Meeting Michigan - Alex Chueh

Dick’s declaration lingered in my mind as another clay pigeon descended harmlessly toward the grass expanse in front of us, the bruise of his shotgun on my left shoulder blade growing harsher. I grunted with dissatisfaction. Over my shoulder, he let out a restrained sigh, proceeding to firmly but patiently reposition my fingers and adjust my stance. An animated grandpa decked out in an orange shooter’s vest and cowboy hat, umpteenth whiskey glass of the night snug in his left hand, he’d assigned himself an ambitious goal: coaching me to trap shooting glory. Could I make him proud? Never in my life have I paid as much attention to roadsides as I have this trip. Midwestern roads, it turns out, burst with surprises. And I mean roads: not neighborhood streets, nor standard-issue highways, but two- or four-lane courses traversing nondescript outlying areas. Every half-mile something eye-catching emerges from the shoulder. Most common are firewood stands, offering valuable campfire fuel and

Dick’s declaration lingered in my mind as another clay pigeon descended harmlessly toward the grass expanse in front of us, the bruise of his shotgun on my left shoulder blade growing harsher. I grunted with dissatisfaction. Over my shoulder, he let out a restrained sigh, proceeding to firmly but patiently reposition my fingers and adjust my stance. An animated grandpa decked out in an orange shooter’s vest and cowboy hat, umpteenth whiskey glass of the night snug in his left hand, he’d assigned himself an ambitious goal: coaching me to trap shooting glory. Could I make him proud? Never in my