1:31 p.m. on September 15, 2008 (EDT)
Heres one, pretty interesting, maybe not a good example to follow, but ya. It was posted here in WA, The Tacoma News Tribune, August 18. Pretty interesting read:
Road Rage And Bullets
Written By: Craig Sailor
It was going to be a string of peaceful days in the North Cascades. Day hiking, lounging in a quiet camp, catching up on some books.
I had gotten a late start out of Tacoma and by the time I turned off Highway 20 in Marblemount it was nearly dark. About five miles up a forest road I spotted a turnout. The far end made for a perfect tent spot. I felt lucky. There wasn’t a house or another camper within miles.
I’d only been in my tent a few minutes when I heard a vehicle come up the road. It slowed and turned in to the clearing. My tent glowed in its headlights. Someone else wants to camp here, too.
But the driver didn’t stay. The vehicle backed out on to the paved road and sat there. A few seconds went by and then the stillness of the evening was obliterated with the sound of firecrackers. Local kids, trying to frighten the tourists, I thought.
And then I heard them. They were tearing through leaves and breaking branches above my head. By the time I even thought about hitting the ground the dozen bullets had long found their targets.
Silence returned. The only sound was that of the vehicle languidly driving away.
After a few seconds, I walked in darkness down to the road. There was no ambush waiting for me, no dark car watching me in the distance. I flipped open my cell phone but I already knew: I was in a dead zone.
Back in my tent I debated for a few minutes. Should I stay? Would he come back? Why would anyone do this to another person? I pocketed my keys and wallet and had my sandals ready to slip on. I parked my car in front of my tent so it would shield me in case of another attack. I’m being paranoid, I thought, this guy isn’t going to come back a second time.
And then I heard his engine in the distance. It came down the road, slowed and turned in to the clearing. My heart began to pound.
Everything happened as it had before: my tent glowing in the headlights, the driver backing on to road, the long pause. I knew what was coming next.
The next moments were a blur. Gunfire, tent zipper, car door, my engine turning over.
I spun my car around and sped to the blacktop. He clearly wasn’t expecting it.
The pickup took off down the road. We dodged trees and cut curves. He passed a car and I did, too. I learned to drive in the country and there is no road I can’t tame. Try as hard as he could he couldn’t get away from me. Eventually, I got close enough to read his license plate number.
This is the part of the story where I’m supposed to champion firearms for self defense or else state that conflicts can be solved without resorting to gunfire, depending on which side of that debate I fall on. I’m going to disappoint you.
That night anger, fear, testosterone and adrenalin turned me in to a man hellbent for revenge and justice. I wanted to be the last victim my assailant would ever have. Throw a gun in to that mix and I shudder at what I could have done.
And yet, since then there have been times when I’ve replayed the scene, filling his truck with lead, windows blowing out and tires deflating. There’s even one scenario where I sneak up behind the guy, put a gun to his head and whisper, Eastwood style, “Not so tough now are you, punk?” These imagined retellings return the power he took from me that night.
Until then I could never picture myself shooting a gun at another human. But now I know how quickly ideals can evaporate when someone is shooting at you.
Back on the road that night I let my tormentor get some distance from me and then quickly closed the gap again. I wanted him to know he couldn’t get away. I wanted him to feel helpless, trapped and afraid. I had the power now. The predator was now the prey. The victim was now the punisher.
It was someone I didn’t want to be.
I took my foot off the gas and his lights quickly disappeared in the night. I slowly drove the remaining mile back to Marblemount and found a payphone.
By the time the deputy arrived, he had run the plate and identified the shooter: a local resident who lived across the river from where I was camped. The young man’s father said his son had been out raccoon hunting. The son denied everything.
Back at the camp site I handed the deputy my statement. The officer said he was on his way to the shooter’s home to charge him with reckless discharge of a firearm. “He was just probably trying to scare you,” he said before driving off in to the still night.
It’s been said that we only know our true nature when confronted with a crisis or faced with a threat. And we only know our true character when given power over others.
Sleep came fitfully that night. Every snap of a twig was an unseen foot, every rustle of leaves a body moving through the forest. And I wasn’t sure who I was anymore.