Girls with guns
Elizabeth Meryment
09nov02
JENNI Hausler stands on a baking, dry piece of earth, an enormous leather jacket draped about her shoulders, a pair of earmuffs over her ears and an unloaded rifle leaning casually against her leg.
Beside her, husband Mirko Teglasi holds a purpose-built telescope to his eye and looks into the distance to check the accuracy of the shots of his competitors.
It's hard to tell what he makes of the competition, for he's too busy listening to his wife to give much away.
As Jenni speaks, Mirko nods in agreement. The couple met six years ago on a rifle range in England, and it was a match made in firearms heaven.
"I found him on a rifle range and married him," says Jenni, 39, with a broad grin on her sun-tanned face.
"We got married on a Friday so we could go shooting on a Saturday, and chose not to have children because we're just passionate for our sport.
"It was a great decision. There's no nappies, no feeding, no school fees, nothing like that. With rifles, it's just shoot 'em, clean 'em, put 'em in a cupboard."
Watching and listening to his wife, Mirko, a Canadian who emigrated to Australia to be with Jenni, smiles.
"I've spoken to many guys over the years who are good shooters," he says, "but they get married and have children and disappear for 15 years. They come back, but it's not the same.
"I enjoy this sport a lot, and it makes home life a lot easier that Jenni does too. When you want to go away somewhere, you get to spend the time together."
Continues Jenni: "For us, shooting's a family thing. We bought the dog and that's it. We wanted to put our money into the sport.
"Last year, hubby and I spent $14,000 going to every event, getting accommodation, equipment. But that's how passionate we are. I love to know that on a rifle range, inability, disability, capability, age or gender is no barrier."
The sport that Jenni and Mirko committed to so fanatically is full-bore rifle shooting. Perhaps not as well known to Australians as the clay pigeon or pistol shooting that is seen at the Olympics, full-bore shooting is a skilful and difficult event.
Competitors lie on the ground with a 6.5kg rifle and shoot targets up to a kilometre away. It is one of the few sports in which men and women compete against each other.
This interaction between men and women has attracted many women to it, because unlike, say, golf, husbands and wives can compete as equals.
"Although, I'm sick of him winning," says Jenni, who became interested in the sport after an injury forced her out of the army. (She now competes at a national level and has recently undergone three months of sports psychology to improve her accuracy).
Adds Mirko: "There was one guy whose wife gave up shooting because her husband got the ****s so bad when his wife beat him. She couldn't stand it."
Catherine Murphy, 32, started shooting at 14 in Darwin, where her father had been in the Northern Territory representative state team. "I suppose I grew up on the range," she says. "It just seemed like a natural thing to do to follow Dad."
She, too, met her partner on the range and they both shoot most weekends, despite a new baby. She says barriers are breaking down and men are now more accepting of women on the range.
"I think they're used to it now, but they still joke every now and again about not wanting to be beaten by a shiela."
Crows Nest mother-of-two Allison Smith, 29, used to be passionate about gun control. After the Port Arthur massacre in which Martin Bryant shot dead 35 tourists in Tasmania, she, like many Australians, joined the chorus of protest about guns. Guns, she said, should be locked away or destroyed.
"But then a friend of mine who was into shooting said, 'don't knock it until you've tried it'," Allison says. "So I went to try it, and from that day on, I've been like, 'I'm here'."
A full-bore C-grade champion, Allison says she loves the challenge of shooting. Competing in a sport that calls for strength of mind and steely nerves was what she was looking for.
"It's the mental challenge more than anything else," she says. "I love it."
Yet, despite her enjoyment of the sport, her family – excluding her supportive husband, Brett – does not share her passion.
"They're still into the whole anti-gun law thing," she says with a rueful grin.
"They don't acknowledge what I do. It's the whole Martin Bryant thing.
"But until they come out here and see how safe it is they don't know what they're talking about. When I'm competing, they're like, 'Allison's in Brisbane this week'. They don't say why."
Allison, mother of Rebecca, 5, and Georgia, 3, – girls whom she hopes will one day follow her into shooting – is not the only female shooter who has faced opposition to her involvement with guns.
Until the mid-1960s, women were formally banned from competing in shooting events and were discouraged from going on to rifle ranges.
When women started taking up guns, some men remained hostile to them competing as equals. Others faced criticism from family, neighbours or members of the community.
"I started shooting in 1967 because my father was a shooter," says Helen Griffiths, one of Australia's foremost female full-bore shooters, who has won four Queen's Prize shoots (in mixed competition), the equivalent of state championships.
"I used to go to the rifle range with him as a young girl. I shot reasonably well right from the beginning, and the more I shot, the better I got and the keener I got.
"When I first started shooting there was a funny feeling with a lot of men because it was their domain.
"The rifle range was a place to go to on a Saturday afternoon to get away from the wife and the family. And suddenly, these women started turning up.
"But now days, I don't know any men on the rifle range who frown about women being there."
While Helen was able to overcome the resistance to her interest in shooting from men within the sport, overcoming community attitudes has been more difficult.
"I've found that some people frown on women shooters because it's not a feminine type of sport," she says. "It's all right in country towns, but when I lived in Sydney, I never used to tell people about my sport."
"It's terrible not to be able to tell people about your sport," Helen says.
Other female shooters found themselves similarly reluctant to share their passion with friends or neighbours.
"I wouldn't like people in my street knowing I have guns, unless I knew them really well," says Megan, a Brisbane shooter.
"If I don't know the people who are in my street, I think 'What if they're hanging around watching?'. They might want to break into my house. They don't know that I've got everything in a safe."
At the Belmont Rifle Range on Brisbane's south, a competition is in full swing. Husbands, wives, small children, elderly onlookers, girls and young men sit in groups looking toward a cluster of targets standing stoically against the wind.
Beyond the onlookers is a line of shooters, lying on the ground, their eyes peering down their rifle barrels.
They are matching wits against each other and themselves. Among those competing is schoolgirl Leigh Hunt, 15, from Calliope, right, whose rifle is almost as tall as she is.
But as Jenni Hausler points out, shooting is not about physical strength. Slight Leigh has as much chance of shooting the target as a 30-year-old man at the peak of his strength. The skill in full-bore shooting lies in the accuracy of the shot and the mental strength of the competitor.
"There's all sorts of people shooting," says Jenni. "There's young girls like Leigh, going up to the oldest person I ever saw shooting, who was 92."
Elizabeth Meryment
09nov02
JENNI Hausler stands on a baking, dry piece of earth, an enormous leather jacket draped about her shoulders, a pair of earmuffs over her ears and an unloaded rifle leaning casually against her leg.
Beside her, husband Mirko Teglasi holds a purpose-built telescope to his eye and looks into the distance to check the accuracy of the shots of his competitors.
It's hard to tell what he makes of the competition, for he's too busy listening to his wife to give much away.
As Jenni speaks, Mirko nods in agreement. The couple met six years ago on a rifle range in England, and it was a match made in firearms heaven.
"I found him on a rifle range and married him," says Jenni, 39, with a broad grin on her sun-tanned face.
"We got married on a Friday so we could go shooting on a Saturday, and chose not to have children because we're just passionate for our sport.
"It was a great decision. There's no nappies, no feeding, no school fees, nothing like that. With rifles, it's just shoot 'em, clean 'em, put 'em in a cupboard."
Watching and listening to his wife, Mirko, a Canadian who emigrated to Australia to be with Jenni, smiles.
"I've spoken to many guys over the years who are good shooters," he says, "but they get married and have children and disappear for 15 years. They come back, but it's not the same.
"I enjoy this sport a lot, and it makes home life a lot easier that Jenni does too. When you want to go away somewhere, you get to spend the time together."
Continues Jenni: "For us, shooting's a family thing. We bought the dog and that's it. We wanted to put our money into the sport.
"Last year, hubby and I spent $14,000 going to every event, getting accommodation, equipment. But that's how passionate we are. I love to know that on a rifle range, inability, disability, capability, age or gender is no barrier."
The sport that Jenni and Mirko committed to so fanatically is full-bore rifle shooting. Perhaps not as well known to Australians as the clay pigeon or pistol shooting that is seen at the Olympics, full-bore shooting is a skilful and difficult event.
Competitors lie on the ground with a 6.5kg rifle and shoot targets up to a kilometre away. It is one of the few sports in which men and women compete against each other.
This interaction between men and women has attracted many women to it, because unlike, say, golf, husbands and wives can compete as equals.
"Although, I'm sick of him winning," says Jenni, who became interested in the sport after an injury forced her out of the army. (She now competes at a national level and has recently undergone three months of sports psychology to improve her accuracy).
Adds Mirko: "There was one guy whose wife gave up shooting because her husband got the ****s so bad when his wife beat him. She couldn't stand it."
Catherine Murphy, 32, started shooting at 14 in Darwin, where her father had been in the Northern Territory representative state team. "I suppose I grew up on the range," she says. "It just seemed like a natural thing to do to follow Dad."
She, too, met her partner on the range and they both shoot most weekends, despite a new baby. She says barriers are breaking down and men are now more accepting of women on the range.
"I think they're used to it now, but they still joke every now and again about not wanting to be beaten by a shiela."
Crows Nest mother-of-two Allison Smith, 29, used to be passionate about gun control. After the Port Arthur massacre in which Martin Bryant shot dead 35 tourists in Tasmania, she, like many Australians, joined the chorus of protest about guns. Guns, she said, should be locked away or destroyed.
"But then a friend of mine who was into shooting said, 'don't knock it until you've tried it'," Allison says. "So I went to try it, and from that day on, I've been like, 'I'm here'."
A full-bore C-grade champion, Allison says she loves the challenge of shooting. Competing in a sport that calls for strength of mind and steely nerves was what she was looking for.
"It's the mental challenge more than anything else," she says. "I love it."
Yet, despite her enjoyment of the sport, her family – excluding her supportive husband, Brett – does not share her passion.
"They're still into the whole anti-gun law thing," she says with a rueful grin.
"They don't acknowledge what I do. It's the whole Martin Bryant thing.
"But until they come out here and see how safe it is they don't know what they're talking about. When I'm competing, they're like, 'Allison's in Brisbane this week'. They don't say why."
Allison, mother of Rebecca, 5, and Georgia, 3, – girls whom she hopes will one day follow her into shooting – is not the only female shooter who has faced opposition to her involvement with guns.
Until the mid-1960s, women were formally banned from competing in shooting events and were discouraged from going on to rifle ranges.
When women started taking up guns, some men remained hostile to them competing as equals. Others faced criticism from family, neighbours or members of the community.
"I started shooting in 1967 because my father was a shooter," says Helen Griffiths, one of Australia's foremost female full-bore shooters, who has won four Queen's Prize shoots (in mixed competition), the equivalent of state championships.
"I used to go to the rifle range with him as a young girl. I shot reasonably well right from the beginning, and the more I shot, the better I got and the keener I got.
"When I first started shooting there was a funny feeling with a lot of men because it was their domain.
"The rifle range was a place to go to on a Saturday afternoon to get away from the wife and the family. And suddenly, these women started turning up.
"But now days, I don't know any men on the rifle range who frown about women being there."
While Helen was able to overcome the resistance to her interest in shooting from men within the sport, overcoming community attitudes has been more difficult.
"I've found that some people frown on women shooters because it's not a feminine type of sport," she says. "It's all right in country towns, but when I lived in Sydney, I never used to tell people about my sport."
"It's terrible not to be able to tell people about your sport," Helen says.
Other female shooters found themselves similarly reluctant to share their passion with friends or neighbours.
"I wouldn't like people in my street knowing I have guns, unless I knew them really well," says Megan, a Brisbane shooter.
"If I don't know the people who are in my street, I think 'What if they're hanging around watching?'. They might want to break into my house. They don't know that I've got everything in a safe."
At the Belmont Rifle Range on Brisbane's south, a competition is in full swing. Husbands, wives, small children, elderly onlookers, girls and young men sit in groups looking toward a cluster of targets standing stoically against the wind.
Beyond the onlookers is a line of shooters, lying on the ground, their eyes peering down their rifle barrels.
They are matching wits against each other and themselves. Among those competing is schoolgirl Leigh Hunt, 15, from Calliope, right, whose rifle is almost as tall as she is.
But as Jenni Hausler points out, shooting is not about physical strength. Slight Leigh has as much chance of shooting the target as a 30-year-old man at the peak of his strength. The skill in full-bore shooting lies in the accuracy of the shot and the mental strength of the competitor.
"There's all sorts of people shooting," says Jenni. "There's young girls like Leigh, going up to the oldest person I ever saw shooting, who was 92."
