"Range is hot!" chained down the bench as we loaded our clips, took aim and began to shoot targets at varying distances. Barrels of several different firearms ranging from hand guns to powder muzzles pointed toward the berm. In no succession or order, the unique sounds of discharged weapons pulsed through the air, distorting it painfully in my eardrums. My husband's 270 nearly made me deaf.

Now I understood why they wear the funky muffs in teevee shows, it is a necessary evil of the sport. The noise was excruciating for novices like me who never considered ear protection. I was used to plinking at home with my little 22 rifle which sounded like a BB gun next to 45's and AKs as they emptied clips showering casings like a Vegas slot machine. Oh my, I was not prepared for this, but endured it as I wanted to see how I would fare in this new sport that Rodger and I had taken up. We emptied a few rounds into our paper targets and had some fun until "they" arrived.

As the sun grew warmer and the smell of sulfur and gun powder filled the air, "they" began their invasion. It was comical at first, as they lighted on our barrels and sneaked into our sights. Occasionally, the little shelled cuties crawled along the rim of my glasses. Then, they started biting, and crawling up our shirts, in my pants and on our necks. We would shake our legs, stomp a foot or two, wriggle an arm, but that soon escalated into flicking, squishing and out right splattering the little yellow blooded boogers in a dance most unbecoming. Light pelting sounds were heard between gun shots as they flew into the yellow warning sign stating "Eye and Ear Protection Required". It didn't say anything about LADYBUG protection. It grew insane, as those who were smart enough to bring ear protection, were picking the pests out of the earmuffs and ammo boxes. I pulled them from my hair and brushed them off Rodger as he prepared to shoot. It was unbelievable. Even my target, though it was not aim but merely dumb luck, laid witness to the menaces as one found permanent rest with only a yellow spray of guts to say she had been there. They sky darkened with thousands of the little spotted beetles and I mused with the thought that Hitchcock missed his mark with "The Birds". This was worse than any "B" horror movie.

Finally, out of exasperation, we had to call it quits. We packed up and headed out. Each utterance between the two of us was as if we spoke through a balloon, only without the helium laughs. Unwittingly, we had left the hatch of the PT open to keep it cool while we practiced. Little did we know that it was an open invitation to the hoards to come home with us. As much as a week later after several fly by evictions, a freeze and days trapped in a closed car, a few tenacious ladies lived to fly another day. Now, when we venture to the range, we have in tow our protection; including our Chernobyl Aphid.