I stood stock still, staring at the wall of ammunition behind the counter. Glancing over the multi-colored labels of flying pheasants, committed ducks, and scampering rabbits, my eyes glazed over. What did all of those numbers on the front of the boxes mean? I knew my shotgun was a 12-gauge, but beyond that I had no idea what I was doing. I was kicking myself for not asking more about the shells my mentor had handed me over the weekend. After several long moments of silence, without an attendant in sight, I lost my nerve and left empty-handed. It was a pretty rough day in my newly-fledged hunting career.

Humbled, I reached out for guidance. That evening we dissected a shotgun shell from packaging label clear to the wad. Holding the pellets in my hand and seeing the gunpowder made it all click. The next time I was at the gun counter, still a bit awkward, at least I knew which box of shells I wanted.

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