I had never shot a .22-caliber biathlon rifle before coming to Whitehorse in August.

After hanging around the Biathlon Yukon shooting range up round Grey Mountain a few times it seems more natural to hold and shoot a rifle than to stand around with your hands in your pockets.

As is my custom.

You'd be surprised with how satisfying hitting a few targets can be.

I was all right, too, you know. Steady.

In my mind I had the potential of becoming the surest shot in the history of humankind. Maybe even the Olympics someday, shocking people with this absurd and incredible story.

Months later, the fine folks up at the range invited me back for another shot during their annual Slush Cup, on Sunday.

Guns. Check. Barbecue. Check.

Skis. Well I don't own any skis.

So they allowed me to enter the year-end event on snowshoes.

I figured that'd be all right and broke out the snowshoes I'd bought from the back of a fine toothless fellow's snowmobile in northern Newfoundland last year sometime or the year before.

I'd worn them once, but find it convenient to leave them in the back seat of my car – in view – so people can see them and maybe make a remark. Once a hobo made a remark about them and we spoke for about five minutes. It wasn't that satisfying.

Now I keep the snowshoes beneath my seat.

Anyways. Toting my snowshoes beneath my arm, staggering around on an empty stomach and determined to cultivate my mild interest in guns – with thoughts of greatness swimming around somewhere in my subconscious – I was ready.

All-ages came out, all skill levels – all on skis, I should say.

It was fun. The sun came through the clouds at times and warmed up the range.

You could smell the barbecue heating up. People were friendly.

Competitors had to ski and shoot for 22 minutes. Points were based on the number of laps combined with the number of targets hit.

My practice shots were fine enough.

But I found after the first lap my hand was no longer steady. The damn bullets weren't going where I was aiming. Thoughts of greatness not only evaporated, they vanished, and at around the seventh or eighth lap, I'm pretty sure I went into survival mode.

Each lap I could smell the barbecue going. I even pictured myself deviating from the course, snatching the food from the grill and darting into the woods to be alone with it.

Rather than that I stuck to the course, the muscles in my shins burning like when you stand too close to a campfire.

It turned out, in the end, that I wasn't great. Nor was I especially poor. Either of which would have made for a more interesting column.

I suppose this is really only about a bit of free food.