It's 98 degrees - in the shade. You smell the gun powder in the air. At a large table with about 20 people standing around it, you're filling up your magazine for another round of live firing. The people came from all over the country to become proficient at using a handgun, the same reason you're here. As you start shoving cartridges into your third magazine, you notice a pickup truck coming over the hill. Sitting in the back with what look like rifles or shotguns, you know so little about firearms you can't tell the difference, is a group of men dressed in camos.

They're solemn. Not much conversation. They look more exhausted than you do and it's only 1 p.m.. You hear someone at the table say that they're going to be out in the desert until the late evening, crawling around in the dark playing war games. You look at the men in the truck and you think, "What the hell am I doing here?"

Your mind begins to run a stereotype. You know it's a stereotype. You know it would insult them if you said it to their faces. And it doesn't truly represent you but you let your mind run it.

Your mind tells you:

"They like camos, you like blue jeans. The National Anthem stirs their heart. Chuck Berry is more your speed. They talk about guns the way you talk about a well-constructed sentence. They're meat and potatoes, you're tofu and alfalfa sprouts. They wish they were in Dixie, you're glad the South lost. They dream of wide open spaces. You want to live closer to the city. They think a metaphor is new fangled fertilizer and you don't want to hear another word about the 40 S&W vs. the 9 millimeter. They love to hunt. You can't understand why they don't just take a nice picture and leave the poor animal alone."

Then you realize that what you are about to think next is not a stereotype. It's as true as the beads of sweat dripping down your brow and the sores on your thumb from loading magazines for the last three days. You feel it so strongly you want to shout it to everyone. It's the fact that every time this country had to fight for its freedom, it was men like those who went to war. They didn't seek a special deferment. They didn't try to get a doctor's note. They didn't leave the country. They didn't hide out. They knew there was a job to do and that it would take the lives of men like them to get it done.

You look around and see firearms. Powerful, lethal weapons of destruction in the hands of ordinary everyday people. Some of them are vegetarians. Some love Mozart. Others adore Shakespeare. And some are down-home Rednecks. You realize that as long as places and people like these exist, your freedoms are safe.

You want to run up to the truck and say, "Hey, you got room for one more?" You don't. Instead, you give the solemn, grubby men a silent salute. You finish loading your magazine and you mumble "Thank you." Someone next to you says, "For what?" You look straight ahead at the truck riding off into the desert and you whisper, "For being there."