I tell him about the summer of 1976, when I regularly inflicted harm on Mrs. Hall's metal shed. Mohr smiles and nods. Nor any other type of gun. Your targets are small, and they move. It's fun, addictive and a diversion perfectly suited to the chilly winter months.
Visitors begin by walking in two troughs of water lined with tiny pebbles.
One trough is hot, the other cold. The wooden stations, some flush to the ground, some perched on stilts like ornate tree forts, resemble something that a few neighborhood guys might build if they had an unlimited supply of lumber and beer. Even when the snow flies around here, plows clear away the white stuff so golf carts can plod along a one-mile path that weaves through the woods. An instructor is always with you, even when loading your gun. Outside, at station number five, Mohr and I view stands of oaks that have shed their leaves.