Sporting Clays: The Golf of Firearm Sports
Jon Diflippo takes aim and hits a sporting clay as it flies across the valley.
The California Hill Gun Club offers a variety of scenery for its sporting clay course with 15 different stations to shoot from.
Josh Luko of California operates the trap that launches the sporting clays at the station.
From left, Robby Buffington of Wheeling, W.Va., and Bruce Carpenter of Washington watch as Kurt McCreary of Scenery Hill takes his turn at sporting clays at station one.
Phil Diflippo is the gun club manager and his son, Jon, is an active member at the club. The club opens to the public every Sunday for sporting clays.
Jon Diflippo uses a Beretta 12-gauge DT-11 over-under model during clay shooting. Diflippo has been a member of the California Hill Gun Club for three years.
Jon Diflippo prefers sporting clays to hunting, partly because of the social aspect of the sport. Diflippo uses a Beretta 12-gauge DT-11 over-under model for the sport.
Dozens of roasting chickens spin above a fire pit as shotgun blasts echo across the valley overlooking the Monongahela River. These are the usual sounds and smells on tap for members of the California Hill Gun Club. As for the sights – the clay pigeons flying across diverse skyline vistas from woodsy outcroppings – anyone can see them, as the club opens its 15-station sporting clay circuit to the public every Sunday.
A New York couple passing through the area took advantage one sun-spotted September afternoon, pushing what looked like a baby carriage. The duo hiking the one-mile trail across from Adamson Stadium was actually hauling a gun caddy loaded up with shotguns. The double-shot firearms provide the minimum necessary for the pairs of clay discs launched from their often-hidden stations. But most on the wooded trail were driving Gators or other all-terrain vehicles, towing pounds of bird shot shells and their guns.
One of those driving around was three-year club member and California native Jon Diflippo.
Diflippo is a proud firearms sportsman, wearing a Beretta-branded hat and T-shirt. His affinity for the gunmaker is an Italian thing, he says. His shotgun, a Beretta 12-gauge DT-11 over-under model also shot by six-time Olympic medalist skeet shooter Kim Rhode is a similar point of pride. Diflippo is otherwise saddled with a simple pouch. He’s shucked himself of traditional ammo vests in favor of the practical hip-slung bag, even though the vests “look cooler.” He drops a handful of shells into it before stepping up to the first station – or, “hole No. 1.”
As Diflippo slots two shells in the cracked barrel, he says the comparisons to golf with sporting clay shooting courses aren’t superficial. And that the terms “skeet,” “trap” or “clay” shooting are sometimes mistaken catch-all references for anything dealing with the English-born sport of shooting clay pigeons from stationary platforms. But American Sporting Clays is different. No oscillating auto-launcher and no line of shooters shoulder-to-shoulder on a raised central platform. The type of course California Hill rearranges every year is undoubtedly the most American and at the same time, the most casual version of clay sports.
“With skeet or trap, if you talk and one of the old-timers misses, they’re going to give you side-eye and basically blame you for it,” he says. The sporting clays range is one filled with laughter, cigar smoke and sometimes a queuing line of patient, albeit eager, shooters.
Diflippo keeps both eyes open as he sights down the barrel, an advantage for a close but fast-moving target. Then he yells.
“Pull!”
A trap boy, a sort of caddy, sits behind brush and hits a button to launch two clays.
The first orange disc rolls along the ground at about 25 mph. A trigger pull, a blast and the orange ceramic circle mimicking a scurrying rabbit shatters. Diflippo quickly aims up and to his right, the aerial disc floating down just after it eclipses the sun. A second shot and the clay remnants fall.
Diflippo looks over the hill and outward from the 250-acre property and smiles.
“Golf with a shotgun,” he says with a laugh and cracks the barrel once more. The empty shells spring out and into his hand as he deftly cups them and tosses them into a barrel overflowing with spent shells that look like multicolored confetti.
As the trail tour continues, Diflippo marks on his course sheet he nailed the true pair at station one – on par so far. A true pair has the trap boy launching both targets at the same time. The next couple of stations offers a staggered challenge of a report pair, or when the second clay is sent skyward once the shooter pulls the trigger on the first target. As the Gator descends the hill, he remembers he wanted to drop the Gator off to his dad, Phil, who is the club manager.
Jon catches up with Dad near the Pony Baseball field on the club’s property. Many kids like Jon had come for America’s pastime but ended up getting recruited for another one. It helps that former baseball coach Phil, 60, is also the head of the Pennsylvania Scholastic Clay Target Program – the Pony of clay clubs.
“Not all members shoot or hunt here,” Phil says, pointing over to the steel shed where the aroma of the roasting chickens wafted onto the baseball field. The men inside are laughing. They’ve been roasting the birds since 4 a.m.
“It’s the social aspect. Some people just come down on a Sunday to chat and watch the games on TV in the clubhouse,” Phil says.
“It’s why I like this club more than hunting is because of the social aspect,” Jon says, “and it’s more fun than hitting a stationary target on a range.”
“This isn’t baseball or soccer,” Jon says, referring to the scholastic clubs, “because there’s no fighting, no petty politics from parents. Everyone cheers on every shooter at an event.”
After Jon and Phil figure out their shared cart logistics for the remainder of the morning, Phil ascends the hilly terrain in the Gator once more. He pulls up to station six with a raised platform that allows a shooter to see the most far-reaching horizon yet – the Laurel Highlands.
Jon pauses as clouds cluster overhead. Another two shells in the chamber and he looks up.
“Ah, here comes the sun,” he says. He shoulders the stock and takes aim.
“Pull!”