Maybe my shot isn’t so tough after all
THE BORN LESAR
In late September, NASA hit a speeding asteroid with an 8.5-foot spacecraft traveling at 14,000 mph. On Sunday, I missed a bulls eye on a stationary target at 125 yards with a 150-grain bullet by some six inches. Humph.
Well, yeah, in my defense, it was a little windy and I was only leaning against a pickup fender when I fired, not to mention that I'm generally shakier than one of those paint can mixing machines at the hardware store. Too much caffeine, you say. Did anybody ask for your input, I answer.
Me and my son, who from here on out we'll refer to as 'my son,' did our annual pre-deer hunting season rifle shooting exercise on Sunday afternoon, for two reasons, really: 1.) It's an ethical requirement to have your shooting instrument optics honed to ensure the most humane harvest, and 2.) It's really cool when things make big booms. Just so you know, we did forget to bring ear protection, so if the next time you see me on the street you say, 'How's it going?' and I respond with 'No, I haven't seen her,' you'll know what's up.
As it turns out, the scope on my .270 caliber rifle had been knocked askew at some point in the past year, because my first two shots sailed wildly high into the plywood piece we had propped against a gravel pile. That happens, rifle scopes are sensitive devils and subject to jarring bumps against vehicle door frames and such, and all it takes to adjust one is a few clicks of the right/left and up/down dials and a few more shots to make sure you've solved the issue. After a half-hour and a half-box of shells, all was well again, at least until the next time I drop the weapon on a cement floor while trying to balance it under my arm while carrying two 12-packs of soda, a heavy jacket, and a loaded cooler. Huh? Make two trips? You jest.
My son's scope also proved to be a bit askance, although not as much as mine, and in even less time we had his corrections made and proclaimed that we now officially ready for this year's deer hunt. If one happens to walk by at exactly 125 yards and stops and allows me to rest against a truck fender, I should be fine. Any other distance and/or movement on the part of the meaty target, and, well, as I always say, 'Better be lucky than good.' How else do you think I meet girls?
As me and my son were adjusting our optics last week and fixing our aim by a few inches here and there, I was reminded of the article I read recently about the aforementioned NASA project to drill a hurtling asteroid in the far reaches of space with a projectile less than the length of compact car. While here we were deliberating over how many clicks to move our scope dials to correct a few inch-inaccuracy at 125 yards, NASA scientists had to connect on a shot that was less likely to land than Mike Pence had of getting an invitation to Donald Trump's daughter's recent wedding (and who says I don't keep up with the latest celebrity social news?).
Just consider the numbers. The asteroid, known as Dimorphos, is up there some 7 million miles in the sky, orbiting a larger asteroid. At 530 feet in length and weighing in at a svelte 11 billion pounds, it sure don't sound like no small target, but think of the distances and speeds at play here. NASA's little craft is a measly 1,260 pounds, and it's rocketing at 14,000 mph as it nears the asteroid. For perspective, that's roughly the same speed at which most Chicago drivers travel on their way to Wisconsin Dells on Friday afternoons.
The purpose of this Double Asteroid Redirection Test -- or DART -- was to see if the impact of the spacecraft could alter the speed and/or direction of the asteroid. That, it seems, could not only come in handy when making a movie starring DuWayne 'The Rock' Johnson as a handsome interplanetary traveler, but in someday perhaps changing the course of a killer rogue 'roid on a collision course with Earth (my luck it'll hit my garden just after I plant). I know, it's the stuff of science fiction, but it turns out, it worked. Measurements taken several weeks after the collision showed it slowed Dimorphos' orbit around the larger asteroid by some 32 minutes, or like nine hours in dog years. Not sure that's relevant, but it's fun to do the math.
Now I thought I was pretty clever on Sunday afternoon just for fixing the aim on this little pea-shooter of a weapon that I wield against the local whitetail population. It's satisfying, actually, to first fire the gun and find it to be off kilter, and then to make the correct calibrations to bring it back to the bulls-eye. Imagine, then, what it must be like to be a NASA space propulsion engineer when he realizes he's hit a moving space rock from 7 million miles away with a chunk of light metal. I mean, what do the other people in the control room say? 'Yo, nice shot, Bob,' doesn't quite seem adequate. And, just think of the variables at play in the DART mission. There are said to be millions of tiny rock chunks floating around in near space, and the spacecraft could have been deflected by any one of them. It's just like here in the woods, a shot I take at a deer on Saturday could hit a tree branch, or a tree trunk, for that matter (Daddy gets nervous when he sees a big buck). And, unlike an 11 billion-pound asteroid that probably runs a pretty predictable route, a desperate deer will jump and juke and jive through the jungle, perhaps making a shot I might have even more difficult to make than Bob's. And it's only supposed to be like 20 degrees out there on Saturday. I'll be shivering like a nudist at an ice-sculpture contest (yeah, no, don't try to picture that in your mind).
As with everything in life, one has to put things in perspective. For me, hitting a 2-inch black circle at 125 yards seems like an achievement, but NASA types are hitting specks in a telescope lens with supersonic missiles. The stakes are a little higher, too. Bob, well, he's out to save the planet from annihilation. All I want is some sausage.
As a NASA spokesperson said after the successful DART mission, 'I think earthlings should sleep better.'
The deer in my neck of the woods probably ain't losin' much, either.
