock and shooting a few rounds on a 357 Magnum, it was time to move up to something more powerful and deadly. As we looked through the huge selection of guns available, we saw the sleek, fully automatic MP5 with a silencer. The gun, preferred by both the CIA and Secret Service, has very little kick and can shoot in one, three and automatic shot bursts. Minutes later, I was rattling off bursts of metal with occasional pinpoint accuracy and ended my day by sending a stream of bullets through my target.
Later, as I barreled south towards the People’s Republic of Cambridge, I realized that while gun-toting New Hampshire might not be everyone’s idea of a good time, it sure has some strange things to offer.
