Apr 26, 2024 5 min read

By Dave Bates

For the Observer-Reporter

“Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear,” as I truly date myself.

Like most families in our rural area, we maintained a family garbage dump. We burned most of our paper waste and anything else that could be set on fire. I realize it sounds crazy by today’s standards. It was my daily job to carry out the trash to the old stone quarry below our home and dispose of the trash. It was not an ecologically sound practice, but then again, those were not particularly eco-conscious times. Such were the days before we gave thought to compost, recycling coffee grounds, egg shells, and the lot to our gardens.

The best Christmas present I ever received was a .22 rifle. As a youngster with a Marlin Glenfield .22 bolt action, too young to hunt (no such thing as mentor hunting at the time) but old enough to shoot, the prospect of “plinking” on a daily basis was captivating. It just made sense. Since I had to take out the trash, I might as well haul the rifle down to the dump and see what “game” might present itself. On such safaris, a rat might surface from the sub terrains providing great excitement. Dad was pleased that I was keeping the rodent population in check and I learned to build a mean fire at an early age; win/win. Most importantly, I got to shoot several times per week. The .22 rounds were cheap, less than 99 cents per box, a brick of 10 boxes was even more of a savings. Today we’d call it “plinking.” Let’s face it, there wasn’t much to do for a country boy of 10 or 11 years of age so we made fun where we could. When no such targets of rodent opportunity appeared, I plinked. Occasionally, my brothers plinked with me. On special occasions, cousins, friends, or a misguided stray adult might make their way to the dump.

The backstop was about as safe as can be imagined and the direction of fire was slightly downhill into the quarry. Large piles of sand and sandstone created an impervious berm into which we launched thousands of rounds. Our targets were varied but attention grabbing – tin cans, lids of all shapes, sizes and colors but glass bottles were the most-sought-after targets. Today we would call them action targets. In the 1970s, breaking glass was about as cool as it got. No worries as to broken glass shards – it was a garbage dump.

Plinking was usually done off hand from around 15 yards, so it promoted sound marksmanship skills. The fundamental components of riflery were taught by the adults and incorporated into plinking sessions. We were instructed in the foundations of marksmanship and firearms safety and adhered to both, religiously, or else we didn’t shoot. Parents were able to look down from their overwatch perch on the side porch, although I don’t recall a great deal of adult supervision being provided. Occasionally, a set of crossed sticks or a cardboard box might be implemented for some “special purpose” shooting. Rarely, however, was any sort of rest called for. Once in a blue moon was it permissible to haul a shotgun to the dump for intensive pest control. Those were infrequent times, indeed, but nonetheless, effective.

One of the benefits of plinking was that you always took a couple of shots with your buddy’s rifle. It was then and there that the jealous streak of envy was cultivated. Seems as though the other guy’s rifle always shot a little better. That vein has only increased into the present and the propensity to trade guns lives on.

I sort of feel sorry for kids today. They are tracked, monitored, followed, watched and recorded 24 hours a day. Youngsters are given relatively no freedom, as I can attest to my own 16-year-old daughter whom I trust implicitly. I can recall learning a lot from my free time abroad, roving the wilds of the Greene County countryside, my trusty .22 in tow, plinking. I learned as much from the mistakes I made along the way as from any other avenue of education. Plinking was self-guided. There were no rules except for safety concerns. Our self-imposed rules were for argument’s sake as much as for bragging rights. These were the same sort of debate skills learned from pick up baseball or football games in the backyard, schoolyard or at a friend’s house.

As for the skills, I learned from plinking, they are evident in my outdoor pursuits to this very day. By my own admission I am no Hawkeye of the Leatherstocking Tales but the skills I have developed like sneaking up on game, moving quietly about the woods, achieving a hunting rest, mounting a rifle or shotgun smoothly and quickly, an adequate trigger press and other such skills of the woods were certainly honed in the plinking affairs of my youth.

I am not one of those guys who constantly harkens back to the great days of my youth. Truly, we have it much better in many ways today than we ever did in the 1960s and ’70s. But I might add that we could do with a little more plinking in these 2000s.

Dave Bates writes a weekly outdoors column for the Observer-Reporter. He can be reached at alphaomegashootingsolutions@gmail.